Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6057748.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Mycroft_Holmes/Sherlock_Holmes, Mycroft_Holmes_&_Sherlock_Holmes,
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson_(implied)
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, Mycroft_Holmes
  Additional Tags:
      Kidlock, Teenlock, time_leaps, Mycroft_is_a_good_brother, Maybe_-
      Freeform, Redbeard_-_Freeform, so_basically_feels, Hurt/Comfort
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-02-19 Words: 5144
****** Brother-mine ******
by TheKats
Summary
     Mycroft and Sherlock were odd children, that's no secret.
     Their relationship as siblings is most certainly 'odd'.
Notes
     There's a fic I never expected to write.. I never minded Holmescest -
     I could understand such a dynamic between these 'special' characters
     under certain circumstances; such as the ones in this story.
     Now, as I often go, much of it could be a little meta and hard to
     spot (I don't know how easy these things are for other people, might
     just be plain as day to you), so if you seek a definite explanation
     of my view on Holmescest and you can't quite make it out here or
     still have questions, do ask me! I am happy to share these things!
     If you don't like incest and all that, just don't read.
     Otherwise, have fun :)
See the end of the work for more notes
Mycroft snuggled the small boy closer to him as another thunder struck outside
and his brother flinched at the deep, angry noise of it. He was humming an
improvised classical composition into Sherlock's ear, sending the vibrations
right through the petite frame, efficiently keeping him calm and mostly
relaxed. Sherlock rewarded him by nuzzling into his side more eagerly, rolling
in on himself against his older brother.
When thunder and lightning got replaced by rain and wind more and more, slowly
they drifted off to sleep, Mycroft coming at peace with the progress of
Sherlock's body losing tension. How or why he always chose Mycroft to cuddle
with when scared, he didn't quite know. It upset Mummy at times, but made
himself all the more proud. When Sherlock entered with his large watery eyes,
asking for permission to crawl into his bed, how could he refuse. Dropping his
current occupation and joining his baby brother, holding him close and secure.

“Mycroooft? May I cuddle with you?”
This was a little rarer, but not unusual; Sherlock asking to sleep with him
without any apparent reason. Well, other than feeling lonely, obviously.
Poor boy. Mycroft knew first hand how hard it could be, growing up without
seeming to be able to make friends. He'd often tried taking Sherlock to the
playground, nudging him to try and socialise, but to no avail. They always
ended up playing together, other children ignoring them. The neighbourhood
children had once talked to them as they were playing with Redbeard in the
garden, but had quickly gone to making hurtful comments at his delicate brother
and he was chasing him away from the fence, building it up higher the very next
day, true to his words “no one has the right to make you cry and no one ever
will again! If I have to keep them out!”
It was after that incident, that Sherlock started frequenting Mycroft as his
oversized plushy on more nights than just the ones he got scared.
In winter, he would drape himself over his brother like a blanket, pulling a
real one over the both of them.

Mycroft didn't think anything of it. The boy was four years old and despite his
knowledge of it, sex wasn't a thing to him yet. They were just two young
brothers enjoying each other's closeness.

Only when Mycroft hit puberty square, did he reflect on it at potentially
weird. His little brother had been laying atop him. Not that he minded now, he
just really didn't want anybody to know; leat of all their parents. What would
mummy think if she knew they had been together so intimately in the middle of
the night, hugging each other like lovers? No, that he really didn't want to
witness.
He blushed and ploughed through his dinner plate.

“Sherlock, I've got a game! I just thought of it in class today!” Mycroft
announced enthusiastically, watching seven-year-old Sherlock look up from his
book with intelligent and interested eyes. “We pick an item each and then we
deduce as much about it as possible, taking terms!”

Sherlock tilted his head at the new word. “'Deduce'?”

“Yeah, wait, I'll show you. Pick an item!” Mycroft answered, beaming eagerly.

Sherlock bit his lip looking around briefly before jumping from the big
armchair to retrieve something from his room, dashing back, not bothering to
hide how intrigued he was. Mycroft always had good games.

“Okay, so..” Mycroft began twisting the pen around. “This is not your pen, it's
a cheap Biro, a promotional gift from a consultants agency.” He pushed to
extend the tip. “The tip is bent towards the same direction as the clip is
attached, most likely a right-handed person's, then. There's no chewing
whatsoever, so nervousness can be ruled out. This belongs to one of your
teachers!” Mycroft finally announced and Sherlock was staring at him, mouth
agape. “You little kleptomaniac!” he chuckled, lobbing it back to where
Sherlock was seated again, who caught it without taking his eyes off of
Mycroft.

“Wow! That was really good! Mrs. Shappey still hasn't realised it's missing and
I nicked it about a week ago!” Sherlock squealed. “My turn! I want to try!”

“Alright, something easy to start with.” Mycroft nodded and left for the
entrance hall, coming back with one of Mummy's scarves. “Here, tell me what you
can see.”

Sherlock inspected the garment for a moment. “It's Mummy's; her favourite one.”

“Tell me what you see.”

For a second, Sherlock looked at his brother uncertainly, then lowered his gaze
again, chewing his bottom lip as he focused on anything new. “It's her
favourite colour..”

“Good.”

After checking Mycroft's face for the unexpected approval, Sherlock grew more
confident, knowing now, what he was looking for. “It's a bit worn out; there
are a lot of threads coming loose. It smells of her perfume.”
 
“Very good.” Mycroft said, coming up to him. Like routine, Sherlock stood up,
let Mycroft settle and then sat back down on his brother's lap. Again, a
questionable move to Mycroft's brain, but the youth and innocence of his
brother wiped that thought away quickly.
He took the scarf. “The colour, the threads and the perfume are exactly what
tells you it's her favourite scarf. Look, not only does she love this colour,
it is also a little dirty, a sheen you just can't get out of clothes after a
certain point. The threads are roughed up mainly on this side, but barely in
the middle, showing you, that she always folds it and pulls the loose ends
through the loop, creating most friction between her neck and the scarf where
it touches her, and less friction where the loop is filled; her head moves
around, but the 'knot' barely so. Then there are these plucked threads on the
edged here, again, one side favoured. It is where her earrings sometimes get
stuck and pull at them. Her perfume is so strong because she wears it so often,
leaving an imprint on it.” Mycroft concluded, seeking understanding in
Sherlock's eyes.

The younger boy turned his head towards him with fascination glowing in his
bright eyes.
 
“And later I'll teach you how to create a mind palace to store away information
like this so you won't forget it and can deduce more quickly and efficiently.”


Deductions became their new favourite game. As anticipated, Sherlock learned
easily and quickly managed to use his mind palace alongside the game. Still,
Mycroft won. He always won. He couldn't bear not winning. Sherlock's initial
awe turned into pouting as he thought it unfair since Mycroft just knew so much
more.
It may have had to do with the overall tension rising between them.
His sweet baby brother just turned more and more annoying. He never left him
alone and hardly understood when Mycroft wanted some privacy. He really wished
Sherlock would just make some friends, but he knew just as well, that that
wasn't going to happen. The worst, however, was, how Sherlock constantly stuck
to him like glue. When Mycroft wanted him out of his bed sometimes, Sherlock
would throw a tantrum and Mycroft would let him back in, if only to not wake
their mother. But really, it was just bothersome to wake up with an erection
drilling into your little brother's belly. Innocent as Sherlock may be, puberty
wasn't just going to pass on Mycroft for that.
Sometimes when that happened, Mycroft felt his thoughts wander to places he
didn't actually want them to go. But what, just what would it be like to
actually have sex? To satisfy that annoying urge by just entering something
that wasn't his own hand. It was a marvellous thought, broken off only by the
unexpected touch of a small hand.
“Sherlock, what are you doing?!” Mycroft asked in exasperation.

“Why is it doing that?” asked Sherlock innocently. He was much too adorable for
his own good, that boy.

“You'll understand in a couple years.” he replied, gently moving out from under
Sherlock and going for the small bathroom on their floor.

Sherlock followed after him curiously. It must have something to do with sex.
No one ever told him about it, just saying he'd 'understand when he got older'.
He hated it when they treating him like that. Like he was just a stupid little
child. He was a genius!
And Mycroft seemed really distracted, he didn't even make sure Sherlock
couldn't peek through the keyhole. Unless he wasn't actually trying to hide
from him.



Sherlock was trying. Really, he was. He was doing it like he'd seen Mycroft do
it, like in the video, but it just didn't help. He felt more agitated than
satisfied. This stupid boner just wouldn't go away – he'd waited an entire
hour! Resigned, he sighed, getting up to seek help from the only person he knew
who'd give it to him. “Mycroft..”

Mycroft turned around from his desk, his concentration obviously clinging to
the book still laying there, but shifting towards Sherlock when he recognised
the telltale bulge in his trousers. “Sherlock, no.”

“I've tried everything, I can't make it go away. It started hurting half an
hour ago and I can't bear it any longer. Mycroft.... please.” There was a look
of sincere despair in Sherlock's eyes.

Seeing his brother in agony had always been Mycroft's greatest weakness and he
couldn't just leave him to his fate, especially with a pain that had been
lasting so long. Decency aside, that would be just cruel. He sighed, motioning
for his brother to sit on his bed, which Sherlock did with a mildly grateful
look on his face. The thirteen-year-old looked at him with shy nervousness, but
absolute trust. It was a really beautiful look on his innocent, pale face. The
way he watched him with great intent, absorbing every little touch as if it was
his first; how could a pretty boy like Sherlock even keep himself single? He
was so much fairer than Mycroft – slender, with a sort of wiry strength that
toned his arms and legs elegantly and the dark unruly curls that framed his
angelic head like a dark halo. And yet, Mycroft was the one who'd had his
experiences with girls, none of them pleasing him really, so he'd just dropped
it as soon as the hormonal spikes had subsided. It just didn't seem worth the
effort.
However, seeing Sherlock like this, this beautiful young boy that should have
been him at some point, the slim body that just never gained a pound of fat
while Mycroft had practically exploded at his age and his plush, impossibly
harshly shaped lips, parted now, open as his piercing eyes closed themselves.
Mycroft's partners had been just as unimpressed with him as he'd been with
them. Sherlock was the first to actually enjoy his attention. For once he got
the appreciation.
When it wasn't Sherlock whimpering as he finally came that pulled him back to
reality, but the 'what do you make of that, Mummy', Mycroft immediately went a
bright shade of pink, coming aware as to what he'd just done. He quickly fled
for the loo, washing his hands thoroughly, avoiding his own stare for until he
was done. When he did look at himself in the mirror, he felt the shame really
sink in, the disgrace nagging at his ego as he'd wanked off his own baby
brother.
But.. it wasn't like that, was it. It's not like either of them had found it
pleasurable. At least not like that. He'd helped him as he was suffering from a
biological basic need, something uncontrollable at that age. Indecency aside;
leaving him to himself would have been outright cruel. Besides, he'd just
taught Sherlock how to do it, so from now on, he could take care of it himself.
That's all it was. How ridiculous to get so emotional about something like
this! He was working for the government for goodness' sake, why did he allow
this benign event to cloud his mind?!

Reassured, Mycroft returned to his room. Sherlock had left. He wondered briefly
if Sherlock might have taken offence in being left alone like that. Maybe.
Sherlock was delicate, a soul in need of protection, if even just from himself.

Only the following morning, Sherlock was back in his room. His eyelids were
heavy, indicating he hadn't slept, again. His stance was utterly forlorn. His
track bottoms tented.
Sherlock explained to him that he just couldn't get it right, that he'd been
trying, but it would only make it worse.
One more time couldn't hurt, could it. He'd just show him again, how to coat it
with the pre-come to reduce friction a bit, how to apply pressure in an optimal
routine, which pace to keep.
Only something was different. Sherlock didn't have his eyes closed like last
time. Instead, he was looking right at Mycroft with an odd expression,
something he couldn't decipher. It turned his angelic face into something even
more; something divine. It was almost too much for him to look at.

“No, don't go.” Sherlock asked quietly of him, his eyes looking down at the
floor in embarrassment over his coiling emotions. Mycroft stayed. He had to get
ready, but for his baby brother, he spent just a couple more minutes in bed,
holding the lost boy close to him like he used to do when they were younger.
Sherlock looked like he hadn't aged a day, just gotten taller, kept his youth
and his innocence. He wondered whether Sherlock would ever get ugly.


Mycroft was sitting outside, keeping a hidden eye on his brother as he play
fought with Redbeard and some toys. The poor dog was getting old; he wasn't as
agile as he used to be, but still sparking with life and excitement at
Sherlock's encouraging, lively spirit. He turned back to his documents and
contentedly listened to his brother's joyful sounds. It was the most beautiful
song in the world.
 
 
Sherlock was reading one of his books, laying sprawled over the bed luxuriously
as Mycroft filed a couple of documents. Sherlock knew they were about him. Not
that he cared. Once the task was done, Mycroft decided it was time for bed,
getting up and motioning for Sherlock to budge up to the wall. It had become a
habit, Sherlock sleeping in his bed again. Usually, that would be weird for
boys his age, but his little brother had begun experiencing more severe
bullying attacks. Two weeks ago Mycroft had started tending to harsh bruises,
that had worsened to cuts. Always in places that weren't directly visible or
else got covered up by long sleeves at the dinner table. Mycroft had offered to
step in, but Sherlock had refused; quite rightly so, to be fair, as he was
merely a young, fresh employee under a couple governmental officials and had
little other means but showing up himself and using 'acquired skills' to beat
them up, which would only serve to making Sherlock even more of a weak victim.
Instead, he treated his wounds and let Sherlock seek comfort the way he knew –
in his big brother's arms. He barely left his side now, occupying himself
around Mycroft one way or another, playing with Redbeard in the garden when he
filled out and signed documents on the terrace.
Now he was shifting, putting the book on the bedside table and budging back up
against his brother, turning away from him and Mycroft embraced his brother
from behind.


“No- no, where are you taking him? Mummy?!”

“I'm sorry, love, but he-”

“NO! I'll take care of him! He'll be fine!!!”

Sherlock, can't you see he's in pain? You've been taking care of him for weeks
now, it's time to give him some peace..”

“NOOOOOOO!!”

Mycroft stepped in as Mummy helped get Redbeard comfortable in the trunk,
laying out some more treats for him and the plushy toy he'd loved since he was
a puppy. “Sherlock, be sensible. You can either throw a tantrum about relieving
him from his pain or accompany us to say goodbye.”

“Nooooo..” Sherlock whined, breaking into tears and leaning into his brother's
embrace.

“We don't have much choice..”

Sherlock was allowed to ride in the trunk with his dog, petting him, feeding
him more treats and cuddling him as much as he could. Redbeard appreciated the
attention, leaning into his touches, licking his hand and cheek before just
looking at him for a moment, clearly seeing the sadness in his human companion.
With a brief look downwards, he placed his paw on Sherlock's leg as if asking
'what's wrong' and trying to calm him at the same time. It shouldn't be
Redbeard comfortinghim.
At the animal hospital, they took Redbeard through reception and into the final
room. The doctor came in a short time later, asking for not more than two
people to remain inside the room. Sherlock, obviously, stayed and Mycroft along
with him. Their parents said their goodbyes with tears just spilling over and
Mycroft sat down next to his brother, pulling him close against himself as the
doctor prepared the syringe. Sherlock was barely able to look at his dog
anymore, eyes closing around his tears continuously. His throat hurt with the
suppressed sobs.
Redbeard flinched a little at the needle breaching his skin and looked to
Sherlock for answers and he reached out to pet his head when the doctor gave
his okay, Mycroft caressing his back comfortingly.
The following minute, Redbeard's blinking increased as his eyes grew tired and
his body settled for sleep.
 
Sherlock held his lifeless body all the way back home. Feeling the once so
spirited dog weigh so heavily on his lap made him feel sick.

That night, after they had buried Redbeard in the front corner of their garden,
Sherlock had cried himself dry, just spending as much time as Mycroft would
allow in his arms. In this situation, Mycroft allowed him all the time he
wanted; stroking a hand over his head and down his back, pressing his lips
against Sherlock's forehead as they lay in bed. Sherlock sniffed a dry sob,
tilting his head up to look into Mycroft's eyes. The empathy he found there was
rare and most welcome. For a moment, his eyes were glued to the lips that had
been talking to him all day. He wished to show his gratitude.
He placed his lips on Mycroft's kissing him with his eyes half-lidded. Mycroft
would have balked at it any other time, but they kissed Mummy 'Hello',
'Goodbye' and 'Goodnight', and in an emotionally upsetting situation like
today, it was nothing but that: familial comfort. Sherlock had always sought
comfort with him and Mycroft would be happy continuing to give it to him.
Tentatively, Mycroft returned the kiss, closing it off quickly. Sherlock looked
back up at him, finding no repulsion in his look. There was something akin to
curiosity in Sherlock's eyes, however. Mycroft blamed it on how the day had
affected Sherlock as he let him kiss him again and returned the sentiment as
well. They were both wound up.
 
 
 
With Redbeard gone, Sherlock became only clingier. The only Sherlock-free times
were when Sherlock was at school, he was at his office for work or on the
toilet. Sherlock even followed him to the kitchen if he were just to get a
glass of water.

Only one day, Sherlock didn't come home for his usual time. Sherlock was never
late after school; actually he would come home as quickly as possible. Mycroft
called him on his mobile.
The call was clearly taken, but there was no answer. “...Sherlock?”

“Mmmmh..” was the only reply he got for some time, before a little sound of
discomfort buzzed over from the other end.
 
“Where are you?” he asked immediately, rising from his chair, grabbing his coat
and shoes on his way out. Sherlock rasped an address and a mumbled “help me”
before Mycroft could dash outside.
 
 
“Will you tell Mummy?” Sherlock asked, shivering in his arms.

Mycroft clenched his jaw of course he'd have to tell their parents about this,
but Sherlock was very dependant on Mummy's approval and having her disappointed
might actually worsen his state. “Not if this is the first and last time I find
you.”
 
Sherlock's expression did not encourage his hopes in that respect.
 
“You still have a chance to get away from this. Don't make me put you into
rehab.” he said strictly and Sherlock relaxed into him. He was glad Sherlock
had gotten himself a separated room, though it seemed there weren't many
junkies around this time anyway, because Sherlock, high as he was started
kissing his jaw and neck, grabbing his hand and dragged it down to where an
obvious erection had apparently been struggling for a while now, using
Mycroft's hand to massage himself through his trousers.
Mycroft was about to protest, but found he didn't have the heart to push his
baby brother away in this situation, just going with it as Sherlock pulled down
his pants and went along kissing him so passionately, that the intimacy even
had Mycroft himself stirring with interest. It just had been too long.
Of course, Sherlock picked up on his changed breathing pace and went straight
for it. Mycroft didn't have it in himself to reject Sherlock mimicking his
movements as it just.. felt marvellous. None of the girls he'd dated had
managed to make it feel this good. How the hell was Sherlock not getting this
on himself?!
 
 
 
“You can't be bloody serious, Mycroft!” Sherlock spat loudly.

“Stop acting like a child, Sherlock. You know I need to go on this trip. It's
my chance to-”
 
“And what about me, huh?! You're just going to leave me behind for your stupid
career?!”

“I will be gone no more than six months. You will be fine.”
 
A mean grin appeared across his brother's face. “Or will I?”
 
Mycroft scoffed in exasperation. “Oh, don't be stupid Sherlock, don't you even
dare start like this! You are doing so well, you haven't been taking in three
months! Do not throw our hard work away just to spite me!”

“Not just to spite you, though.”

“It won't change my decision. I will be taking that trip!”
 
Sherlock looked around, continuing in a hushed voice. “What about us. Are you
just going to drop that?!”

“Six months, Sherlock. I will be back in six months!” Mycroft hissed back at
him, taking up the staring contest.
Sherlock huffed despicably before walking out of Mycroft's and into his own
room, throwing himself down onto his bed, curling up a little, facing the wall.
Mycroft followed him. He sat down next to his brother, carding a hand trough
his thick curls – something he would always be jealous of. “I will come back,
you won't even notice I was gone. Just focus on school and I'll be back in no
time.

“You'll just leave me like everybody else.” Sherlock spoke, void of emotions.
 
“I'm not one of those idiot children. And I'm not Redbeard, I'm not dying.”
Mycroft noticed the mild flinch of his brother's body. “I'm just going on a
business trip that could land me a promotion. And don't make me use that money
for a rehab, Sherlock... Please.”

Sherlock turned onto his back. Mycroft never said 'please' to him. He regarded
his older brother with soft, sad eyes. Mycroft's hand glid over the side of his
face, his thumb stopping to caress his cheekbone. He leaned down and Sherlock
kissed him back slowly, pulling him down by the collar to straddle him, hands
wandering down his sides to grab a hold of the love-handles he'd managed to
develop. If Sherlock didn't seem to love them that much, he'd feel very self-
conscious about them, what with all the comments his brother made on them in
front of their parents. Sherlock had strange ways to show his love.



“Hello, brother mine. I hope my bed is comfortable?” Mycroft asked
nonchalantly, putting his suitcases down next to his wardrobe.

“It's enough.” Sherlock replied an undertone of annoyance in his voice as he
read on in Mycroft's chemistry book.

The older brother loosened his cuffs and leaned over his brother, giving him a
quick peck before he went ahead and took off the shirt and trousers to put them
in the laundry basked in their shared bathroom. When he returned to the room,
Sherlock's eyes were on him, taking in his altered shape as he had lost a few
pounds in the past months. There wasn't much to read on his brother's face,
except maybe a hint of disappointment. “Are you getting ready to greet me
properly or just playing with me?” the younger brother asked impassively,
slowly turning to unbuttoning his own shirt. Mycroft grinned a little at him;
Sherlock had always been the more forward of the two. Not that he minded, on
the contrary, it assured him that Sherlock wanted this, that he was serving a
purpose in pleasuring him. “Oh, come on. It's been ages.” the adolescent
whispered seductively, his voice had dropped while he'd been away and damn him
if it didn't make Sherlock sound like a sex-god, if there were such a thing.
He followed his brother's call and lowered himself onto the bed, capturing his
insolently perfect lips in a deep and longing kiss, nipping at the plush lower
one as he help him undress. Sherlock's body was as lean as ever, still pale as
a sheet, but apparently puberty had granted him some more muscles to
accommodate his weight a little. He seemed the exact opposite of Mycroft these
days.
As Sherlock's hands roamed over Mycroft's back, the older brother continued
undressing him until they both lay there in just their briefs. Sherlock
discarded them quickly as well.
Mycroft began dragging his growing erection over Sherlock's, when the younger
boy spoke up. “I want the whole thing this time. I want to go all the way.”

Mycroft glared down at him in shock. “Sherlock-”
 
“Shut up, I'm ready. Just.. get inside me.” Sherlock grumbled and there wasn't
a less erotic way he could have prompted that, Mycroft thought.

He was about to protest, but Sherlock was already fishing around the bed,
handing him a bottle of lube. God knew when he'd bought that, but it was still
sealed. “Fine, but let me prepare you first – no squabbling!” he ordered,
unsealing the bottle and pouring a small amount of lube into his palm, where he
let it warm up a little before smearing it against Sherlock's hole. The brunet
sighed hotly at the touch, so comfortable that Mycroft wondered just what
Sherlock had done to keep himself entertained these past six months. He was
pulled back in for kisses when he inserted the first finger, dragging some of
the lube inside with it and began making the muscle get used to the intrusion.
The first step didn't take too long, so, to distract from it a little, Mycroft
went on to peppering his neck with kisses, nibbles and licks as he cautiously
inserted a second finger, just moving them both alongside each other to get him
accommodated to the added girth.
By the time he'd worked him open on three fingers, Sherlock was quietly
moaning, especially since Mycroft kept stroking his prostate every other time,
keeping his voice low to not attract their parents' attention, though Mycroft
always locked his door.
When Mycroft pulled his fingers from Sherlock, lubing up his cock, Sherlock was
practically buzzing with impatience and anticipation.
Mycroft held him when he pushed inside the first time, moaning as Sherlock
gasped into his ear. It was a slow and careful pace, but as a first for the
both of them, it didn't take too long anyway.
 
Laying side by side, Mycroft spooning his little brother, Sherlock shut himself
off again noticeably. “I know you got that promotion.”

“I won't be moving immediately.” Mycroft tried to sooth him, kissing his neck.
 
“It doesn't matter. You'll leave me. Like I said you would.”
 
 
 
 
“It has been a while since your last visit.” Mycroft acknowledged, a victorious
smirk on his face. “Everything alright between you and John?”

“I am sure I have no idea what you're implying.” Sherlock answered as he strode
into his brother's sitting room, snatching the glass of wine the man had been
pouring himself, drinking it in one sitting and handing the glass back to him.

Mycroft's grin grew as Sherlock's face remained impassive. “Maybe you should
just tell him how you feel about him.”
 
“Nonsense.” the brunet replied, walking further into the room, shaking off his
coat.

“Why-ever not?” Mycroft asked in fake interest, pouring himself another glass
and taking a sip from it.
 
“Because he is a straight man, so why not spare the both of us the
humiliation.”
 
“Are you positive?”
 
“Besides, he still thinks I am a workaholic with no sexual interests, I
wouldn't want to burst his bubble.”

Mycroft huffed a small chuckle. “Then maybe you should finally learn how to
handle yourself.”

“I know how to masturbate, Mycroft, I just happen to feel it's... disgusting.”

“You know, I'm not so sure about your view of John. Certainly he is at least
bi-curious.”
 
“Why would you try to help me get with my romantic interests? Surely it would
break your heart had I find another to serve my needs.” Sherlock spat, walking
close up to Mycroft whose icy expression faltered ever so slightly under his
brother's gaze. “Love is a chemical defect found on the losing side.”
 
“Caring is not an advantage.” Mycroft replied like an old mantra. “Yes, there
is a reason I taught you that.”

It was Sherlock's turn to chuckle. “Only to keep me emotionally bound to you.”
He countered walking back towards the expensive sofa. “Teaching me to mistrust
everyone except you.”

“Which, apparently, I failed at. Or do you just have a thing for men who have
control over you?”

“You left me.” Sherlock accused him.


“I was alwaysthere for you! No matter how low you sank, I was there to catch
you.”


“You weren't as good a brother as you seem to think you were. You used to
insult me, embarrass me in front of others. It was yourfault I never made any
friends – you made me become dependent on you!”


“I was keeping you safe. All those stupid children, they would have bullied you
even worse had you given them your trust!”


“Oh, shut up and get over here already.” Sherlock ordered, loosening his cuffs.

Mycroft set down his glass and strode over to Sherlock. “I hate it when you get
demanding.”

Sherlock looked up at him as Mycroft came to a halt right in front of him.
“Good.”
 
End Notes
     Any mistakes: return those babies! My little wonders belong with me!
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