holmestice | fic for dioscureantwins: Buried in Teeth (Reply)

Title: Buried in Teeth
Recipient:

mahmfic
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Incest. AU: Canon Divergence. Self-induced Amnesia. Ace!Sherlock. Brief description of Past Child Abuse. John LOVES to curse. Relationship Negations. Ambiguous/Hopeful Ending. Not series 3 compliment.
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is an only child. Why does John Watson keep insisting differently?
Word Count: Approx 4.7k
A/N: As always, many thanks to the mods for being utterly wonderful and gracious. *kowtows*.

dioscureantwins, I hope that you like this and that you don't mind that it's not porn-y or incredibly long. I tried to incorporate as much as I could with what you liked. I'm just glad to meet someone else who likes Mycroft/Sherlock. :-) Title comes from the song of the same name by Mariee Sioux.

Sherlock Holmes was an observant man. He could tell someone's occupation be simple things like state of dress, tan lines, calluses, and scent. He knew what medical conditions someone suffered and narrow down what medication they were taking by little things like ticks and habits or common complaints. He knew that there were over two-hundred types of tobacco ash. He knew how to still quietly, and observe a room. He tore people down when they called him freak or an abomination. Sherlock knew their secrets. It was probably… no it was why his parents despised him so much. It was smart of them to top having children after him. One Sherlock was hard enough to handle. He didn't blame them. He had learned to accept it after his father had slapped him on his fifth birthday, after Sherlock had thrown a tantrum when he hadn't received a littler sister like he'd wanted.

Though, sometimes he caught himself daydreaming, like someone dull. He thought about what it would have been like to have a little brother or sister to play with. However, Sherlock quickly dismissed the idea. He would have been a horrid older brother. Most likely, he would have tormented his sibling, using them for experiments.

Yes, it was better than his parents stopped at one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock tapped his foot in irritation. His arms were crossed over his chest and he scowled deeply at Lestrade. The man had asked him over at a crime scene on the shore of the Thames River. He and John had literally just gotten out of the cab and he was already bored.

"BDSM science gone wrong," he sighed as he turned away from the DI and pried open the passenger door of the cab that was attempting to drive away. "Ligature marks around their feet, neck, and genitals. All self-inflicted. However their scene partner most likely was the one to have tie them up and when things went sour, dumped the body in the Thames. There's a BDSM meet-up this weekend at The Savoy. I suggest you look for a woman based upon the sizes of the scratches and silver nail polish residue on his back."

Before anyone could stop him, he hopped back into the cab and ordered the gentleman (late seventies, retired from being a maths teacher, widower, looking forward to seeing the grandkids when his shift ends) to drive him back to Baker Street.

"You could have at least said hi to Greg," John chided as he sat down across from the detective.

Sherlock had already pulled out his mobile phone and was checking his email. Nothing of importance. A few notifications that people had commented on his website. Boring. A couple notifications that Harry had commented on John's blog on the entry Sherlock had posted posing as John. Slightly more interesting. Some emails requesting that he'd look into their case. Most likely fruitless, but possibly not. "Why should I have? Would have been wasting both of our times."

He could tell that his friend was rolling his eyes. "Greg is kind of your friend, you know? Friends… talk. Occasionally."

Sherlock paused his movements, his thumb hovered over the screen of his phone. "Pointless. Having attachments of any sort."

"You have me, don't you? And Mrs. Hudson?"

How could he ever forget. Over five years ago, Moriarty had played his most dangerous of all. The consulting criminal thought it would be fun to prove that Sherlock did in fact have a heart and promised to murder all of Sherlock's closest friends. A sniper poised to take the shot on Moriarty's order unless Sherlock jumped off the roof of St. Bart's.

He did it. He jumped.

Luckily, he had the help of Molly Hooper and his Homeless Network to fake his own death. He worked through Moriarty's network, destroying it from the inside out. It took five years, but it was all over and he was back in London. Safe. Comfortable. Normal.

"Pointless," Sherlock reiterated. A small smile on his lips.

John caught this, and leaned across, punching the detective's upper arm. "Yeah, fuck you too, mate."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He wasn't a paranoid man, per se. Yes, he had gained some enemies over the years from many aspects of his life: from uni, from his detective work, to the woman who ran the Tesco down the way who was angry at him for deducting (correctly) that she had a nasty case of foot fungus. Sherlock didn't believe in aliens, faeries or unicorns. He didn't exactly think that Big Brother was out to get him. Yet for the past week and a half, Sherlock had caught a few of the CCTV camera shifting as he walked down the street, as if they were following him. He could only catch it out of the corner his eye because whenever he turned sharply around it hope to catch the camera 'in the act', it was still. He wasn't crazy, he had seen them move.

Sherlock was in the middle of airing out the flat of toxic chemicals, when John came home from his long shift at the clinic.

"Good-- Fuck, Sherlock!" John yelled, covering his mouth and nose with his sleeve. "What the fuck did you cook up this time? It stinks like cow shit!"

Sherlock tossed his friend a mask. "Hello, dear. How was your day. Mine was lovely. Dinner will be a bit… late."

"Fuck off," John's voice was muffled through the mask. "Shit, now all the food will be off. I just went shopping. Where's--"

"Mrs. Hudson is visiting her sister. She says we might be paying some extra rent next month to compensate."

"Just what we need," John groaned as he sunk into his chair. "More cases. More hours diagnosing colds. How long do you think it will be until this place is liveable?

Sherlock pondered for a few seconds. "Hm, a few days. I'd say."

"Fuck, Sherlock---"

"You're saying fuck a lot, John. Are you frustrated?" The detective smirked behind his mask.

The little vein on John's left temple began to throb. "Where am I supposed to go? This is my home."

Sherlock waved it off as if the problem was insignificant. "Stay over at some woman's flat. You have women whom you canoodle with."

John's eyebrows shot up. "Canoodle?"

Sherlock blushed, turning away briefly. "Shut up." He fiddled with this pipette, twirling between his fingers. "It's not like I understand those things anyway."

"I dunno, you have--" John left the sentence hanging.

It was the detective's turn to be confused. "What John? I have what?"

"Oh God, don't make me say it."

"What?" Sherlock's tone was dark. Was his best friend ashamed of his asexuality? He had never hinted at it before. A slow anger bubbled up inside him. He'd been made fun of, and beat up for being asexual enough in his life. He didn't want to be hurt by John too.

"Your brother. Fuck," John raked his fingers through his short hair. "You and your brother."

Sherlock blinked. Then blinked again. He stared at John in disbelief. "I am not sure what you're inferring to, but I don't have any siblings. I'm an only child."

"What?! Yes, yes you do. Mycroft? Mycroft Holmes? British Government, ginger, bit old fashioned. Pocket watch, fancy suit, umbrella. Kind of stalker-ish? You're rude as fuck and call him Fatcroft? Your older brother. Jesus, why are we having this conversation?"

"Have the fumes gone to your head? I am and always have been an only child!" His head started to pound. It had to be the fumes. His eyes were stinging. "I'm an only child! My parents didn't want any more children after me because I was a monster!" He clenched his fists at his sides, knuckles going white. Yes, the fumes were definitely making his eyes sting. "Why are you lying to me, John? Why would you be so cruel?"

John stared at him with wide eyes. "Sherlock… did you--" The sound of John's text notification went off, interrupting the rest of his sentence. The doctor pulled out his mobile phone, sighing in frustration. He struggled out of his chair and crossed over the room and glanced out of one of the windows. "Looks like I am being kidnapped. See you later."

After his flat mate slammed the door shut, Sherlock made a dash toward the same window his friend had peered out of a moment before. Outside, by the kerb was a discreet, expensive black car. A woman with long brown hair (hiding two tattoos, saving up to take an extended vacation to the Maldives, an ill brother, no step-brother) was standing by an open passenger side door, not even glancing up from his mobile phone as John got into the car.

What was going on? He didn't like not knowing something.

Sherlock grabbed his coat off of one of the antlers of the skull of the bison, and pulled it on. He took the stairs two at a time and flagged down the first taxi he spotted.

He was adept of the art of stealth and at blending in. It was a skill he had been perfecting ever since he was young. When he was seven fourteen he walked into a year 7 history classroom when the actual teacher had gone on maternity leave and taught them complete gibberish for two weeks before getting caught. He'd gone undercover as many things during his time as a consulting detective to find the truth: a Buddhist monk, a professor of Arachnology, a screenwriter, a prostitute, a cellist, the list was never ending. But he was also good at not being seen when he was those identities, or dressed as himself. He had become used to not making an a loud entrance a times. Just sitting, observing, deducing. The Game. Sherlock was good at his job.

The cab dropped him off four blocks from where John and the black car stopped. He stayed in the shadows as he entered the abandoned warehouse. His footsteps made no sounds and the swish of his thick coat didn't even so much as make a breeze.

It didn't take long to find John. His voice vibrated throughout the walls of the old warehouse. His voice sounded livid, practically furious.

"What the fuck, Mycroft!? What the fuck is going on?"

"John, you must be parched. Wouldn't you like that glass of water?"

"No, I would bloody well not!"

"Hm, pity."

Sherlock pulled out his mobile phone and pressed the camera icon on the home screen. He hit the little button so front facing camera. Once the screen was filled with his face, he adjusted his mobile so he could view around the corner where John and the mystery man were having their argument.

The man was breathtaking. He was just as John had described. Tall, slightly taller than himself. Ginger, with a receding hairline. Pale skin, full lips, blue eyes. Serious expression, gold ring on his ring finger, married then. Antique pocket watch. Stylish pinstripe dark suit with a red tie and matching pocket handkerchief. The man was leaning on an umbrella although it was clear that he didn't need to. He had an air of smug authority about him.

Sherlock was intrigued. He hit all of his buttons.

Sherlock made mental notes about the man. Eldest child out of two, private school upbringing, training at MI-6, likes classic films.

"Why does Sherlock think he's an only child, Mycroft? Did you and your government lackies do some sort of Jedi Mind Tricks on him? Or like that Men in Black thing with the pen?"

The man-- Mycroft grimaced. Clearly Star Wars and Men In Black were above his station. "I'm afraid I don't know what you are talking about."

"You damn well know you do!" John's voice escalated. "I've seen the cameras follow us! You've been watching us. I was wondering why you hadn't stopped by the flat recently, but then Sherlock said he didn't even know who you were!"

The consulting detective bit his tongue. What? Just… what? John was right?

Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek. "He… deleted me."

Clearly both John and Sherlock were taken aback.

"Deleted you? What do you mean deleted you? Sherlock's good but he can't erase memories of a whole person! That would like if I forgot about Harry or that I was in Afghanistan or that I like football or--"

"Well, apparently Sherlock can."

"But you two are--"

"What John? Brothers? Lovers? That doesn't matter to Sherlock."

The detective pressed his back to the grimy wall. He sucked in his breath. How was that possible? He'd deleted bits of information before, but a whole person? He had a brother, who had deleted from his memory. He. Had. A. Brother. Who was also his lover. Lover. Sherlock had never given things like sex the time of day. Relationships didn't matter to him. How did he have a lover… who was his brother…. whom he'd forgotten on purpose?

The lady from before nonchalantly strode up from behind Mycroft, her eyes still trained on her phone. "Sir, we have word that there's an intruder in the building. Should we--"

"Sherlock," the stranger whispered like a prayer.

It was then that the detective decided he had enough. He pocketed his mobile darted out of the warehouse, his nice shoes clacking on the pavement. He didn't bother to turn around as he heard Mycroft shouting his name in a desperate plea.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was relatively simple to find where Mycroft Holmes lived. When Sherlock arrived at the address and the doorman greeted him rather friendly with a "Good afternoon, Young Mister Holmes. It's been awhile, hasn't it?" he visibly flinched. Sherlock pressed the button to the lift far more times than necessary to get to the correct floor. Mycroft owned the entire top floor of the building.

When he walked into the expensive flat, it was dark. He flicked on the lights, somehow knowing where the switches were. He explored the expansive rooms and it soon became very clear that either this Mycroft was telling the truth or he was one hell of a stalker. In the kitchen he found one of his favorite phone chargers that he thought he'd lost on a case. There was his copy of Shakespeare's Richard III sitting open to Act Five on the island counter-top. He knew it was hid because it had been dog-eared and had his handwriting in the margins. In the bedroom there were photographs. One hanging near the door that was him in Year 13, posing in front of his school wearing his uniform and scowling at camera. A photo sitting on the nightstand was a photo of Sherlock's silhouette, playing the violin. There was a photo that simply took Sherlock's breath away. It was taped to the mirror of the dresser. It was intimate. A close-up of Sherlock, his dark curls messy. His lips were kiss-swollen and slightly open. His skin shone with sweat. There was a hickey on his neck, which he was offering to the bearer of the camera. His eyes… they were blown wide. Sherlock had never seen himself look like that before. It frightened him. When he continued exploring, he found that the connecting en suite had Sherlock's favorite cologne and aftershave stocked in the cabinet. In the oversized walk-in closet hung multiple of his shirts and trousers.

"Having fun, brother mine?"

Sherlock was taken aback to find Mycroft sitting at the kitchen counter waiting for him when he left the bedroom. Mycroft seemed quite a home. And why shouldn't he be? This was his flat after all.

"You're not my brother," Sherlock said firmly as he approached his hands deep in the pockets of his coat. "And you're not my lover."

"I think you know that's not so."

"No, I don't--"

Suddenly, Mycroft was there, invading his personal space, face nipping at his earlobe, whispering huskily in his ear, "Yes, yes you do. I've avoided you for weeks because of that childish game. Your mind may not remember me, but your body certainly does."

Sherlock groaned and bucked as Mycroft fondled his clothed groin. He was already half-hard and wanted to beg this man to continue. His mind battled with itself.

STOP. NO. You don't know this man! This is rape! You aren't consenting!

But I do know him. Somehow. He knows me. And I know him. I want this…

But you don't remember him.

I don't.

Sherlock pushed Mycroft away just as the older man was going in to kiss his lips. "No," Sherlock repeated. "I-- I can't. I don't know who you are."

Mycroft's face was full of disappointment. His shoulders tensed up. "Yes, please forgive me." His tone was more formal than it had been a moment ago. "Of course I can't expect you to recall right away. And even if you do eventually remember, you may not want to continue our arrangement. Let's sleep on it, yes? And meet tomorrow? We can go over everything then."

"I don't--"

"You can pick the location. And if you still don't believe what I say after tomorrow morning, then I will completely leave you alone for good, sound fair?"

Sherlock chewed on his lip, nodding. "Lina's Cat Cafe. It's on--"

"I know it's location," Mycroft interrupted, frowning. "Let's say seven o'clock? And as a bonus I will send you some private text messages between the two of us that you most likely got rid of as proof."

The detective nodded, and without saying another word, he fled Mycroft's flat through an open window and scaling down the side of the building. He was making a habit of running away.

Sherlock wandered around London for several hours. He sat in the park, watched the ducks swim. There was a few families picnicking and some children running around playing tag. A hipster played The Beatles on his guitar while a few bystanders tossed coins and pound notes into his fedora at his feet. He grabbed a bite at the fish and chip food truck. It was greasy and hot. Not at all something he usually enjoyed. He walked up and down Oxford Street without going into the shops. He observed all of the tourists and their stupid problems. He cringed and folded up into himself whenever he noticed a CCTV camera following his movements. The sun set lower and lower in the sky until the moon rose high in the sky and London seemed to transform with a new crowd.

Sherlock had nowhere to go. The flat was still quite toxic. He was definitely not going to spend the night at Mycroft's. And John was probably at his latest girlfriend's (Dany… Danika… Daniella… Oh God, was it Samantha?). He didn't want to crash on Lestrade's lumpy sofa ever again. He had enough of that during his early twenties. He felt utterly alone.

He wasn't sure how, his mind was running on automatic, but somehow he ended up standing in front of Molly Hooper's building, his finger hovering over the buzzer. Sherlock coiled his hand back. He didn't want to disturb Molly. She was sweet. She didn't need his problems on her doorstep. Quite literally.

He truly had nowhere else to go.

Sherlock pressed the buzzer and waited. When Molly came down she was dressed in a long night gown with an anatomically correct graphics. The moment she saw him, the smaller woman wrapped her arms around Sherlock, burying her face into his chest.

"What do you need?" she asked looking up at his face.

"I--" He gaped, opening and closing his mouth. He turned away, a bit ashamed. Molly had done so much, too much for him already. She certainly didn't need his emotional baggage as well.

She forced him to look at him by shifting his chin with her delicate fingers. "What do you need, Sherlock? What can I do to help you?"

"Can," his lip may have wobbled slightly but he'd never admit it. "Can I stay at your place? Just for the night?"

Molly gave him the most welcoming, comforting smile. "Of course, Sherlock. You're always welcome here." She turned to walk up the stairs to her flat. "By the way, I got a new cat since you were last by."

He couldn't sleep that night in Molly's spare bedroom. It was too pink and girl-y for his liking. He alternated between staring at the pictures of pink poodles on the opposite wall and reading texts from John.

Sherlock where are you?

Where did you go?

You're not at Baker Street and neither Greg or Mrs. Hudson have clue where you are. Please respond!

Mate, I'm worried. Please say you haven't gone and done something stupid.

Sherlock, please.

There was a single text message from Lestrade alluding to the same effect:

If you've gone off on a drug binge after all this time, I swear I will arrest you for real.
-G. Lestrade

It was probably a little past midnight when his notification binged with a text message from a number he didn't recognize.

Here are the old messages, as promised. I look forward to seeing you in the morning.

It was short and to the point. Sherlock was happy that the message lacked any sort of endearments. He delayed reading the batch of old text messages for over an hour. It was odd to see the ones that he had written. He knew that he must have done it. They were his style and tone. It was like reading another version of himself. Someone… happier.

He wondered if he could be that happy again.

Sherlock closed his eyes and steepled his fingers together. He was glad for the silence in Molly's flat, he would need all of the concentration his brain could spare. He wished he had some of his nicotine patches, but they were all at his flat. The most he'd ever used was three patches at once for problem. This was more like a ten patch problem.

Around four in the morning he thought he unlocked a bit of an old piece of memory. Something from their childhood. But it was so clouded and fuzzy that it was hard to tell. He needed more time to explore his Mind Palace. Erasing an entire person… that could take weeks to uncover.

When the clock on the nightstand read six o'clock, he made the decision to leave. Sherlock made sure to pet Molly's Persian cats, Toby and Sansa, and left Molly a thank you note before catching a taxi for the the agreed meeting placed.

He sat at a table in the back of the cafe sipping on his coffee for nearly a half-hour before Mycroft showed up. The man looked completely out of place in the little hole-in-the wall cat cafe. He was dressed impeccably once again. Today we wore a tan suit with a tan vest, white shirt, a deep blue tie, and tan handkerchief. His umbrella was in his right hand, and Sherlock spotted the chain to the pocket watch too. The glint of the gold ring shown in the morning sun. He was also holding Sherlock's copy of Richard III in his right hand, close to his side. Mycroft scanned the area and when he caught Sherlock's eyes the tenseness in his shoulders seemed to disappear. He strode over in four quick strides, signaling to a roaming waitress at the same time that he wanted something to drink.

"My apologies. Were you waiting long?"

"No," Sherlock lied. "You smell of tobacco."

"Brilliant deduction."

"I didn't know you smoked."

Mycroft lifted one eyebrow. "Oh? And why is that?"

"There weren't any ashtrays at your flat. Or fag cartons."

The ginger shrugged, setting his umbrella against the wall. "I don't smoke often you see. Nasty habit. I picked up a pack on my way here."

Sherlock hummed and sipped on his coffee. So far so good. The conversation was flowing nicely.

"I'm allergic to cats," the man stated as he finally sat down, unbuttoning his jacket. He sneered as a cat jumped onto their table and Sherlock quickly scooped it up into his arms.

"Are you? I'm so sorry," he said, not sorry at all.

Mycroft slid the copy of Richard III across the table. I thought you should have it back. I finally finished it."

Sherlock's eyes widened as he let the cat down. "You've never read Richard III? But it is one of the world's greatest literary masterpieces!"

"And you hate baroque opera, so we are at an impasse."

Sherlock curled his lip. "Oh God, baroque? Opera is bad enough on its own, but baroque?"

"Shakespeare is complete shit but I still read that damn thing."

"That's because they force you to in school. Hardly anyone likes the things they made us read in school."

"My dear, my English teacher had more sense than to force Shakespeare upon us. My loathing of the man's works are purely my own adult opinions."

"Well, that's just stupid," Sherlock responded sounding completely childish. "We've had this conversation before, haven't we?"

Mycroft smiled softly. "Many times."

Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the warm mug for comfort. "I remember some things."

"Yes?"

"I lost a tooth because a boy in school punched me because I knew he'd been cheating on his tests and told the teacher. Father thought I had started the fight and punished me with the cane. I thought that was it but you… you cared for me afterwards."

"Father always was a right bastard," Mycroft gritted his teeth.

"I remember little things. It's so fuzzy and it makes my head hurt. But…"

Mycroft interlocked their fingers. "Go on."

Sherlock couldn't help but gaze at the contrast between their hands. They were both pale but Sherlock was by far paler. His fingers were long, bony. Mycroft's were short and stubby, his fingernails well kept.

"I remember eating tiramisu at a restaurant, spooning it into your mouth. Plucking my violin just to annoy you. The scent of pine needles and the feeling of snow beneath my bare feet. I… I remember sitting on the sofa cuddling and watching classical dramas. Feeling content. I…" Sherlock couldn't go on. It hurt. "Why did I delete you?"

Mycroft removed his hands and turned his face to the wall. "It's so immature."

"Tell me."

Mycroft glanced over and continued his staring contest with the kitten wallpaper. "We had an argument."

"Yes, I assumed that much."

"Let me finish. We had an argument… over Monopoly."

Sherlock opened and shut his mouth. He had nothing to say to that.

"We were playing at Baker Street and I was winning and you were throwing a fit. You tossed the board to the ground, ruining the game. I called you a child, you insulted my weight. It kept going for a rather long time and escalated rather quickly. At some point. Without thinking, I said something to the effect, 'why don't you forget about me then?'. You replied, 'fine' and stormed off to your bedroom and I left. Next thing I know, you've completely forgotten about me as your lover and as your brother."

Sherlock steepled his fingers together in thought. The waitress who Mycroft had signaled earlier finally came over and placed a latte down on the table. The pair sat in silence for several minutes. Both of their drinks went untouched. A couple of cats tried to hop up on Mycroft's lap but he pushed them off with before having a sneezing fit.

"I may not remember everything."

"Pardon?" Mycroft asked, wiping his bleary eyes.

"I may not remember everything, or much. I don't know if or when my memories of you will come back."

"I know."

"And I'm Asexual. I'm not exactly sure of the exact nature of our relationship before, but as of right now, I would like it to remain sexless."

This caught Mycroft's attention. "You're willing to try again?"

Sherlock hesitated, but slowly nodded. "I think so. With limitations and negations. But yes. I am willing to give you… us a chance."

"That's all I ask."

It was all Sherlock asked for too. Another chance.