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holmesticeTitle: The promises one keeps
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aeowen
Author:dioscureantwins
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft/Sherlock, Mycroft/OMC, Mummy, OC’s
Rating: NC17
Warnings: angst, fluff, sibling incest
Word count: approx. 15.700
Beta: the masterfulwellingtongoose. The wonderful stardust_made was so kind as to advise me on certain aspects of the fic. I can’t thank them both enough for their help and advice. Any remaining mistakes are mine of course
Disclaimer: Sherlock and Mycroft belong to the BBC and Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss. My profit is the joy I had in writing. Yours, I hope, the joy in reading
Summary: The mattress barely dips under Sherlock’s weight as he slips in beside Mycroft, the sharp bone of his hip ghosting past Mycroft’s flank. Once he’s settled himself, his head nudging against the pillow in search of a comfortable position, Mycroft lets the sheet drop. The heavy weight of the blankets covers them both.
Hi there Aeowen
Getting your request for my holmestice assignment made me very happy as – amongst other possible pairings – you asked for my favourite. I do hope you’ll think I’ve done them justice and you will enjoy the fic I wrote for you. At your special request I’ve tried to give any blatant grammar mistakes a wide berth. J
***
Sherlock lifts Mycroft’s hand and presses it down in silent entreaty between his splayed legs, against his perineum and his entrance. Shifting his hips he starts rubbing against the hand, moaning with closed eyes.
***
Upon wakening the next morning Mycroft finds himself alone. He rolls onto his back to discover the other half of the bed is still warm. Sherlock drifting over to comfort him wasn’t just a dream then. Groggily, he reaches for the alarm: eight thirty. He deposits the clock back on the night table.
He has, to his surprise, slept sound. The pain is there, quickening instantly in its nestling place deep in his belly the moment he woke, but at least it hasn’t kept him awake. Mycroft reckons he’s got to thank Sherlock for that. With energy he swings his legs out of bed and aims for the bathroom.
Downstairs he finds his family ensconced at the table in the small breakfast room.
“We decided to wait for you, my dear,” Mummy says as he kisses her. “You’re in luck; Cook spent the whole of yesterday making her cherry, and strawberry and peach jams. I’ve already complimented her on the strawberry, it’s frankly delicious.”
Reaching for his hand she hugs him close. “I wish I could magic your pain away, Mycroft, but I do recognise I can’t. Still, you must understand your father and I will do everything we can to help you.”
Her brave smile increases his anger towards David. The low coward is responsible for her pain as well. “Thank you, Mummy,” he says simply and takes his place at the table, opposite Sherlock who sits with downcast eyes, toying with his toast, not eating, and refusing to acknowledge Mycroft’s presence in the room.
“Well spoken, my dear,” Daddy booms from the other side of the table where he sits sorting the morning post. “Oh, look what’s arrived for us.”
He plucks a card from an envelope, the creamy-white handmade paper embossed with a wreath of roses in gold foil oozing with ostentatious pretension. “Apparently the Percy-Smith’s are perfectly unaware of the alliance that existed between the bridegroom and our eldest until yesterday.”
At these words Sherlock snorts loudly. Daddy ignores him and continues in a light tone. “Naturally they wish our family to attend; the elder Percy-Smith in particular is the most exasperatingly persistent philistine I’ve ever had to avoid. Have I told you he insisted on waiting in the anteroom for two hours straight three weeks ago, effectively locking me up in my own office? I actually could hear poor Thetis explore all avenues to convince him I wouldn’t return from my supposed meeting any time soon but he refused to pay heed to her.”
Shuddering in an exaggerated manner, Daddy twists his handsome face and rolls his eyes. Mycroft huffs in amusement, buttering his toast. Mummy reaches for his cup and saucer to pour him his tea.
“Thank god he had to use the loo which gave me the chance to slip out and make myself scarce.” Daddy stares down at the card he’s still holding, a twitch of distaste around his mouth. Mycroft takes a bite of his toast. The strawberry jam is indeed as good as Mummy purported it to be, and he relishes in the fruity flavour. Deep inside him its sweetness embarks on the long and grinding task of diluting the bitterness of his sorrow.
“Too bad we’ve already planned a few days away from it all, isn’t it dear?” Daddy continues. “Now where was it we were off to exactly?”
“Oh, the Alto Adige, Siger,” Mummy responds. “I loved those mountains so much.”
“The Alto Adige it will be then. From…” checking the card for the date, “say the twentieth to the thirtieth of September? Would that suit you, my darling? I’m afraid that will rule out you joining us, Sherlock. Can’t have you miss fresher’s week at Cambridge.”
“I’d think I’m a little too old by now to go on a holiday with you,” Sherlock replies with a peeved frown on his face. “Besides, holidays are boring.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Daddy concedes pleasantly. He tosses the card and his napkin onto the table and leverages himself to his feet. “That’s arranged then. Now, I’ll be in my study. Do feel free to disturb me, should any of you wish to speak to me.”
After his talk with Daddy, Mycroft embarks on a walk through the park. Around him the late May day glories in its existence. Mummy’s early roses are already in full bloom, enticing him to lower his nose into them and intoxicate himself on their perfume. The clover field, when he approaches it, vibrates under a thin undulating blanket of busy bees, ceaselessly tumbling down and rearing again, floundering under the heavy load coating their dapper tiny forms. Mycroft decides to give the apiary a wide berth and makes a beeline for the copse of beeches instead.
Between the temple pillars of the towering tree trunks he stretches his arms far above his head and breathes deeply, gushing the air from his lungs in a series of powerful exhalations. Above him the bright green canopy reigns eternal, impervious to human tears, the leaves stirred solely by a gust of wind, or a great tit flitting from one branch to another. All is quiet, the filtered sunrays dancing on the brown flooring of last year’s leaves. Mycroft stares up through the leaves that are destined to fall and become last year’s leaves in turn.
He will feel better by then.
On spur of the moment he finds he’d like to go for a swim. The image of the small lake springs up in his mind. Sherlock and he spent many hours there as children, in fact Mycroft taught Sherlock to swim in its waters and he can already feel the cool greenish water lapping against his limbs; perfect on this warm day. Mycroft decides to skip the jaunt back to the house in search of a pair of bathing trunks and a towel. He might as well enjoy his dip, loll lazily on the lake’s grassy bank for a while to let the sun’s warmth dry him and return to the house for a shower and change of clothes, just in time before lunch.
His eyes spot the towel and the bathrobe lying on the bank before he hears the gentle splashing of the water. Sherlock is coursing through the water on his back, eyes closed, languidly cruising the length of the lake with long strokes of his arms. Slowly he raises one lanky limb first, the arm freeing itself from the water that clings to its pale length, running down in glistening rivulets. Higher and higher the arm reaches, yearning to dance in the light air, to touch the sun itself, before inevitably sinking down, into the wet depths from which it must rise again.
Every time Sherlock’s fingers scrape past the shallow bottom near the side of the lake he turns and starts gliding back. The lines carved out of the water by his strokes are perfectly straight.
Mycroft lowers himself on the bench near the weeping willow. The wood of the seat feels hot from the sun. Sherlock continues his exercise as if Mycroft isn’t there. His eyes remain screwed tightly shut and his ears are beneath the water level so he might truly not be aware of Mycroft’s presence. The long white form of his body merges with and parts from the water without apparent effort, as if Sherlock was a water nymph – a male equivalent of Scylla, luxuriating in her beauty, before the jealous Circe poisoned her.
What a ridiculous thought about his little brother. Mycroft huffs in contemptuous amusement at himself. He closes his eyes briefly against the glare of the sun, enjoying its warmth. Well, no one will deny he may appeal for extenuating circumstances so he decides to be lenient. Besides, relieved from its permanent scowl Sherlock’s face is indeed quite attractive. He has a good bone structure and once he fleshes out a bit more he might even be considered handsome. When will he first introduce his beloved to Mummy and Daddy?
Sherlock’s right arm is lifted again, shining waxen against the backdrop of green water and blindingly blue sky. Mycroft’s eye travels along the arm on its upward journey, from the bony shoulder past the lean muscles of his biceps on to the elongated line of the forearm, the thin wrist and on to the hand with the nearly translucent, impossibly long fingers.
As the arm starts on its downward journey Mycroft feels his eyelids sink as well, his head nodding forward. It’s so pleasantly warm and he feels so drowsy. He’ll keep his eyes closed for just a minute.
By the time Mycroft wakes with a sudden start Sherlock is gone and the skin on the nape of his neck – where it lies exposed between the upturned collar of his shirt and his hair – is on fire.
***
Mycroft keeps alternating quick little kisses with long stripes he licks across Sherlock’s skin. From the jut of his hipbone, down to the dent of the navel over the concave flesh of Sherlock’s belly, ignoring the quivering penis, flushed dark, and straining against the stark background of smooth cream skin. Mycroft lingers, inhaling deeply, savouring the heady mix of smells, clean skin covered with a thin membrane of salty sweat, the strong spice of Sherlock’s arousal. The slick forefinger of his right hand circles Sherlock’s entrance and Sherlock pushes against the finger, whimpering and writhing on the sheets.
He writhes so beautifully on Mycroft’s bed. Mycroft presses an ardent kiss to Sherlock’s neck to thank him, just beneath the fringe of damp curls, on the tendon standing out against the pale skin.
Sherlock swallows, his Adam’s apple rising and falling with the motion. “Mycroft, please.”
“What do you want, Sherlock?” Mycroft asks. Tell me.”
***
That night Sherlock doesn’t visit Mycroft, nor during any of the following nights of Mycroft’s stay. He remains distant and aloof though his behaviour is perfectly pleasant the whole week Mycroft’s self-imposed exile lasts. In the evenings he lends a hand at bridge or plays his violin for them, with his eyes closed in concentration and half-parted lips he’s the quintessential picture of the Byronic genius musician and Daddy teases him he already feels sorry for all the hearts Sherlock’s good looks are going to break at Cambridge.
The days float by. Mycroft spends hours weeding Mummy’s flowerbeds, the sun beating down on his neck and his back, his knees remonstrating with the unaccustomed position by aching like hell once he’s standing on his legs again. Their old gardener, John, keeps a steadfast vigil at his side, prattling on about all the work that remains doing, the news from the village, urging him to take a rest every now and then.
Cook pampers him with sponge cake, fresh rolls, treacle tart, her scrumptious scones to feast upon with the strawberry jam, hauling the great mass of her flesh up the servant stairs to present him with the latest fruit of her endeavours. At his protests she pulls down his head, presses a wet kiss on his brow and tells him to 'stop kicking a fuss ’cause a grieving man needs to feed himself properly'.
At the end of the week Mycroft feels sufficiently healed to confront the world anew. Despite Cook’s attempts to stuff him he’s lost weight and the long hours of hard work have dulled the sharpest edges of his grief and hardened his muscles.
“Come stay with me in London some time,” he urges Sherlock as he takes his leave of them all.
“I might,” Sherlock answers, his fingers slipping from Mycroft’s grasp while he speaks, and Mycroft realises he won’t.
“I would really appreciate it,” he replies nevertheless but Sherlock has already pivoted and started walking away, leaving Mycroft to look after him.
Back in London he lingers in the portico outside his flat, keys dangling from his hand. Behind the door lies the room where he first learned of David’s treachery. He doesn’t know whether he’s ready to confront the place yet. His decision is made by the click of the lock and key in the other flat that opens onto the entrance hall. Desiring to evade his neighbour he inserts his own key into the lock and rushes into the small hall of his flat.
Once inside he’s relieved to find the surroundings don’t upset him overly much. He makes himself a pot of tea in the old porcelain pot he finds stashed away in the deep recesses of a cupboard and unpacks his bag. Then he starts rearranging the remaining photographs in the living room. Prominently on his desk he situates a picture of Sherlock and him as children. In the photograph Mycroft is gesturing into the distance while Sherlock stares up at him with a look of open admiration on his features. Mycroft picks up another, more recent, family picture in which the look of admiration is replaced by the scowl that appears to have become Sherlock’s hallmark. A pity, for his brother is indeed decidedly handsome. He would be truly beautiful if he could ever be induced to smile.
The day of the wedding is bad. Seated in his office his thoughts wander off of their own accord, constantly, against his wishes. In the end he gives up and takes the afternoon off.
However that day is the sole one he doesn’t manage to live up to the high standards he sets himself in his work. Ironically, from the time of the break-up his career starts to soar in earnest. His rise is so dazzlingly fast a lesser man would have been overwhelmed with the magnitude of his success.
It is rather gratifying to have so many people clamouring for his attention for their boring little problems. The only drawback is the nature of those problems – boring and little – but that particular boring little problem Mycroft solves by compounding an extremely concise memo on a boring little problem that has been troubling his Minister, proving to the good man his life needn’t be encumbered further if only he would follow Mycroft’s advice. This results in the Minister frequently bypassing the Head of the Department Mycroft is working for to concur directly with Mycroft.
During the next three months Mycroft needs to tread as carefully as an acrobat along the thin cord high in the nib of the circus tent, with only his brolly to hold his balance. His Whitehall colleagues look up at him in awe with their heads thrown back into their necks, suspended between their longing to witness his fall and their earnest desire for him to make it to the small platform that will launch him into a different sphere altogether, a galaxy that surpasses their wildest imagination. Mycroft reaches the dais with a flourishing turn of his umbrella and his desk is transferred to a bigger office with a view down to the river and its own little anteroom with his own prim personal assistant.
Every now and then snippets of news of David’s career reach him. He’s rising along the ranks as well, slowly but steadily. One time Mycroft encounters him at the opera, together with his wife. Upon discerning Mycroft David’s handsome face flushes a deep red, and he hops from one well-shod foot onto the other before turning around abruptly and walking away, dragging his wife along.
Not a happy marriage then, Mycroft decides, the thought saddening him for an instant. Does David regret what he gave up for the sake of not offending… them? Around him lovers of music are slowly clogging up the foyer. In that moment Mycroft despises each and every one of them. He flees to the hall to find his seat and attempts to empty his mind. The performance has enjoyed rave reviews, the critics outdoing each other in their praise for the high general quality of the cast, the inspiring beauty and exceptional voice of the leading soprano, the originality of the direction and the fine playing of the orchestra.
Mycroft doesn’t hear a note. The whole time the opera lasts (Mozart’s Le Nozze di Figaro, so there is a lot of music to turn a deaf ear to) Mycroft spends debating his sentiments regarding his former lover. He wavers between the sound advice of his reason to persevere in his trust for time to heal his wound and forget the circumstances that led to the stab, and giving in to the deep wish for revenge that has flared up at the sight of David and his wife. Sharply, he admonishes himself for the unworthy primitivism of his feelings of hatred, but that doesn’t make them less real.
“Of course you want to avenge yourself,” Mummy tells him over tea in the yellow drawing room after he has brought up the subject. “I want to wreak havoc in the life of the horrid bigoted fool for causing you so much grief. Here, have another slice of lemon cake, my boy.”
She picks up her cup and saucer and sips her tea. “I’m your mother, of course, and probably the last person on earth you should discuss this with so I thank you for your faith and trust in bringing up this subject that is so painful to you, to both of us. The fact you’re suffering from these emotions after such a long time – it has been more than a year now, hasn’t it – proves how deeply you must have loved him.”
She hesitates. “Still, my advice is to ignore his existence. In seeking to thwart him in his career, for that would be your best option, you’ll lower yourself to his level. Find yourself another mate and show that servile peon that true worth can afford to flout society’s arbitrary rules and taboos.”
Mycroft’s glance seeks his mother’s eyes but Mummy refuses to look at him. “I know you consider yourself a lone wolf, and you are one in so many ways, but every animal needs another body to snuggle up against at night.” She puts down her cup and saucer and gets of the sofa in one fluid motion.
“It’s not you I’m worried about,” she continues, walking up to the French windows. She halts in front of them and from the way her right arm moves Mycroft discerns she’s fingering the fine lace of the collar of her blouse. He cranes his head to look past her slight figure and follow her gaze, over the terrace and down to the turf where he discovers Sherlock’s lithe form sprawled in a wicker chair in front of the great copper beech tree.
“You’re solitary but you’re also a leader and others are dependent on you for their welfare,” Mummy goes on. She pivots on her heels and gestures at the window. “He isn’t,” she says. “He’s a straggler, slinking around the others but never participating, convinced of his own superiority over all the other members of the pack, until winter will descend and he’ll discover it’s a bit harsh outside of the shelter.”
“But Daddy told me he’s doing well in Cambridge. His professors are excited about his work.”
“Yes. It appears I’ve given birth to a proper genius and a future Nobel Prize winner. And so say all of us. Hurray.” Mummy is silent for a moment, struggling to compose herself. Her voice, when she starts speaking again, is lower. “I accepted school was a disaster, what else could I do, but I kept hoping he would find some friends at University. However, there’s no one, he doesn’t participate in the University life at all. He hasn’t joined one of the societies or clubs, never lingers after the lectures, doesn’t visit the pubs. I must be a very bad mother for wishing my son to lounge in a pub and get roaring drunk with his friends but then I guess I am.”
“Well, he’s never been one for keeping company.”
“Obviously. I wouldn’t mind if I could accept he doesn’t need friends but deep down I’m convinced he craves the companionship of his fellow man. He’s so dreadfully lonely.” She sighs and perches herself on the sofa again. “I shouldn’t bother you with my motherly misgivings, I suppose. Forgive me, Mycroft. Forget I ever mentioned them. All you should do is fall in love again; with the right person this time.”
“Ah,” Mycroft replies, “but that’s where the problem lies. How does one choose the right person? I’m afraid I’m better suited to choosing partners in business than pleasure.” He ponders for a moment, pursing his lips. “Would you like me to talk to Sherlock?”
Mummy shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know. He’ll know we discussed him and take offence.”
“That is a risk of course.”
“But I’d be most grateful to you,” she says.
He puts down his plate and stands to kiss her on her brow.
Mycroft’s advent makes Sherlock whip up his head. His pearly eyes glare at Mycroft from underneath the dark jumble of curls. “She sent you here to spy on me,” he greets Mycroft. “You can report all is quiet on the Sherlock front. Now go away.” Beneath the pale skin of Sherlock’s throat the tendons are standing out in stark relief. At the end of his feet his long toes dig into the turf, tearing at the innocent blades of grass.
“Is it now?” Mycroft asks. Striving hard for an unperturbed look, he pulls up a chair and arranges himself carefully in it. From beneath his eyelids he studies his brother. Sherlock has dropped the book he was reading, something on neurochemistry judging by the title, and is staring at Mycroft in open enmity. His long-fingered hand has travelled upward and started tugging nervously at the whorls on top of his head. The force employed in pulling at the strands makes Mycroft almost wince in sympathy. His brother’s eyes are ablaze with a general hatred and contempt of humanity, Mycroft among them, and he bites at his lower lip with sharp teeth, drawing blood. A drop wells up from the generous swell of soft tissue, the dark red enhancing the luminous whiteness of the teeth and the sweet pink of Sherlock’s mouth.
The tip of Sherlock’s tongue shoots forth to lick up the small drop of blood. Another drop surges straightaway. Sherlock’s tongue swipes that one away as well. His gaze flashes towards Mycroft who suddenly realises he has been staring at his brother’s mouth, openly. Swivelling his gaze with deliberation Mycroft shifts in his seat, buying himself time to regain his composure. Unsettling Sherlock by watching him this intently won’t exactly further Mycroft’s objective of a heart-to-heart talk with his brother.
“I must say you’re quite aggressive for one who claims not much is happening on his side of the front line,” he puts forward mildly.
“One should always be prepared, shouldn’t one?” retorts Sherlock.
“Indeed. The enemy never sleeps after all. Yet, one should also be picky in choosing one’s battles. Tell me what do you expect to gain by treating your closest kin as enemies?”
At Mycroft’s question Sherlock barks, a harsh bitter laugh, entirely devoid of merriment.
“Leave me be, Mycroft,” he says, his voice dark and low. “It’s better for the both of us, believe me.”
“If so, then why did you come to me that night after I’d first learned of David’s decision?”
“Is that how you define the rotten game he played on you? No wonder this country is going to the dogs. We all make mistakes and I won’t bother you again in the future.”
Mycroft decides to ignore the first part of Sherlock’s outburst. “You didn’t bother me at all,” he re-joins gently. “On the contrary, your presence brought me great comfort.” He’d like to reach out and touch his brother’s knee, to reassure him that his action was apt, and to convey Mycroft’s gratefulness.
Beside him he can hear Sherlock inhaling deeply, struggling for breath. The next second he lifts himself onto his feet in one fluently graceful motion. The book tumbles from his lap onto the ground but he appears not to notice.
“Glad to have been of help,” he hisses through gritted teeth and sprints away, in the direction of the orchard, the soles of his feet naked and vulnerable against the dark fabric of his jeans as he raises them.
Mycroft twitches in his chair, torn between the wish to jump up and run after Sherlock and his mind’s advice to stay put, reasoning that chasing Sherlock will only serve to anger him further. The elongated line of Sherlock’s body glides away over the grass. Even though he’s moving at greet speed his upper body is completely still, his long legs doing all the work. His apparently effortless elegance reminds Mycroft of nothing so much as the cheetahs that are always chasing after prey in the nature documentaries on television. This one isn’t hunting, however, but rather fleeing to safe its hide.
Pulling at his lower lip Mycroft sighs. Inwardly he rewinds the tape of the conversation and replays it to discover where he erred in his choice of words, what he said to offend Sherlock so deeply. Behind the doors to the terrace he notices the figure of Mummy turning away and disappearing into the house. She must have seen him fail.
Oh, damn.
Reaching over Mycroft picks up the book, straightens the pages and deposits it in Sherlock’s empty chair. The vacant seat goggles up at him accusingly, which is frankly ridiculous. Sherlock is the one to insist on keeping himself aloof from Mycroft, his own brother, while Mycroft would like nothing better than a restoration of the proximity they enjoyed as children. Surely Sherlock ought to have forgiven Mycroft now for not smuggling his little brother in the boot of the car when he set off for school.
The next day Mycroft is woken early by the jubilant song of a blackbird that has perched itself in the wisteria growing beneath his window. For a brief moment he lies disoriented, wondering where he is, before recognising he has another laid-back day stretching before him at his parents’ house. He will have to concern himself with some work later, he blinks in the direction of his desk where the thick stack of files lies awaiting his perusal, but for now he can linger a little longer in the delicious warm nest of his bed, should he wish to do so.
His body reminds him it does indeed want to do so by snuggling deeper amongst the soft sheets and he gives in to its desires, rolls himself on his side and lets his eyes fall closed again.
When he wakes next it is to a pounding headache. The room is stiflingly hot, the rays of the sun falling onto the floor unencumbered by the curtains which he forgot to pull to yesterday evening. He resents the presence of his mouth in his face, as it tastes horribly vile.
Scrunching his eyes closed again Mycroft groans, then jumps out of bed and pushes the sash window open to let fresh air into the room. In the bathroom he throws cold water into his face and brushes his teeth. Both actions make him feel slightly better. He contemplates taking some aspirin, even stands briefly holding a blister of tablets in his hand, before choosing to attempt to alleviate the pain with some healthy exercise first.
He dons a pair of swimming trunks and a bathrobe, finds a pair of flip-flops in his dresser and hurries out of the house in the direction of the lake.
On the bank Sherlock is lying on his side, head propped up on one arm, reading his book. His curls are plastered against his head; drops of water cling to his uppermost shoulder and his calves, the sun teasing sparkling glints out of them against the incandescent background of his skin.
At Mycroft’s arrival he briefly raises his head and immediately looks down again without acknowledging his sibling’s presence.
“Good morning,” Mycroft greets him nevertheless. He spreads his towel next to Sherlock, reasoning it would be ridiculous to act as if Sherlock isn’t there, shrugs out of the robe and enters the water. He launches himself into the shocking coldness of the lake with a great splash, exhilarating in the freshness and the movement, before setting himself a steady pace with great strokes. With each dip of one of his arms into the water he feels the pain draining away out of his aching brain. By the time he’s reached the other end of the lake all that remains of the headache is a vague remembrance he can safely ignore. He turns himself onto his back and starts paddling back at leisure. In this way he courses back and forth across the lake until he loses count and his limbs become affected by the cold despite the relentless glare of the sun on the water and the exercise.
He walks out and dries himself before spreading the towel again and lying down on it. Sherlock turns to face away from Mycroft. The sound of another page of his book being turned rips through the air.
Mycroft settles his gaze on the top of the small grove of oaks that rises on the other side of the lake. In the shimmering heat of the day their greenness merges with the deep blue of the sky until the sky becomes a great wood and the trees turn into air, and Mycroft is sure he’s not looking up into the endless reaches of the sky but down into the azure-green depths of the ever-restless ocean. He risks a glance at Sherlock’s back that rises beside him, hard and forbidding. Yet this is the same back he curled around at night when they were boys.
A deep surge of love for his brother wells up inside Mycroft.
“Sherlock.” His brother’s back tenses upon hearing Mycroft’s voice but Mycroft decides to push on nevertheless. “Listen to me, please. I don’t know what went wrong yesterday. What induced you to end our conversation in such an abrupt manner. All I wished to tell you then and now, is that it pains me to see you unhappy,” he continues and he means it, wishing he could chase Sherlock’s monsters away by his mere presence, as he used to. Sherlock closes the book. Mycroft’s ears distinctly discern the snap of the pages falling shut.
“Who says I’m unhappy,” demands Sherlock’s muffled voice after some seconds.
Mycroft huffs.
“Please, Sherlock. We’re your family. We care about you, though you may not see it as an advantage.”
He rolls his head in the direction of Sherlock and catches his sharp intake of breath by the ripple of his shoulder blades underneath the skin. For a moment he’s afraid Sherlock will leap up and take off again. Relief floods him when Sherlock falls onto his back instead, still refusing to look at Mycroft. His hands clutch at his towel convulsively. Mycroft turns his head again to allow him some privacy. In Mycroft’s ears the sound of Sherlock’s hands tearing at the terrycloth drowns the sound of his own heartbeat.
“You’ve simply got no idea… you should never even know…” Sherlock sounds desperate, choking on the words. Mycroft’s instinct, honed by hours of diplomatic talks, urges him to remain silent.
The clutch of Sherlock’s fingers circling his wrist almost makes Mycroft bolt upright. Sherlock’s hand is dreadfully cold against Mycroft’s sun-warmed skin and he fights the primal reaction of his body, which is to wrench itself free from the vicelike grip. His arm is lifted and guided, away from his side, and over into the territory of Sherlock’s towel and the body resting there. For a moment their arms hang suspended in the air above the area of Sherlock’s concave belly. The next second their hands plunge down and Sherlock’s fingers force Mycroft’s hand to palm the length of his sibling’s hot arousal beneath the smooth material of his swimming shorts.
Mycroft almost sprains a muscle in his neck as he whips his head to look at Sherlock. His brother’s breathing is fast and irregular, each exhale an exclamation of pain, each inhale a loud sob drawn into straining lungs.
Beneath his hand Mycroft feels Sherlock’s erection pressing against the pads of his fingertips, the heel of his palm. He concentrates on keeping his hand lax and supple beneath Sherlock’s, exuding neither judgment nor encouragement. In his mind his first priority is to stay upright under the avalanche of emotions Sherlock’s action has set tumbling over him. He won’t let them drown him. To his great relief he discovers the first outburst of surprise has already receded to the background, leaving him space to start sorting through his emotions. He needs to think first and foremost – that’s his occupation after all, to think and organise where most people would just shout and panic – think about Sherlock, about them, and think about the sudden hot surge of lust the feel of Sherlock’s stiffened penis beneath his hand has sent rippling along his spine.
“Happy now?” Sherlock’s embittered voice wrings itself from his throat and he jerks his hand away, clearly expecting Mycroft to swiftly remove his hand from the offending object it was forced to embrace, scrabble for his towel and robe and make a run for his safety and sanity as fast as his legs will allow him.
This is exactly what a part of Mycroft’s mind, the sensible and conventional part he supposes, urges him to do. Another part of his brain insists his hand remains exactly where it is and he chooses to listen to this voice. Reason retaliates immediately by quoting his mother’s words at him.
“Find yourself another mate and show that servile peon that true worth can afford to flout society’s arbitrary rules and taboos.” Interesting take on her words, Mycroft.
Mycroft slides his gaze towards his shoulder, down past his stretched arm and on to his hand that’s still lying prone on the ridge in Sherlock’s swim shorts. The fact that Sherlock’s state of physical arousal hasn’t abated, despite the obvious distress he’s enduring, clutches fiercely at a spot deep down in Mycroft’s gut. What he would like to do most of all is to take Sherlock in his arms and comfort him.
“Since when?” he asks in the most neutral tone he can muster.
“Oh.” With tightly scrunched eyes Sherlock starts rolling his head on his towel, his curls shifting and bouncing like a nest of soft down where his pained face has sought shelter. Another gust of breath rattles his windpipe and then suddenly – unstoppably – a great flood of words rushes out of his mouth. “I don’t know. What does it matter? The first time I fully realised was when I spotted you kissing in the library, you and him, during his first visit. I… I… it hurt me, seeing the two of you, together. I was jealous. Not because you were kissing him, though that was bad enough, I suppose. No, it was him kissing you. The fact he was able to do so. And you allowed him. I hated you for allowing him. I heard you creeping to his room at night. The floorboards outside my room creak and you weren’t careful enough. Why should you be? Your wish to be with him was only natural, wasn’t it? Mummy and Daddy wouldn’t have objected. I watched through the keyhole, I saw him sucking you off and then you let him fuck you. The sight made my stomach turn for it should have been me there in the bed with you. Your face when… when you came… I wanted to do that to you. Christ, I hated him. I hate you! I hate myself, most of all.”
It must have been years since Mycroft has heard Sherlock speak so many sentences in one go. Now Sherlock grasps Mycroft’s hand and hefts it up, transporting it back to Mycroft’s side and depositing it there.
“You don’t have to try to be kind and pretend it’s all right,” he says. “I know this revolts you. Lusting after my own brother, well, I must be a proper little freak. I am a freak. School was nothing but hell, the whole dorm happily rutting away. They all laughed at me, nicknamed me ‘the virgin’ because I refused to participate in the wanking parties. The thought of anyone but you touching me is hateful. All I want is you. I can’t help myself. I know this… this love I feel for you – for it is love – is what we’ve been taught to abhor. Imagine Mummy ever knowing, or Nanny? It would be the end of her, might as well stab her in the back with a good clean knife.”
The door of the sluice gate has been lifted and years of pent-up unhappiness come crashing down in a great gulf. During his confession Sherlock has struggled up into a sitting position, his back turned to Mycroft, forearms crossed on his raised knees and his head hanging down.
“Go away,” he begs, “just leave me alone.”
“No,” Mycroft answers immediately. “No, I won’t.”
He is in shock, he supposes, experiencing the same all-out attack on his emotions David’s betrayal evoked a year ago. The instant deep hate is lacking though, replaced by a profound sympathy. The great soaring bird of his mind has encountered an unexpectedly strong current, encumbering its effortless glide. It flaps its wings furiously, flying in circles in search of a path around the invisible force opposing him. The idea of Sherlock living with his secret all these years feels like a sharp blow to his stomach. A hateful memory flashes before Mycroft’s eyes: the evening Mycroft walked into the restaurant where he and David were to have dinner and caught his lover flirting heavily with the waiter. That whole evening the green jaundice had been gobbling away at his heart, while David kept cajoling him and berating him for being unjust and jealous for no good cause.
It doesn’t take a great leap of his imagination to understand what Sherlock must have been living through. Each brush of Mycroft’s hand past David’s – though Mycroft always insisted on them being discreet in front of his family – must have been a piercing stab delivered straight to Sherlock’s heart. Now Mycroft sees why his brother has always disliked David, and yet the end of the affair couldn’t bring him happiness for what could Sherlock expect but to see David replaced with another. For years his brother has been wallowing in a thick slime composed of self-hatred and self-pity and abject misery, the viscosity of the vile stuff so high he was unable to raise himself and start cleansing his limbs of the substance.
Tentatively Mycroft reaches out to touch the stark, naked back that looks so forlorn, so helpless. Then he decides just a soothing pat of his hand won’t be enough, will only add to Sherlock’s wretchedness as he will interpret it as Mycroft’s insincere attempt to show he doesn’t recoil from his sibling after hearing his confession. He struggles onto his knees instead and sits back on his haunches for the briefest of moments.
The next second his arms embrace Sherlock and he presses the planes of his chest against his brother’s upper back. The sharp points of Sherlock’s vertebrae prod his breastbone unpleasantly. In his arms Sherlock freezes, his reaction that of a small skittish animal that has been pounded upon by a hunter. Mycroft holds on nevertheless, lowering his lips to the nape of Sherlock’s neck and placing them beneath the fringe of curls.
“Don’t hate yourself, please,” he says, willing his voice to sound steady and even. “It’s unworthy of you. There’s no reason. You’re my brother, you will always be.”
“You hit the nail on the head, Mycroft, as ever,” comes Sherlock’s voice, aiming for sarcasm. “For, for me, that’s exactly where the problem lies. If only you weren’t my brother, then I would have had a chance.”
Against the force of Mycroft’s grip on him he manages to turn, his face only inches away from Mycroft’s. “Nobody would have berated me if I had tried to seduce you,” he says.
***
The way Sherlock’s head rolls on the cushion, his whole body clamping down on Mycroft.
***
Later, hours later, Mycroft sits in his room where he fled, his thoughts revolving over and over again around the question who was the first to bridge that small gap of space separating their mouths. Did Sherlock’s lips burst upwards, like the innocent pink flame that starts a great bonfire or did Mycroft’s dip down to add the necessary fuel by gushing over them? Mycroft tells himself he honestly wouldn’t know. Deep down however he is certain he was the one to initiate their kiss. After his desperate move of forcing Mycroft to feel what he felt Sherlock was nothing but reticent. It was Mycroft who let his head sink, irrevocably, drawn like a bee to the sweet precious flower of his brother’s mouth that had hovered just beneath his, ready to be picked, the generous folds of his lips easily giving way, opening up to let him in, when Mycroft finally pressed his mouth on Sherlock’s.
Mycroft groans and buries his head in his hands. He is shaking all over; he can’t stop the ripples travelling down his spine and his limbs at the visions that keep flooding his brain. Sherlock’s lust-blown eyes, dark and hooded beneath heavy eyelids, a flash of teeth behind panting lips, the reverent brush of his fingers from Mycroft’s cheekbone down past his jaw and the line of his throat and lower still. Mycroft’s hand curled around Sherlock’s waist, his skin with the light freckles almost dark against the pale glow that was Sherlock.
His fingertips tingle with the memory of his brother’s soft smooth skin. His fingers were drawn inevitably to the region covered by Sherlock’s swimming shorts and he briefly grappled with them before Sherlock pushed up his hips, just enough for Mycroft to shove the infuriating clothing down his brother’s thighs. Then his fingers were on Sherlock, the heavy fullness of him pulsating and quivering against the sensitive skin of Mycroft’s palm. Sherlock’s eyes shot open wide, his back arched and Mycroft’s name was wrung from his throat in time to the stream of ejaculate pumping itself out between Mycroft’s fingers, soiling the pristine smoothness of Sherlock’s belly and coating Mycroft’s hand.
Mycroft watched the contortions of Sherlock’s face while he held on to him until his brother’s eyelids fluttered closed and a great sigh of satisfaction floated past his half-opened lips. Then he started pulling at his own swimming trunks, fighting against the shaking that kept impeding his movements, his straining erection struggling against the material until it finally broke free and he could curl his hand around himself. He started running his hand up and down his throbbing penis in quick strokes, his fingers slick with the lubricant of Sherlock’s sperm, giving in to the overwhelming need to reach completion while the image of Sherlock’s lush lips slackened in his orgasm was still fresh in his mind. Next to him Sherlock moved and Mycroft brought up his other hand to quiet him.
“No, let me,” Sherlock murmured and before Mycroft realised his brother’s intention, he was enveloped by warm hot wetness. Sherlock’s tongue dragged against the slit, his soft wide lips pulling at the frenulum. Mycroft let go of himself, his hands seeking support in Sherlock’s curls instead while he rode his brother’s mouth, looking down briefly and then scrunching his eyes shut against the image of his member dragging past the plush shelf of Sherlock’s lower lip. the hot thread of his impending release was wound tighter at the bottom of his spine, drawing his balls against his body, ready to let go. He growled Sherlock’s name in a warning, tugged feebly at the strands of hair he was holding onto. Sherlock’s response was to dig his fingers into Mycroft’s hip and take him in deeper. Mycroft felt his sperm rise, his flesh pulsating against the gentle softness of Sherlock’s palate while his hips bucked in the irresistible rhythm of primeval release. Wave after blinding wave of white-hot oblivion kept surging up and travelling outwards, drawing the muscles in his body taut, until he had nothing left to spend.
Sherlock’s kiss, ghosting over Mycroft’s lips after he found his breath again, was an act of worship. He pushed his tongue between Mycroft’s teeth and Mycroft tasted himself, slightly bitter, over the salty sweetness that was the inside of Sherlock’s mouth. Mycroft brought up his hand, coated in the rapidly drying flakes of Sherlock’s seed. He sucked at his forefinger and middle finger, savouring the salty-sweaty tang, and then pushed them into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s eyes locked on Mycroft’s while he took in his fingers and licked them clean. The rasping of his tongue against Mycroft’s finger pads sent fresh tremors quivering down Mycroft’s spine.
The thought of the drag of that tongue along his hand makes Mycroft shake all over again.
Downstairs the supper gong is struck, its bellows reverberating down the house. The idea of food isn’t very appealing but Mycroft reasons he’d best make an appearance so as not to alarm his parents.
In the family dining room he finds them already seated at the table. Both look sun-drenched and agreeably drowsy after a day spent at a flower show. As Mycroft is arranging his napkin on his lap Sherlock enters, mumbles a greeting in their general direction and falls down on his chair opposite Mycroft.
From behind his lashes, Mycroft glances at his brother while their mother’s chatter on an exciting new breed of irises she’s spotted, flows around them both. Sherlock’s gaze remains fixed on his plate where he’s mainly concerning himself with pushing around his food. This is pretty much his usual conduct during any meal so his behaviour can’t strike Mummy and Daddy as being out of the ordinary. Mycroft has a harder task to perform. Cook’s excellent cooking doesn’t interest him, indeed the idea of eating sickens him, and yet he has to bring his fork up to his mouth and shovel the food inside in order not to alarm his parents.
What he does want, no, what he needs is to pull Sherlock close and kiss him, then slowly, reverently, undress him, and take him into his mouth. Mycroft’s jaw grinds away at his roast and he swallows hard.
“Will you be going back to London this evening, Mycroft?” Daddy asks. “You might as well stay and drive up early tomorrow. The road will be excessively hot and unpleasant now.”
“Yes,” Mycroft answers. “I’d thought of staying tonight, if you will have me.” He hesitates for a moment and then boldly drives on. “Maybe you’d like to come with me, Sherlock? Everything is pretty well under control right now at the office and you could visit some museums on your own while I’m at work. Last year you did promise to come and visit me so you still owe me.”
Beneath the table he pinches his thigh, hard, willing Sherlock to say yes. With some careful arranging he’ll manage to take two days off from work. Two days to spend together with Sherlock in the privacy of his flat, away from possibly prying eyes. He’s been unforgivably careless this morning. That won’t happen again, ever.
Slowly, Sherlock drags up his head. “Fine,” he says, “if you insist.”
“Oh, Sherlock,” Mummy exults, “what a splendid idea! You’ll have such fun, and you deserve so after having studied so hard. Promise me to entertain him, Mycroft.”
“Of course,” Mycroft shushes her. “I promise.”
For a moment, he feels irrepressibly vile, a pervert deceiving his innocent mother. Beneath his collar a hot flush of shame starts creeping up his neck. His gaze flashes towards Sherlock, hoping to meet his eyes, but Sherlock is better at this game than Mycroft and is back to the close observation of the winding paths he’s carved out of the hilly landscape of Sunday roast and vegetables on his plate.
Mycroft, I love you, but you know as well as I what the reaction of the world would be should our affair ever become widely known. Surely, you, with your amazing intelligence and your ambition, must see how this knowledge would hinder you.
The words of David’s hateful letter sound in Mycroft’s ears and he could almost laugh out loud for he can well imagine what the world’s reaction would be should this affair he and Sherlock are about to embark on, ever become known.
***
He’ll let the world deal with that little problem. Right now he aims to keep the promise he made his father all those years ago.
Mycroft will love his little brother. Always.
Recipient:
aeowenAuthor:
dioscureantwinsCharacters/Pairings: Mycroft/Sherlock, Mycroft/OMC, Mummy, OC’s
Rating: NC17
Warnings: angst, fluff, sibling incest
Word count: approx. 15.700
Beta: the masterful
wellingtongoose. The wonderful stardust_made was so kind as to advise me on certain aspects of the fic. I can’t thank them both enough for their help and advice. Any remaining mistakes are mine of courseDisclaimer: Sherlock and Mycroft belong to the BBC and Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss. My profit is the joy I had in writing. Yours, I hope, the joy in reading
Summary: The mattress barely dips under Sherlock’s weight as he slips in beside Mycroft, the sharp bone of his hip ghosting past Mycroft’s flank. Once he’s settled himself, his head nudging against the pillow in search of a comfortable position, Mycroft lets the sheet drop. The heavy weight of the blankets covers them both.
Hi there Aeowen
Getting your request for my holmestice assignment made me very happy as – amongst other possible pairings – you asked for my favourite. I do hope you’ll think I’ve done them justice and you will enjoy the fic I wrote for you. At your special request I’ve tried to give any blatant grammar mistakes a wide berth. J
***
Sherlock lifts Mycroft’s hand and presses it down in silent entreaty between his splayed legs, against his perineum and his entrance. Shifting his hips he starts rubbing against the hand, moaning with closed eyes.
***
Upon wakening the next morning Mycroft finds himself alone. He rolls onto his back to discover the other half of the bed is still warm. Sherlock drifting over to comfort him wasn’t just a dream then. Groggily, he reaches for the alarm: eight thirty. He deposits the clock back on the night table.
He has, to his surprise, slept sound. The pain is there, quickening instantly in its nestling place deep in his belly the moment he woke, but at least it hasn’t kept him awake. Mycroft reckons he’s got to thank Sherlock for that. With energy he swings his legs out of bed and aims for the bathroom.
Downstairs he finds his family ensconced at the table in the small breakfast room.
“We decided to wait for you, my dear,” Mummy says as he kisses her. “You’re in luck; Cook spent the whole of yesterday making her cherry, and strawberry and peach jams. I’ve already complimented her on the strawberry, it’s frankly delicious.”
Reaching for his hand she hugs him close. “I wish I could magic your pain away, Mycroft, but I do recognise I can’t. Still, you must understand your father and I will do everything we can to help you.”
Her brave smile increases his anger towards David. The low coward is responsible for her pain as well. “Thank you, Mummy,” he says simply and takes his place at the table, opposite Sherlock who sits with downcast eyes, toying with his toast, not eating, and refusing to acknowledge Mycroft’s presence in the room.
“Well spoken, my dear,” Daddy booms from the other side of the table where he sits sorting the morning post. “Oh, look what’s arrived for us.”
He plucks a card from an envelope, the creamy-white handmade paper embossed with a wreath of roses in gold foil oozing with ostentatious pretension. “Apparently the Percy-Smith’s are perfectly unaware of the alliance that existed between the bridegroom and our eldest until yesterday.”
At these words Sherlock snorts loudly. Daddy ignores him and continues in a light tone. “Naturally they wish our family to attend; the elder Percy-Smith in particular is the most exasperatingly persistent philistine I’ve ever had to avoid. Have I told you he insisted on waiting in the anteroom for two hours straight three weeks ago, effectively locking me up in my own office? I actually could hear poor Thetis explore all avenues to convince him I wouldn’t return from my supposed meeting any time soon but he refused to pay heed to her.”
Shuddering in an exaggerated manner, Daddy twists his handsome face and rolls his eyes. Mycroft huffs in amusement, buttering his toast. Mummy reaches for his cup and saucer to pour him his tea.
“Thank god he had to use the loo which gave me the chance to slip out and make myself scarce.” Daddy stares down at the card he’s still holding, a twitch of distaste around his mouth. Mycroft takes a bite of his toast. The strawberry jam is indeed as good as Mummy purported it to be, and he relishes in the fruity flavour. Deep inside him its sweetness embarks on the long and grinding task of diluting the bitterness of his sorrow.
“Too bad we’ve already planned a few days away from it all, isn’t it dear?” Daddy continues. “Now where was it we were off to exactly?”
“Oh, the Alto Adige, Siger,” Mummy responds. “I loved those mountains so much.”
“The Alto Adige it will be then. From…” checking the card for the date, “say the twentieth to the thirtieth of September? Would that suit you, my darling? I’m afraid that will rule out you joining us, Sherlock. Can’t have you miss fresher’s week at Cambridge.”
“I’d think I’m a little too old by now to go on a holiday with you,” Sherlock replies with a peeved frown on his face. “Besides, holidays are boring.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Daddy concedes pleasantly. He tosses the card and his napkin onto the table and leverages himself to his feet. “That’s arranged then. Now, I’ll be in my study. Do feel free to disturb me, should any of you wish to speak to me.”
After his talk with Daddy, Mycroft embarks on a walk through the park. Around him the late May day glories in its existence. Mummy’s early roses are already in full bloom, enticing him to lower his nose into them and intoxicate himself on their perfume. The clover field, when he approaches it, vibrates under a thin undulating blanket of busy bees, ceaselessly tumbling down and rearing again, floundering under the heavy load coating their dapper tiny forms. Mycroft decides to give the apiary a wide berth and makes a beeline for the copse of beeches instead.
Between the temple pillars of the towering tree trunks he stretches his arms far above his head and breathes deeply, gushing the air from his lungs in a series of powerful exhalations. Above him the bright green canopy reigns eternal, impervious to human tears, the leaves stirred solely by a gust of wind, or a great tit flitting from one branch to another. All is quiet, the filtered sunrays dancing on the brown flooring of last year’s leaves. Mycroft stares up through the leaves that are destined to fall and become last year’s leaves in turn.
He will feel better by then.
On spur of the moment he finds he’d like to go for a swim. The image of the small lake springs up in his mind. Sherlock and he spent many hours there as children, in fact Mycroft taught Sherlock to swim in its waters and he can already feel the cool greenish water lapping against his limbs; perfect on this warm day. Mycroft decides to skip the jaunt back to the house in search of a pair of bathing trunks and a towel. He might as well enjoy his dip, loll lazily on the lake’s grassy bank for a while to let the sun’s warmth dry him and return to the house for a shower and change of clothes, just in time before lunch.
His eyes spot the towel and the bathrobe lying on the bank before he hears the gentle splashing of the water. Sherlock is coursing through the water on his back, eyes closed, languidly cruising the length of the lake with long strokes of his arms. Slowly he raises one lanky limb first, the arm freeing itself from the water that clings to its pale length, running down in glistening rivulets. Higher and higher the arm reaches, yearning to dance in the light air, to touch the sun itself, before inevitably sinking down, into the wet depths from which it must rise again.
Every time Sherlock’s fingers scrape past the shallow bottom near the side of the lake he turns and starts gliding back. The lines carved out of the water by his strokes are perfectly straight.
Mycroft lowers himself on the bench near the weeping willow. The wood of the seat feels hot from the sun. Sherlock continues his exercise as if Mycroft isn’t there. His eyes remain screwed tightly shut and his ears are beneath the water level so he might truly not be aware of Mycroft’s presence. The long white form of his body merges with and parts from the water without apparent effort, as if Sherlock was a water nymph – a male equivalent of Scylla, luxuriating in her beauty, before the jealous Circe poisoned her.
What a ridiculous thought about his little brother. Mycroft huffs in contemptuous amusement at himself. He closes his eyes briefly against the glare of the sun, enjoying its warmth. Well, no one will deny he may appeal for extenuating circumstances so he decides to be lenient. Besides, relieved from its permanent scowl Sherlock’s face is indeed quite attractive. He has a good bone structure and once he fleshes out a bit more he might even be considered handsome. When will he first introduce his beloved to Mummy and Daddy?
Sherlock’s right arm is lifted again, shining waxen against the backdrop of green water and blindingly blue sky. Mycroft’s eye travels along the arm on its upward journey, from the bony shoulder past the lean muscles of his biceps on to the elongated line of the forearm, the thin wrist and on to the hand with the nearly translucent, impossibly long fingers.
As the arm starts on its downward journey Mycroft feels his eyelids sink as well, his head nodding forward. It’s so pleasantly warm and he feels so drowsy. He’ll keep his eyes closed for just a minute.
By the time Mycroft wakes with a sudden start Sherlock is gone and the skin on the nape of his neck – where it lies exposed between the upturned collar of his shirt and his hair – is on fire.
***
Mycroft keeps alternating quick little kisses with long stripes he licks across Sherlock’s skin. From the jut of his hipbone, down to the dent of the navel over the concave flesh of Sherlock’s belly, ignoring the quivering penis, flushed dark, and straining against the stark background of smooth cream skin. Mycroft lingers, inhaling deeply, savouring the heady mix of smells, clean skin covered with a thin membrane of salty sweat, the strong spice of Sherlock’s arousal. The slick forefinger of his right hand circles Sherlock’s entrance and Sherlock pushes against the finger, whimpering and writhing on the sheets.
He writhes so beautifully on Mycroft’s bed. Mycroft presses an ardent kiss to Sherlock’s neck to thank him, just beneath the fringe of damp curls, on the tendon standing out against the pale skin.
Sherlock swallows, his Adam’s apple rising and falling with the motion. “Mycroft, please.”
“What do you want, Sherlock?” Mycroft asks. Tell me.”
***
That night Sherlock doesn’t visit Mycroft, nor during any of the following nights of Mycroft’s stay. He remains distant and aloof though his behaviour is perfectly pleasant the whole week Mycroft’s self-imposed exile lasts. In the evenings he lends a hand at bridge or plays his violin for them, with his eyes closed in concentration and half-parted lips he’s the quintessential picture of the Byronic genius musician and Daddy teases him he already feels sorry for all the hearts Sherlock’s good looks are going to break at Cambridge.
The days float by. Mycroft spends hours weeding Mummy’s flowerbeds, the sun beating down on his neck and his back, his knees remonstrating with the unaccustomed position by aching like hell once he’s standing on his legs again. Their old gardener, John, keeps a steadfast vigil at his side, prattling on about all the work that remains doing, the news from the village, urging him to take a rest every now and then.
Cook pampers him with sponge cake, fresh rolls, treacle tart, her scrumptious scones to feast upon with the strawberry jam, hauling the great mass of her flesh up the servant stairs to present him with the latest fruit of her endeavours. At his protests she pulls down his head, presses a wet kiss on his brow and tells him to 'stop kicking a fuss ’cause a grieving man needs to feed himself properly'.
At the end of the week Mycroft feels sufficiently healed to confront the world anew. Despite Cook’s attempts to stuff him he’s lost weight and the long hours of hard work have dulled the sharpest edges of his grief and hardened his muscles.
“Come stay with me in London some time,” he urges Sherlock as he takes his leave of them all.
“I might,” Sherlock answers, his fingers slipping from Mycroft’s grasp while he speaks, and Mycroft realises he won’t.
“I would really appreciate it,” he replies nevertheless but Sherlock has already pivoted and started walking away, leaving Mycroft to look after him.
Back in London he lingers in the portico outside his flat, keys dangling from his hand. Behind the door lies the room where he first learned of David’s treachery. He doesn’t know whether he’s ready to confront the place yet. His decision is made by the click of the lock and key in the other flat that opens onto the entrance hall. Desiring to evade his neighbour he inserts his own key into the lock and rushes into the small hall of his flat.
Once inside he’s relieved to find the surroundings don’t upset him overly much. He makes himself a pot of tea in the old porcelain pot he finds stashed away in the deep recesses of a cupboard and unpacks his bag. Then he starts rearranging the remaining photographs in the living room. Prominently on his desk he situates a picture of Sherlock and him as children. In the photograph Mycroft is gesturing into the distance while Sherlock stares up at him with a look of open admiration on his features. Mycroft picks up another, more recent, family picture in which the look of admiration is replaced by the scowl that appears to have become Sherlock’s hallmark. A pity, for his brother is indeed decidedly handsome. He would be truly beautiful if he could ever be induced to smile.
The day of the wedding is bad. Seated in his office his thoughts wander off of their own accord, constantly, against his wishes. In the end he gives up and takes the afternoon off.
However that day is the sole one he doesn’t manage to live up to the high standards he sets himself in his work. Ironically, from the time of the break-up his career starts to soar in earnest. His rise is so dazzlingly fast a lesser man would have been overwhelmed with the magnitude of his success.
It is rather gratifying to have so many people clamouring for his attention for their boring little problems. The only drawback is the nature of those problems – boring and little – but that particular boring little problem Mycroft solves by compounding an extremely concise memo on a boring little problem that has been troubling his Minister, proving to the good man his life needn’t be encumbered further if only he would follow Mycroft’s advice. This results in the Minister frequently bypassing the Head of the Department Mycroft is working for to concur directly with Mycroft.
During the next three months Mycroft needs to tread as carefully as an acrobat along the thin cord high in the nib of the circus tent, with only his brolly to hold his balance. His Whitehall colleagues look up at him in awe with their heads thrown back into their necks, suspended between their longing to witness his fall and their earnest desire for him to make it to the small platform that will launch him into a different sphere altogether, a galaxy that surpasses their wildest imagination. Mycroft reaches the dais with a flourishing turn of his umbrella and his desk is transferred to a bigger office with a view down to the river and its own little anteroom with his own prim personal assistant.
Every now and then snippets of news of David’s career reach him. He’s rising along the ranks as well, slowly but steadily. One time Mycroft encounters him at the opera, together with his wife. Upon discerning Mycroft David’s handsome face flushes a deep red, and he hops from one well-shod foot onto the other before turning around abruptly and walking away, dragging his wife along.
Not a happy marriage then, Mycroft decides, the thought saddening him for an instant. Does David regret what he gave up for the sake of not offending… them? Around him lovers of music are slowly clogging up the foyer. In that moment Mycroft despises each and every one of them. He flees to the hall to find his seat and attempts to empty his mind. The performance has enjoyed rave reviews, the critics outdoing each other in their praise for the high general quality of the cast, the inspiring beauty and exceptional voice of the leading soprano, the originality of the direction and the fine playing of the orchestra.
Mycroft doesn’t hear a note. The whole time the opera lasts (Mozart’s Le Nozze di Figaro, so there is a lot of music to turn a deaf ear to) Mycroft spends debating his sentiments regarding his former lover. He wavers between the sound advice of his reason to persevere in his trust for time to heal his wound and forget the circumstances that led to the stab, and giving in to the deep wish for revenge that has flared up at the sight of David and his wife. Sharply, he admonishes himself for the unworthy primitivism of his feelings of hatred, but that doesn’t make them less real.
“Of course you want to avenge yourself,” Mummy tells him over tea in the yellow drawing room after he has brought up the subject. “I want to wreak havoc in the life of the horrid bigoted fool for causing you so much grief. Here, have another slice of lemon cake, my boy.”
She picks up her cup and saucer and sips her tea. “I’m your mother, of course, and probably the last person on earth you should discuss this with so I thank you for your faith and trust in bringing up this subject that is so painful to you, to both of us. The fact you’re suffering from these emotions after such a long time – it has been more than a year now, hasn’t it – proves how deeply you must have loved him.”
She hesitates. “Still, my advice is to ignore his existence. In seeking to thwart him in his career, for that would be your best option, you’ll lower yourself to his level. Find yourself another mate and show that servile peon that true worth can afford to flout society’s arbitrary rules and taboos.”
Mycroft’s glance seeks his mother’s eyes but Mummy refuses to look at him. “I know you consider yourself a lone wolf, and you are one in so many ways, but every animal needs another body to snuggle up against at night.” She puts down her cup and saucer and gets of the sofa in one fluid motion.
“It’s not you I’m worried about,” she continues, walking up to the French windows. She halts in front of them and from the way her right arm moves Mycroft discerns she’s fingering the fine lace of the collar of her blouse. He cranes his head to look past her slight figure and follow her gaze, over the terrace and down to the turf where he discovers Sherlock’s lithe form sprawled in a wicker chair in front of the great copper beech tree.
“You’re solitary but you’re also a leader and others are dependent on you for their welfare,” Mummy goes on. She pivots on her heels and gestures at the window. “He isn’t,” she says. “He’s a straggler, slinking around the others but never participating, convinced of his own superiority over all the other members of the pack, until winter will descend and he’ll discover it’s a bit harsh outside of the shelter.”
“But Daddy told me he’s doing well in Cambridge. His professors are excited about his work.”
“Yes. It appears I’ve given birth to a proper genius and a future Nobel Prize winner. And so say all of us. Hurray.” Mummy is silent for a moment, struggling to compose herself. Her voice, when she starts speaking again, is lower. “I accepted school was a disaster, what else could I do, but I kept hoping he would find some friends at University. However, there’s no one, he doesn’t participate in the University life at all. He hasn’t joined one of the societies or clubs, never lingers after the lectures, doesn’t visit the pubs. I must be a very bad mother for wishing my son to lounge in a pub and get roaring drunk with his friends but then I guess I am.”
“Well, he’s never been one for keeping company.”
“Obviously. I wouldn’t mind if I could accept he doesn’t need friends but deep down I’m convinced he craves the companionship of his fellow man. He’s so dreadfully lonely.” She sighs and perches herself on the sofa again. “I shouldn’t bother you with my motherly misgivings, I suppose. Forgive me, Mycroft. Forget I ever mentioned them. All you should do is fall in love again; with the right person this time.”
“Ah,” Mycroft replies, “but that’s where the problem lies. How does one choose the right person? I’m afraid I’m better suited to choosing partners in business than pleasure.” He ponders for a moment, pursing his lips. “Would you like me to talk to Sherlock?”
Mummy shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know. He’ll know we discussed him and take offence.”
“That is a risk of course.”
“But I’d be most grateful to you,” she says.
He puts down his plate and stands to kiss her on her brow.
Mycroft’s advent makes Sherlock whip up his head. His pearly eyes glare at Mycroft from underneath the dark jumble of curls. “She sent you here to spy on me,” he greets Mycroft. “You can report all is quiet on the Sherlock front. Now go away.” Beneath the pale skin of Sherlock’s throat the tendons are standing out in stark relief. At the end of his feet his long toes dig into the turf, tearing at the innocent blades of grass.
“Is it now?” Mycroft asks. Striving hard for an unperturbed look, he pulls up a chair and arranges himself carefully in it. From beneath his eyelids he studies his brother. Sherlock has dropped the book he was reading, something on neurochemistry judging by the title, and is staring at Mycroft in open enmity. His long-fingered hand has travelled upward and started tugging nervously at the whorls on top of his head. The force employed in pulling at the strands makes Mycroft almost wince in sympathy. His brother’s eyes are ablaze with a general hatred and contempt of humanity, Mycroft among them, and he bites at his lower lip with sharp teeth, drawing blood. A drop wells up from the generous swell of soft tissue, the dark red enhancing the luminous whiteness of the teeth and the sweet pink of Sherlock’s mouth.
The tip of Sherlock’s tongue shoots forth to lick up the small drop of blood. Another drop surges straightaway. Sherlock’s tongue swipes that one away as well. His gaze flashes towards Mycroft who suddenly realises he has been staring at his brother’s mouth, openly. Swivelling his gaze with deliberation Mycroft shifts in his seat, buying himself time to regain his composure. Unsettling Sherlock by watching him this intently won’t exactly further Mycroft’s objective of a heart-to-heart talk with his brother.
“I must say you’re quite aggressive for one who claims not much is happening on his side of the front line,” he puts forward mildly.
“One should always be prepared, shouldn’t one?” retorts Sherlock.
“Indeed. The enemy never sleeps after all. Yet, one should also be picky in choosing one’s battles. Tell me what do you expect to gain by treating your closest kin as enemies?”
At Mycroft’s question Sherlock barks, a harsh bitter laugh, entirely devoid of merriment.
“Leave me be, Mycroft,” he says, his voice dark and low. “It’s better for the both of us, believe me.”
“If so, then why did you come to me that night after I’d first learned of David’s decision?”
“Is that how you define the rotten game he played on you? No wonder this country is going to the dogs. We all make mistakes and I won’t bother you again in the future.”
Mycroft decides to ignore the first part of Sherlock’s outburst. “You didn’t bother me at all,” he re-joins gently. “On the contrary, your presence brought me great comfort.” He’d like to reach out and touch his brother’s knee, to reassure him that his action was apt, and to convey Mycroft’s gratefulness.
Beside him he can hear Sherlock inhaling deeply, struggling for breath. The next second he lifts himself onto his feet in one fluently graceful motion. The book tumbles from his lap onto the ground but he appears not to notice.
“Glad to have been of help,” he hisses through gritted teeth and sprints away, in the direction of the orchard, the soles of his feet naked and vulnerable against the dark fabric of his jeans as he raises them.
Mycroft twitches in his chair, torn between the wish to jump up and run after Sherlock and his mind’s advice to stay put, reasoning that chasing Sherlock will only serve to anger him further. The elongated line of Sherlock’s body glides away over the grass. Even though he’s moving at greet speed his upper body is completely still, his long legs doing all the work. His apparently effortless elegance reminds Mycroft of nothing so much as the cheetahs that are always chasing after prey in the nature documentaries on television. This one isn’t hunting, however, but rather fleeing to safe its hide.
Pulling at his lower lip Mycroft sighs. Inwardly he rewinds the tape of the conversation and replays it to discover where he erred in his choice of words, what he said to offend Sherlock so deeply. Behind the doors to the terrace he notices the figure of Mummy turning away and disappearing into the house. She must have seen him fail.
Oh, damn.
Reaching over Mycroft picks up the book, straightens the pages and deposits it in Sherlock’s empty chair. The vacant seat goggles up at him accusingly, which is frankly ridiculous. Sherlock is the one to insist on keeping himself aloof from Mycroft, his own brother, while Mycroft would like nothing better than a restoration of the proximity they enjoyed as children. Surely Sherlock ought to have forgiven Mycroft now for not smuggling his little brother in the boot of the car when he set off for school.
The next day Mycroft is woken early by the jubilant song of a blackbird that has perched itself in the wisteria growing beneath his window. For a brief moment he lies disoriented, wondering where he is, before recognising he has another laid-back day stretching before him at his parents’ house. He will have to concern himself with some work later, he blinks in the direction of his desk where the thick stack of files lies awaiting his perusal, but for now he can linger a little longer in the delicious warm nest of his bed, should he wish to do so.
His body reminds him it does indeed want to do so by snuggling deeper amongst the soft sheets and he gives in to its desires, rolls himself on his side and lets his eyes fall closed again.
When he wakes next it is to a pounding headache. The room is stiflingly hot, the rays of the sun falling onto the floor unencumbered by the curtains which he forgot to pull to yesterday evening. He resents the presence of his mouth in his face, as it tastes horribly vile.
Scrunching his eyes closed again Mycroft groans, then jumps out of bed and pushes the sash window open to let fresh air into the room. In the bathroom he throws cold water into his face and brushes his teeth. Both actions make him feel slightly better. He contemplates taking some aspirin, even stands briefly holding a blister of tablets in his hand, before choosing to attempt to alleviate the pain with some healthy exercise first.
He dons a pair of swimming trunks and a bathrobe, finds a pair of flip-flops in his dresser and hurries out of the house in the direction of the lake.
On the bank Sherlock is lying on his side, head propped up on one arm, reading his book. His curls are plastered against his head; drops of water cling to his uppermost shoulder and his calves, the sun teasing sparkling glints out of them against the incandescent background of his skin.
At Mycroft’s arrival he briefly raises his head and immediately looks down again without acknowledging his sibling’s presence.
“Good morning,” Mycroft greets him nevertheless. He spreads his towel next to Sherlock, reasoning it would be ridiculous to act as if Sherlock isn’t there, shrugs out of the robe and enters the water. He launches himself into the shocking coldness of the lake with a great splash, exhilarating in the freshness and the movement, before setting himself a steady pace with great strokes. With each dip of one of his arms into the water he feels the pain draining away out of his aching brain. By the time he’s reached the other end of the lake all that remains of the headache is a vague remembrance he can safely ignore. He turns himself onto his back and starts paddling back at leisure. In this way he courses back and forth across the lake until he loses count and his limbs become affected by the cold despite the relentless glare of the sun on the water and the exercise.
He walks out and dries himself before spreading the towel again and lying down on it. Sherlock turns to face away from Mycroft. The sound of another page of his book being turned rips through the air.
Mycroft settles his gaze on the top of the small grove of oaks that rises on the other side of the lake. In the shimmering heat of the day their greenness merges with the deep blue of the sky until the sky becomes a great wood and the trees turn into air, and Mycroft is sure he’s not looking up into the endless reaches of the sky but down into the azure-green depths of the ever-restless ocean. He risks a glance at Sherlock’s back that rises beside him, hard and forbidding. Yet this is the same back he curled around at night when they were boys.
A deep surge of love for his brother wells up inside Mycroft.
“Sherlock.” His brother’s back tenses upon hearing Mycroft’s voice but Mycroft decides to push on nevertheless. “Listen to me, please. I don’t know what went wrong yesterday. What induced you to end our conversation in such an abrupt manner. All I wished to tell you then and now, is that it pains me to see you unhappy,” he continues and he means it, wishing he could chase Sherlock’s monsters away by his mere presence, as he used to. Sherlock closes the book. Mycroft’s ears distinctly discern the snap of the pages falling shut.
“Who says I’m unhappy,” demands Sherlock’s muffled voice after some seconds.
Mycroft huffs.
“Please, Sherlock. We’re your family. We care about you, though you may not see it as an advantage.”
He rolls his head in the direction of Sherlock and catches his sharp intake of breath by the ripple of his shoulder blades underneath the skin. For a moment he’s afraid Sherlock will leap up and take off again. Relief floods him when Sherlock falls onto his back instead, still refusing to look at Mycroft. His hands clutch at his towel convulsively. Mycroft turns his head again to allow him some privacy. In Mycroft’s ears the sound of Sherlock’s hands tearing at the terrycloth drowns the sound of his own heartbeat.
“You’ve simply got no idea… you should never even know…” Sherlock sounds desperate, choking on the words. Mycroft’s instinct, honed by hours of diplomatic talks, urges him to remain silent.
The clutch of Sherlock’s fingers circling his wrist almost makes Mycroft bolt upright. Sherlock’s hand is dreadfully cold against Mycroft’s sun-warmed skin and he fights the primal reaction of his body, which is to wrench itself free from the vicelike grip. His arm is lifted and guided, away from his side, and over into the territory of Sherlock’s towel and the body resting there. For a moment their arms hang suspended in the air above the area of Sherlock’s concave belly. The next second their hands plunge down and Sherlock’s fingers force Mycroft’s hand to palm the length of his sibling’s hot arousal beneath the smooth material of his swimming shorts.
Mycroft almost sprains a muscle in his neck as he whips his head to look at Sherlock. His brother’s breathing is fast and irregular, each exhale an exclamation of pain, each inhale a loud sob drawn into straining lungs.
Beneath his hand Mycroft feels Sherlock’s erection pressing against the pads of his fingertips, the heel of his palm. He concentrates on keeping his hand lax and supple beneath Sherlock’s, exuding neither judgment nor encouragement. In his mind his first priority is to stay upright under the avalanche of emotions Sherlock’s action has set tumbling over him. He won’t let them drown him. To his great relief he discovers the first outburst of surprise has already receded to the background, leaving him space to start sorting through his emotions. He needs to think first and foremost – that’s his occupation after all, to think and organise where most people would just shout and panic – think about Sherlock, about them, and think about the sudden hot surge of lust the feel of Sherlock’s stiffened penis beneath his hand has sent rippling along his spine.
“Happy now?” Sherlock’s embittered voice wrings itself from his throat and he jerks his hand away, clearly expecting Mycroft to swiftly remove his hand from the offending object it was forced to embrace, scrabble for his towel and robe and make a run for his safety and sanity as fast as his legs will allow him.
This is exactly what a part of Mycroft’s mind, the sensible and conventional part he supposes, urges him to do. Another part of his brain insists his hand remains exactly where it is and he chooses to listen to this voice. Reason retaliates immediately by quoting his mother’s words at him.
“Find yourself another mate and show that servile peon that true worth can afford to flout society’s arbitrary rules and taboos.” Interesting take on her words, Mycroft.
Mycroft slides his gaze towards his shoulder, down past his stretched arm and on to his hand that’s still lying prone on the ridge in Sherlock’s swim shorts. The fact that Sherlock’s state of physical arousal hasn’t abated, despite the obvious distress he’s enduring, clutches fiercely at a spot deep down in Mycroft’s gut. What he would like to do most of all is to take Sherlock in his arms and comfort him.
“Since when?” he asks in the most neutral tone he can muster.
“Oh.” With tightly scrunched eyes Sherlock starts rolling his head on his towel, his curls shifting and bouncing like a nest of soft down where his pained face has sought shelter. Another gust of breath rattles his windpipe and then suddenly – unstoppably – a great flood of words rushes out of his mouth. “I don’t know. What does it matter? The first time I fully realised was when I spotted you kissing in the library, you and him, during his first visit. I… I… it hurt me, seeing the two of you, together. I was jealous. Not because you were kissing him, though that was bad enough, I suppose. No, it was him kissing you. The fact he was able to do so. And you allowed him. I hated you for allowing him. I heard you creeping to his room at night. The floorboards outside my room creak and you weren’t careful enough. Why should you be? Your wish to be with him was only natural, wasn’t it? Mummy and Daddy wouldn’t have objected. I watched through the keyhole, I saw him sucking you off and then you let him fuck you. The sight made my stomach turn for it should have been me there in the bed with you. Your face when… when you came… I wanted to do that to you. Christ, I hated him. I hate you! I hate myself, most of all.”
It must have been years since Mycroft has heard Sherlock speak so many sentences in one go. Now Sherlock grasps Mycroft’s hand and hefts it up, transporting it back to Mycroft’s side and depositing it there.
“You don’t have to try to be kind and pretend it’s all right,” he says. “I know this revolts you. Lusting after my own brother, well, I must be a proper little freak. I am a freak. School was nothing but hell, the whole dorm happily rutting away. They all laughed at me, nicknamed me ‘the virgin’ because I refused to participate in the wanking parties. The thought of anyone but you touching me is hateful. All I want is you. I can’t help myself. I know this… this love I feel for you – for it is love – is what we’ve been taught to abhor. Imagine Mummy ever knowing, or Nanny? It would be the end of her, might as well stab her in the back with a good clean knife.”
The door of the sluice gate has been lifted and years of pent-up unhappiness come crashing down in a great gulf. During his confession Sherlock has struggled up into a sitting position, his back turned to Mycroft, forearms crossed on his raised knees and his head hanging down.
“Go away,” he begs, “just leave me alone.”
“No,” Mycroft answers immediately. “No, I won’t.”
He is in shock, he supposes, experiencing the same all-out attack on his emotions David’s betrayal evoked a year ago. The instant deep hate is lacking though, replaced by a profound sympathy. The great soaring bird of his mind has encountered an unexpectedly strong current, encumbering its effortless glide. It flaps its wings furiously, flying in circles in search of a path around the invisible force opposing him. The idea of Sherlock living with his secret all these years feels like a sharp blow to his stomach. A hateful memory flashes before Mycroft’s eyes: the evening Mycroft walked into the restaurant where he and David were to have dinner and caught his lover flirting heavily with the waiter. That whole evening the green jaundice had been gobbling away at his heart, while David kept cajoling him and berating him for being unjust and jealous for no good cause.
It doesn’t take a great leap of his imagination to understand what Sherlock must have been living through. Each brush of Mycroft’s hand past David’s – though Mycroft always insisted on them being discreet in front of his family – must have been a piercing stab delivered straight to Sherlock’s heart. Now Mycroft sees why his brother has always disliked David, and yet the end of the affair couldn’t bring him happiness for what could Sherlock expect but to see David replaced with another. For years his brother has been wallowing in a thick slime composed of self-hatred and self-pity and abject misery, the viscosity of the vile stuff so high he was unable to raise himself and start cleansing his limbs of the substance.
Tentatively Mycroft reaches out to touch the stark, naked back that looks so forlorn, so helpless. Then he decides just a soothing pat of his hand won’t be enough, will only add to Sherlock’s wretchedness as he will interpret it as Mycroft’s insincere attempt to show he doesn’t recoil from his sibling after hearing his confession. He struggles onto his knees instead and sits back on his haunches for the briefest of moments.
The next second his arms embrace Sherlock and he presses the planes of his chest against his brother’s upper back. The sharp points of Sherlock’s vertebrae prod his breastbone unpleasantly. In his arms Sherlock freezes, his reaction that of a small skittish animal that has been pounded upon by a hunter. Mycroft holds on nevertheless, lowering his lips to the nape of Sherlock’s neck and placing them beneath the fringe of curls.
“Don’t hate yourself, please,” he says, willing his voice to sound steady and even. “It’s unworthy of you. There’s no reason. You’re my brother, you will always be.”
“You hit the nail on the head, Mycroft, as ever,” comes Sherlock’s voice, aiming for sarcasm. “For, for me, that’s exactly where the problem lies. If only you weren’t my brother, then I would have had a chance.”
Against the force of Mycroft’s grip on him he manages to turn, his face only inches away from Mycroft’s. “Nobody would have berated me if I had tried to seduce you,” he says.
***
The way Sherlock’s head rolls on the cushion, his whole body clamping down on Mycroft.
***
Later, hours later, Mycroft sits in his room where he fled, his thoughts revolving over and over again around the question who was the first to bridge that small gap of space separating their mouths. Did Sherlock’s lips burst upwards, like the innocent pink flame that starts a great bonfire or did Mycroft’s dip down to add the necessary fuel by gushing over them? Mycroft tells himself he honestly wouldn’t know. Deep down however he is certain he was the one to initiate their kiss. After his desperate move of forcing Mycroft to feel what he felt Sherlock was nothing but reticent. It was Mycroft who let his head sink, irrevocably, drawn like a bee to the sweet precious flower of his brother’s mouth that had hovered just beneath his, ready to be picked, the generous folds of his lips easily giving way, opening up to let him in, when Mycroft finally pressed his mouth on Sherlock’s.
Mycroft groans and buries his head in his hands. He is shaking all over; he can’t stop the ripples travelling down his spine and his limbs at the visions that keep flooding his brain. Sherlock’s lust-blown eyes, dark and hooded beneath heavy eyelids, a flash of teeth behind panting lips, the reverent brush of his fingers from Mycroft’s cheekbone down past his jaw and the line of his throat and lower still. Mycroft’s hand curled around Sherlock’s waist, his skin with the light freckles almost dark against the pale glow that was Sherlock.
His fingertips tingle with the memory of his brother’s soft smooth skin. His fingers were drawn inevitably to the region covered by Sherlock’s swimming shorts and he briefly grappled with them before Sherlock pushed up his hips, just enough for Mycroft to shove the infuriating clothing down his brother’s thighs. Then his fingers were on Sherlock, the heavy fullness of him pulsating and quivering against the sensitive skin of Mycroft’s palm. Sherlock’s eyes shot open wide, his back arched and Mycroft’s name was wrung from his throat in time to the stream of ejaculate pumping itself out between Mycroft’s fingers, soiling the pristine smoothness of Sherlock’s belly and coating Mycroft’s hand.
Mycroft watched the contortions of Sherlock’s face while he held on to him until his brother’s eyelids fluttered closed and a great sigh of satisfaction floated past his half-opened lips. Then he started pulling at his own swimming trunks, fighting against the shaking that kept impeding his movements, his straining erection struggling against the material until it finally broke free and he could curl his hand around himself. He started running his hand up and down his throbbing penis in quick strokes, his fingers slick with the lubricant of Sherlock’s sperm, giving in to the overwhelming need to reach completion while the image of Sherlock’s lush lips slackened in his orgasm was still fresh in his mind. Next to him Sherlock moved and Mycroft brought up his other hand to quiet him.
“No, let me,” Sherlock murmured and before Mycroft realised his brother’s intention, he was enveloped by warm hot wetness. Sherlock’s tongue dragged against the slit, his soft wide lips pulling at the frenulum. Mycroft let go of himself, his hands seeking support in Sherlock’s curls instead while he rode his brother’s mouth, looking down briefly and then scrunching his eyes shut against the image of his member dragging past the plush shelf of Sherlock’s lower lip. the hot thread of his impending release was wound tighter at the bottom of his spine, drawing his balls against his body, ready to let go. He growled Sherlock’s name in a warning, tugged feebly at the strands of hair he was holding onto. Sherlock’s response was to dig his fingers into Mycroft’s hip and take him in deeper. Mycroft felt his sperm rise, his flesh pulsating against the gentle softness of Sherlock’s palate while his hips bucked in the irresistible rhythm of primeval release. Wave after blinding wave of white-hot oblivion kept surging up and travelling outwards, drawing the muscles in his body taut, until he had nothing left to spend.
Sherlock’s kiss, ghosting over Mycroft’s lips after he found his breath again, was an act of worship. He pushed his tongue between Mycroft’s teeth and Mycroft tasted himself, slightly bitter, over the salty sweetness that was the inside of Sherlock’s mouth. Mycroft brought up his hand, coated in the rapidly drying flakes of Sherlock’s seed. He sucked at his forefinger and middle finger, savouring the salty-sweaty tang, and then pushed them into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s eyes locked on Mycroft’s while he took in his fingers and licked them clean. The rasping of his tongue against Mycroft’s finger pads sent fresh tremors quivering down Mycroft’s spine.
The thought of the drag of that tongue along his hand makes Mycroft shake all over again.
Downstairs the supper gong is struck, its bellows reverberating down the house. The idea of food isn’t very appealing but Mycroft reasons he’d best make an appearance so as not to alarm his parents.
In the family dining room he finds them already seated at the table. Both look sun-drenched and agreeably drowsy after a day spent at a flower show. As Mycroft is arranging his napkin on his lap Sherlock enters, mumbles a greeting in their general direction and falls down on his chair opposite Mycroft.
From behind his lashes, Mycroft glances at his brother while their mother’s chatter on an exciting new breed of irises she’s spotted, flows around them both. Sherlock’s gaze remains fixed on his plate where he’s mainly concerning himself with pushing around his food. This is pretty much his usual conduct during any meal so his behaviour can’t strike Mummy and Daddy as being out of the ordinary. Mycroft has a harder task to perform. Cook’s excellent cooking doesn’t interest him, indeed the idea of eating sickens him, and yet he has to bring his fork up to his mouth and shovel the food inside in order not to alarm his parents.
What he does want, no, what he needs is to pull Sherlock close and kiss him, then slowly, reverently, undress him, and take him into his mouth. Mycroft’s jaw grinds away at his roast and he swallows hard.
“Will you be going back to London this evening, Mycroft?” Daddy asks. “You might as well stay and drive up early tomorrow. The road will be excessively hot and unpleasant now.”
“Yes,” Mycroft answers. “I’d thought of staying tonight, if you will have me.” He hesitates for a moment and then boldly drives on. “Maybe you’d like to come with me, Sherlock? Everything is pretty well under control right now at the office and you could visit some museums on your own while I’m at work. Last year you did promise to come and visit me so you still owe me.”
Beneath the table he pinches his thigh, hard, willing Sherlock to say yes. With some careful arranging he’ll manage to take two days off from work. Two days to spend together with Sherlock in the privacy of his flat, away from possibly prying eyes. He’s been unforgivably careless this morning. That won’t happen again, ever.
Slowly, Sherlock drags up his head. “Fine,” he says, “if you insist.”
“Oh, Sherlock,” Mummy exults, “what a splendid idea! You’ll have such fun, and you deserve so after having studied so hard. Promise me to entertain him, Mycroft.”
“Of course,” Mycroft shushes her. “I promise.”
For a moment, he feels irrepressibly vile, a pervert deceiving his innocent mother. Beneath his collar a hot flush of shame starts creeping up his neck. His gaze flashes towards Sherlock, hoping to meet his eyes, but Sherlock is better at this game than Mycroft and is back to the close observation of the winding paths he’s carved out of the hilly landscape of Sunday roast and vegetables on his plate.
Mycroft, I love you, but you know as well as I what the reaction of the world would be should our affair ever become widely known. Surely, you, with your amazing intelligence and your ambition, must see how this knowledge would hinder you.
The words of David’s hateful letter sound in Mycroft’s ears and he could almost laugh out loud for he can well imagine what the world’s reaction would be should this affair he and Sherlock are about to embark on, ever become known.
***
He’ll let the world deal with that little problem. Right now he aims to keep the promise he made his father all those years ago.
Mycroft will love his little brother. Always.
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Date: 2013-06-08 08:27 pm (UTC)Wonderfully done!
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Date: 2013-07-02 09:03 am (UTC)All the squabbling we see in the series, it's just there to hide their true feelings for each other.
Thank you very much for your very kind comment. I'm very happy you found the story everything I hoped it would be.
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Date: 2013-06-09 03:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-02 09:04 am (UTC)Mycroft just deserves the very best, doesn't he? :)
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Date: 2013-06-09 04:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-02 09:08 am (UTC)As ever the generosity of your comment made me very happy.
Thank you very, very much.
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Date: 2013-07-03 05:02 am (UTC)That you wrote this, and that I love it so much, doesn't surprise me in the least. I don't know if you're on tumblr, but I rec'd it there. http://chasingriversong.tumblr.com/post/54489759417/fic-rec-the-promises-one-keeps-by-dioscureantwins (http://chasingriversong.tumblr.com/post/54489759417/fic-rec-the-promises-one-keeps-by-dioscureantwins). This story is so perfect and beautiful.
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Date: 2013-07-03 06:07 am (UTC)You're too sweet. But then, I know you are. :)
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Date: 2013-06-11 09:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-02 09:20 am (UTC)I loved your compariosn of their relationship to that of a Möbius ring.
To me Mycroft and Sherlock are yin and yang. One simply cannot exist without the other.
Thank you for reading and commenting.
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Date: 2013-06-13 12:39 am (UTC)<>
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Date: 2013-07-02 09:26 am (UTC)I was very glad to read you liked this, seeing as you're the recipient. When I was about two thirds through writing the fic I started to wonder whether you wouldn't consider it all to be a bit... well, too much, too heavy-hearted.
I tried to work in some fluff with the childhood scenes but on the whole, though I adore the Holmes brothers and do believe they were made for each other, I can't conceive them as being in an entirely happy, unencumbered and lovey-dovey relationship.
After all my trepidations your comment made me heave a sigh of relief. :)
Thank you!
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Date: 2013-06-22 05:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-02 09:34 am (UTC)Oh wow, thank you so much for your very kind and generous comment. I just love, love, love the Holmes brothers to distraction and it's so wonderful to have them pining for each other and then suddenly discovering they've been slowly travelling towards this wonderful love affair, which is likely to hurt them both, and be filled with so many unhappy moments, but is also the only true love affair each of them could ever have. They're truly bound to each other.
I'm very glad to read you liked the story I created for them.
no subject
Date: 2013-06-23 11:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-02 09:37 am (UTC)Thank you very much for your wonderfully sweet and thoughtful comment. The more people admiring this wonderful pair, the better.