Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/567611.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Mycroft_Holmes_&_Sherlock_Holmes, Mycroft_Holmes/Original_Female
      Character
  Character:
      Mycroft_Holmes, Sherlock_Holmes, Original_Female_Character
  Additional Tags:
      bladder_desperation, Incestuous_feelings, A_slightly_dark_look_at
      childhood, Het_non-con_with_teenage_Mycroft_as_the_instigator
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-11-19 Words: 2710
****** Boys Will Be Boys ******
by Citrine_(orphan_account)
Summary
     Young Sherlock is playing hold-it games, while Mycroft grapples with
     the nature of power and desire:
     Now darkness is finally closing in around the mullion windows and
     this is the time of day Mycroft likes best. The gardens are all
     shadows and silhouettes and they’re alone, just him and Sherlock. And
     the au- pair of course, but Anna’s insignificant, a nothing, a
     nobody. Nevertheless, a promise is a promise, even when it’s only
     made to get what one wants.
Notes
     I don't usually write stories about the characters as children, but
     the Holmes brothers do fascinate me.
      
     Disclaimer: Don't own, no profit made.
Mycroft watches his brother from the doorway. A few minutes ago Sherlock was
doing a frantic have-to-pee dance around the sitting room. Now he’s kneeling on
the sofa, rocking back and forth with a cushion wedged between his thighs. His
gaze is fixed on the television screen, on a true crime documentary that he
probably shouldn’t be watching at his age. 
Father wouldn’t allow him to stay up so late, but their parents are hundreds of
miles away, cruising the Mediterranean and gambling in Monte Carlo.  They have
been left in the care of Mrs Jordan, a local woman who comes in each day to
clean and scold, and of Anna, the shy Romania au-pair.
Mycroft and Sherlock ignore them both and do exactly as they please.
The Victorian house with the gothic gables and the stone walled gardens is
their playground, their kingdom. Mycroft steals his father’s shotgun and
practises shooting rabbits that Sherlock later dissects on the dining room
table. He discovers a stack of old porn magazines in the attic and masturbates
over them openly, just to embarrass Anna. In fine weather they stay out until
all hours, exploring the abandoned tin mine where they find a human skull.
Sherlock insists on lugging it home with him.  Halfway back to the house he
stops in the dusty lane; unable to wait any longer and unwilling to put his
skull down Sherlock calmly pees in his shorts.
Mrs Jordan is far from calm when she sees the results, but her punishments are
meaningless, her threats empty air. Nevertheless, Mycroft’s always glad when
it’s time for her to go home and silence replaces her tirade of complaints and
ignorant opinions.  Now darkness is finally closing in around the mullion
windows and this is the time of day Mycroft likes best. The gardens are all
shadows and silhouettes and they’re alone, just him and Sherlock. And the au-
pair of course, but Anna’s insignificant, a nothing, a nobody.  Nevertheless, a
promise is a promise, even when it’s only made to get what one wants. 
Mycroft’s gaze flicks past Sherlock to the TV screen which is showing a grainy
black and white photograph of a mutilated female corpse. The voice over tells
him that she was one of Jack the Ripper’s victims.  Sherlock’s watching
intently. He’s also jiggling about and gnawing at his lower lip.
Mycroft fulfils his side of the bargain. “Go to the toilet, Sherlock.”
“I don’t want to go.”
It’s the answer that Mycroft expects. The one that Sherlock always gives, even
when he simply can’t keep still. Their parents, Mrs Jordan and Anna all think
that Sherlock’s lying when he insists that he doesn’t want to go. Only Mycroft
understands that it’s a matter of semantics, that Sherlock means exactly what
he says, that he doesn’t want to empty his bursting bladder. He wants to wait
and attempts to coerce or bribe him into going result in the most spectacular
tantrums.  
Mycroft smiles, remembering how Sherlock reduced Anna to tears earlier in the
evening, stubbornly refusing to pee even after she dragged him kicking and
screaming into the toilet. He watches Sherlock squeezing his legs together
around the cushion. Whether he wants to go or not, it’s obvious that he
desperately needs to pee.
“You’ll wet yourself if you don’t go soon.”
“I won’t!”
“Yes, you will. You can’t hold it in forever.” 
“I know that, stupid.” Sherlock tears his gaze away from the TV just long
enough to glare at Mycroft.  “When this finishes I’m going to do an enormous
pee on the kitchen...oh….” Sherlock bites his lip and freezes in mid wriggle.
He shoves his hand into his pyjama bottoms and clutches himself tightly. A
second later he gives a tiny sigh and resumes his rocking.
It’s too dark to see, too dark to tell by the flickering light of the screen,
but Mycroft can’t contain his curiosity. “Did you just go a little bit?”
Sherlock shakes his head. “No, it tried to come out, but I wouldn’t let it.”
Mycroft wonders how much longer Sherlock can stop it coming out and whether
he’ll make to the end of his documentary without soaking himself.  He looks at
the grandfather clock in the corner. It’s twenty-five to eleven. “Does this
programme finish at eleven?”
“Yes.” Sherlock grabs the cushion and jams it up against his groin. “Go away,
Mycroft. I’m trying to watch this.”
Mycroft’s tempted to ignore him, to wait and see whether Sherlock manages to
stay dry until eleven o’clock but the open door across the hallway is also a
temptation.  Perhaps he can persuade Sherlock to join him there and then he can
have the best of both worlds.  “Do you want to see Anna?”
“No, I don’t.” Sherlock says firmly. He squirms around with his hand still in
his pyjamas and an expression of rapt interest on his young face as he listens
to a graphic description of the injuries inflicted on Mary Kelly.  
Mycroft lingers for a couple of minutes, but Sherlock doesn’t even look up when
he finally leaves the room.
*
“Show me.” Mycroft’s already asked her twice. He doesn’t want to have to ask
again.
Anna wipes her eyes with a soggy Kleenex. “You have told him that he must go to
the lavatory?”
“Didn’t I just say that I had?” Mycroft replies. He shifts position slightly
and the old fashioned bedsprings creak.
“But he did not go.”
She’s frightened, eyes wide like those of a doe in the split second before he
pulls the trigger, but she’s also clinging to the hope that Sherlock’s
noncompliance will earn her a reprieve.
It won’t.
“He might or he might not, almost certainly not, but you never said that I had
to make him go to the toilet only that I had to tell him to.” Mycroft smiles
triumphantly. “That’s exactly what I did, just as we agreed, so show me.”
Fresh tears spring to her eyes. He’s tired of her constant crying.  “I can’t,”
she says, blushing scarlet. “It’s wrong, shameful, you’re only a boy and your
mother she would be so angry.”
Mycroft bends over her, so that his face is just a couple of inches from hers.
“She’ll be bloody furious if she finds out that you let Sherlock wet himself
again and she will find out if you don’t keep your side of our bargain.”
“It is not my fault that he will not do as I say. Mrs Jordan thinks that he is
crazy in the head, but I think that he is just a bad boy and you…you are bad
too.”
Mycroft is unimpressed by her feeble defiance. She’s so pathetic and weak that
he’s supposes he ought to feel sorry for her, but he doesn’t. Once Mrs Jordan
goes home at teatime Anna is solely responsible for them, but she’s no match
for the Holmes brothers. 
Mycroft strokes her cheek with the back of his knuckles, a gesture he once saw
in a film about a psychopathic killer. “Show me or I’ll tell my mother that you
invited me into your bedroom, that you touched my penis and asked me to put it
inside you. If you’re fortunate she’ll just throw you out without even the
plane fare home and if you’re unfortunate she’ll call the police and have you
arrested.”
He watches her crumble and he despises her. Anna reaches reluctantly for the
hem of her pink nightie. She eighteen and she claims to be a virgin, but
Mycroft has already told her that he only wants to look. With her face turned
to the wall Anna pulls her nightdress up to her hips.
Mycroft looks. He stares at the tangle of dark brown hair that covers her mound
and disappears into the valley between her closed thighs. His gaze lingers on
the little pink slit he can see peeping out from under her pubic hair. He has
only ever seen this in pictures before now.
“Open your legs,” he commands.
She sobs and does so.
There’s more to see. It fascinates him at first, but he quickly grows bored
staring at something which is no more animated than the photographs in those
old pornographic magazines.
Mycroft isn’t sure that he wants to touch it, but he can’t help wondering what
it feels like, so he repeats the gesture he used on her face and presses the
back of his knuckles against her vagina.
Anna jerks away from him. “You said you would look, only look!”
“I’ve looked. Now shut up or I’ll tell my mother that you wanted me to do this.
Perhaps I’ll even tell her that you interfered with Sherlock.”
She flops back on the bed and hides her face in the pillow, but she doesn’t
resist him anymore. He rubs his knuckles over tissue that is both softer and
drier than he imagined it to be. Then he turns his hand around and parts her
flesh so that he can see her opening, the place where he could put his half-
hard cock if he wanted to. Mycroft doesn’t want to and for all his cleverness
it never occurs to him to wonder why he isn’t more excited by her splayed open
vagina. In fact he’s getting bored again when he feels something, a fleeting
quiver under his fingers. It only lasts for a broken second and for a moment he
thinks that he imagined it, but when he rubs her experimentally the effect is
reproduced and magnified.
“Please stop,” Anna whispers.
When he looks up her eyes are closed and she is biting her lower lip, just as
Sherlock does when he really, really needs to pee. He realises that the tissue
under his hand feels much wetter than it did a few minutes previously. Mycroft
has only the vaguest notion of how to proceed, so he tries everything, judging
cause and effect as he experiments on her. She tenses when he shoves his middle
finger into her tight, sticky opening, but when he starts rolling her inner
lips between his thumb and forefinger she makes a tiny noise.  Her whimpers
remind him of the noises that Sherlock makes when he’s about to wet himself.
Mycroft strokes himself through his trousers. He’s very aroused now.
And Anna isn’t biting her lip anymore. She’s breathing hard through her open
mouth. Anna raises her hips and spreads her legs even wider.  Her vagina is
very slick and very open. It spasms when Mycroft’s thumb accidently grazes over
her clitoris, so he repeats the motion and she cries out sharply.  He
understands that she’s about to come. That she’s completely forgotten that this
wrong and that she doesn’t even like him.
This is power. This is the aphrodisiac.
Anna moans and pushes up against his fingers.
Mycroft pulls his hand away.
It seems to take her a few seconds to realise that the simulation’s stopped.
Then she curls up into a tight ball with her nightie still up around her waist
and buries her head in her arms. After a moment she starts to cry again.
*
Sherlock isn’t wriggling about anymore and there’s a strong tang of urine in
the air.
“Shut up,” he snaps before Mycroft can open his mouth.
Under different circumstances Mycroft might take great delight in saying ‘I
told you so’.  He had done so before and Sherlock’s spirited retorts had led to
a razor sharp exchange of insults. Tonight is different, tonight he is
intoxicated by a new-found power and he has no desire to tease.
Not even before he sees how dangerously quiet and still Sherlock is.
Mycroft puts on a table lamp, adding to the illumination from the TV, where a
trailer for a promenade concert fills the room with a resounding snippet of
Wagner. 
Sherlock’s pyjamas, the cushion and the sofa are all very wet. The two broken
halves of the remote control lie at the base of the wall.  One of the batteries
has rolled into a puddle of pee on the hardwood floor. Anna is going to have
some cleaning up to do in the morning, but what else are servants for?
Mycroft looks at his brother’s tight, angry face. This isn’t like Sherlock. The
relief of finally peeing after so many hours of desperation usually makes him
softer and more pliant than he is at any other time. It is then and only then
that he wants Mycroft to cuddle him and to tuck him into bed.  An uneasy sense
of disappointment mars Mycroft’s triumph with Anna.
“What happened?” he asks, really meaning when, since what is obvious to someone
with the IQ of a worm.
Sherlock shrugs.
Mycroft sits down in a leather armchair and waits.
Sherlock gives him a quick, sullen glare.
The French grandfather clock chimes the quarter hour.
“It was almost finished,” says Sherlock angrily. “Another five minutes and the
stupid programme would have been over, but I just couldn’t stop it coming out
before the end.”
So that’s it. Mycroft understands immediately.  Most of their rivalry stems
from the fact that they both hate to be beaten at anything.  Second place is
never good enough and being defeated so close to his goal would be a bitter
pill for Sherlock to swallow.
“You know that happens when you’ve been holding it for a long time.” Mycroft is
more patient with Sherlock than he would ever be with anyone else.
Sherlock shrugs again, sulky is giving way to plain miserable.  “I only wanted
it to stay in for another five minutes.”
Mycroft decides that the best way to placate his little brother is to set him
another challenge. “Is that programme on again next week?”
A spark of interest shows on Sherlock’s face. “Yes, it’s about Reginald
Christie and the Rillington Place murders.”
“Well, just make your mind up that you’re not going to pee until it finishes.”
Mycroft knows that their parents would be furious if they knew that he was
encouraging Sherlock to play his hold-it games. 
Sherlock glances doubtfully at the TV. He’s only young and his confidence has
taken a knock. “Will you watch it with me?”
“I might if I’ve nothing better to do.” Mycroft tries to make it sound like a
chore, a grudging concession, but he would rather watch Sherlock struggle than
torment Anna.  He has lost interest in her already, but Sherlock fascinates
him.
Mycroft is too much the genius not to understand that this is not how it should
be.  The boys at school would revile him if they knew how obsessed he is with
his younger brother. They don’t know. They’ll never know, not even Sherlock
entirely understands what goes on inside Mycroft’s head.
“Good.” Sherlock gets off the sofa and pads over to Mycroft. “You can help me
hold it.”
“All right.” Mycroft’s throat has gone very dry.  “You stink.”  He sits back
and lets Sherlock clamber into his lap.  Mycroft puts his arms around his
brother. “Do you want to know about Anna?”
Sherlock shakes his head. “Don’t care.” He yawns and burrows into Mycroft. “It
felt nice when it came out, all tingly and hot.”  Sherlock slips his hand
inside Mycroft’s shirt. “I’m glad you’re my brother.”
Mycroft kisses his forehead. “I’m glad too.”
He stays awake long after Sherlock drifts off to sleep in his arms.  Something
stirs within Mycroft, some hesitant, half-knowledge of his own nature.  He
shifts slightly, easing the ache in his arm. Sherlock mumbles something
indistinct and cuddles down against his chest.  This is how they could always
be if there were no Anna, no parents and no school to snatch him away for half
the year.  Marooned on their gothic island, always together and doing exactly
as they wish.
However fervently he might wish for such a life Mycroft understands the nature
of reality. There are rules, structures, codes of behaviour that one has to
conform to; it is necessary to play the game. If you batter yourself against
the walls of convention as Sherlock does you get nowhere. Play the game.
Control the game and you can get away with just about anything.
Anything at all.
Mycroft lowers his head and kisses Sherlock’s soft cheek.
 
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