Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12172551.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV), Sherlock_Holmes_&_Related_Fandoms
  Relationship:
      Mycroft_Holmes/Sherlock_Holmes
  Character:
      Mycroft_Holmes, Sherlock_Holmes
  Additional Tags:
      holmescest, Sibling_Incest, Teenlock, Sherlock_is_scared_of_storms, for
      good_reason, Mycroft_Being_a_Good_Brother, First_Kiss, First_Time
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-09-24 Words: 4348
****** I'll Shelter You From The Storm ******
by scarletmanuka
Summary
     A thunderstorm hits while the brothers are home alone.
Notes
     I've gifted this work to several people - two are friends, and one I
     know only via comments, but I want you all to know just how much I
     appreciate your constant support. It's a lovely feeling to know that
     I'll be guaranteed a notification of your comments and kudos, and
     that you genuinely enjoy the tales I tell. It's you lovely ladies
     that give me the motivation to keep writing when sometimes I feel
     like it's not worth continuing. Much love to you all xxx
The lights flickered and Sherlock looked up at them in annoyance. He had just
gotten comfortable in the large armchair in the library - the one positioned
perfectly in front of the roaring fireplace - and had just opened his book. He
was planning on settling in for an entire decadent night of reading without
Mummy or Father interrupting him every two seconds to ask inane questions about
school or his exams and he would  not  be pleased if the storm caused a power
outage and interrupted those plans.
Speaking of an interruption, the door swung open and Mycroft appeared. He had
an armload of wood, so perhaps it wasn’t the worst way he could intrude on
Sherlock’s night, but his mere presence was distracting. Mycroft was almost
seven years older than Sherlock, already finished university before his baby
brother had finished high school. Of course, Sherlock could have passed the
final exams  years  ago but for some reason their parents refused to allow him
to take them. They’d cited something as trivial as  social and emotional
development , which was utterly ridiculous and should in no way impact on his
intellectual pursuits. As it was he was embarrassingly still in school while
Mycroft had finished all his education and had already implemented his plan to
conquer the government. Mycroft had moved to London, had a flat, had already
been promoted -  twice  - and with every day that passed got further and
further away from his brother.
Sherlock was torn over this. On one hand he was devastated that the brother he
idolised was off in the big smoke, making his way on his own and leaving him
behind. On the other hand, he was relieved that he didn't have to see Mycroft
very often at all. It was always a little awkward for the young genius,
considering he  may  have had some very unbrotherly feelings towards the older
genius. He dared anyone to  not  find Mycroft irresistible. He’d changed from a
slightly chubby, dorky teen into an elegant, sophisticated man with legs that
went forever and milky skin that had a splattering of adorable freckles. He’d
become confident and sure of himself, his intelligence shining like a beacon
and had the habit of using sarcasm to highlight the shortcomings of others. He
made no attempt to hide the fact that he believed himself to be above those of
lesser intelligence, and he would often meet Sherlock’s gaze with an
exaggerated eye roll when their company made some trifling remark that proved
how inferior they were to the brothers. The fact that Mycroft spoke highly of
Sherlock’s own mind, that he thought of him as his only peer, was enough to
make the teen’s knees weak and only fuelled his desire to prove himself to his
brother.
Sherlock was so focussed on not doing anything to lessen himself in Mycroft’s
eyes that he’d taken to avoiding him when he was home. He became tongue tied
and awkward in the face of such perfection and he would rather not see Mycroft
at all during his rare trips home than to make an utter fool of himself. It was
easier to avoid him when Mummy and Father were home, but tonight they were out
at a charity event and so the brothers were alone. He’d hoped that Mycroft
would spend the night in his room, but alas, it seemed not to be. The older man
dropped gracefully to his knees in front of the fire and stacked the wood in
the box to the side, then brushed off his hands and got up, only to drop into
the armchair opposite. Sherlock tried to keep his eyes on his book but he
couldn’t help but notice how those long, long legs stretched out in front of
him, crossed idly at the ankles; or how his hips tilted upwards, calling
attention to the rather large bulge in his trousers; or how the firelight
danced over the expanse of pale skin at Mycroft’s throat as his gaze danced
lazily around the room.
There was a howl from outside as the wind whipped around the house and the
lights flickered again. “It’s getting quite nasty out there,” his brother
observed.
Sherlock bit back his retort about stating the obvious, not wanting to call
attention to himself. Of course, that happened a moment later when the windows
lit up with a flash of lightning and a few seconds later the thunder crashed
loudly, making him startle. He hoped that his brother wouldn’t have noticed but
of course, he wasn’t that lucky. Mycroft was on his feet in an instant and
crouching in front of him. His hands rested on Sherlock’s knees and his
gorgeous blue eyes were turned upwards in worry. “It’s alright, Sherlock.
You’re safe in here, it’s okay.”
The young genius bit his lip, confused by the conflicting responses he felt.
His whole body was tingling from the touch to his knees and he wanted
desperately for more, to throw himself into his brother’s arms and seek comfort
from him. But he also wanted to roll his eyes and snap that it was just a storm
and of  course  there was nothing to be afraid of, to demonstrate that he
wasn’t a  child  anymore, cowering from a little thunder and lightning. Mycroft
would never believe him though because he was the only person in existence who
knew of Sherlock’s very real reasons behind his fear. He  had  a reason to be
scared and it wasn’t an unfounded fear based on primal instincts, it was
because he’d bloody well almost been killed.
It had been a night much like this, and Sherlock was six. Their parents were
away in London for a conference and they had been left in the charge of the
nanny. Mrs Hammersmith had a rather easy job since Mycroft took care of his
younger brother for her and she was free to have a few glasses of sherry and
gossip with the cook. Sherlock had wanted to study the storm as much as he
could as they weren’t regular occurrences in the area and it may be a while
before he had another opportunity. He didn’t have any equipment to take
measurements or record data but he didn't care - he had his brain and his
notebook, and Mycroft would be there and that was all he needed. So they had
each donned a mackintosh and had ventured out onto the grounds, the rain
stinging their faces as the wind caused it to fall almost horizontally. They
headed for the rear of the property where the old groundskeeper’s cottage was,
huddling under the sagging verandah. Sherlock had scribbled his observations
down, keeping the notebook in a plastic bag when he wasn’t using it in a futile
attempt to keep it dry. They had stayed there for an hour before Mycroft told
him they had to get back, his whole body shivering and his lips turning blue
from the cold.
“Just a little longer, please!” Sherlock had begged, and then he had darted out
from under the verandah to get a better view of the roiling clouds overhead,
lit up against the night sky by the flickering lightning. He’d ventured further
and further away until he was close to the old elm tree and he tripped on a
branch that had fallen from it. Sprawling in the mud, he heard Mycroft’s
worried cry and knew his brother would be coming for him, to pick him up and
carry him back to the house where he would clean his grazed knees and kiss them
better. But then the world exploded.
It was so  loud . For weeks afterwards, Sherlock would have a constant ringing
in his ears, and even a decade later he was aware he heard better from his
right ear than his left. Light and energy tore the elm tree apart, showering
him with debris and he covered his head with his arms, face pressed to the
ground. He swore he could feel fingers of energy snaking through the earth,
seeking him out and his entire body was buzzing. The hair on his arms, despite
being soaked and plastered to his skin, began to prick up, There was pain but
his body was numb from the cold so it didn't register right away but the shock
wave from the blast had buffeted his body, prone on the ground as it had been.
He had remained there, sprawled on the ground in shock until gentle but frantic
hands had turned him over, touching his face, guaging if he was still alive.
Knowing the sort of trouble they would be in if it was discovered, they never
told their parents about the incident. The storm washed away the evidence of
their presence and so they’d been able to act shocked and awed when they’d all
toured the grounds the next day to survey the damage and came across the ruins
of the elm. Sherlock was well known for his aversion to the cold so they had
bundled him up from head to toe to hide the bruises and cuts from his
experience. Mycroft kept a close eye on his brother for the next few weeks, but
other than the ringing in his ears, he seemed fine. That was until the next
time there was a thunderstorm.
It wasn’t overly wild, just a flew flickers of lightning here and there and the
very distant rumble of thunder. Sherlock had cried out as his room was lit up
and had huddled under the blankets, certain he could feel the electricity
coming for him. His skin started to tingle and his whole body shook, and he
closed his eyes tightly. Then Mycroft was there and he held him tightly and
whispered his assurances that Sherlock was safe with him, that he’d never let
the lightning get him. It took a while but the boy had finally been able to
relax and he fell asleep in his brother’s arms, and when he woke up, the storm
had passed.
Up until Mycroft left for university, whenever there was a storm, or even the
hint of one, he would go to Sherlock and hold his brother, keeping him safe
from the lightning. He never mocked or teased, and when Sherlock told him that
he could  feel  the energy seeking him out, hunting him down, he just held him
tighter and told him that it would have to get past him first. The first time
there had been a storm after his brother had left, Sherlock had worked himself
into a high state of anxiety but of course he couldn’t allow Mummy or Father to
see him so. He’d fled to Mycroft’s room and huddled in his bed, holding the
pillow close and seeking out the faint traces of his his brother’s scent. It
had calmed him enough for him to fall asleep, so much in fact that he took to
sneaking in there to sleep even when there wasn’t a storm. He missed his
brother immensely and wished he was there. One of his brother’s jumpers,
unwashed and so still smelling strongly of his cologne, made its way into bed
with him too. Sherlock would sleep with it clutched under his chin, almost able
to pretend Mycroft was there with him.
It took Mycroft all of five seconds to deduce what had been happening when he
first returned. Sherlock had blushed furiously, ashamed that brother knew just
how much he'd been missed but Mycroft had just pulled him into a hug and had
allowed his younger brother to sleep in his bed every night he was there. When
he left, Sherlock snuck back into the room immediately, hiding the pillow under
the bed and replacing it with another so when Mummy stripped the sheets and
changed them, the case didn't get washed. That night he had his first wet
dream, waking up to find the pillow was clutched to his chest and Mycroft’s
face was in his mind’s eye, his pyjamas sticky and wet.
Once the floodgates to puberty had opened, there was no stopping his growing
desire. Sherlock dreamed of his brother every night, more often than not waking
up to find he’d made another mess. He took longer showers than usual, leaning
against the cool tiles with his eyes closed, fisting his cock and imagining it
was long, slender fingers pulling him off instead. He masturbated so much in
his brother’s room that he had to keep the window open the entire week before
Mycroft was set to return, trying to air out the stench of sex that he knew
much permeate the space. If Mycroft noticed when he came home, he didn't say
anything, and he didn't act any differently, still allowing Sherlock to share
his bed with him. It was much more difficult now that the young genius was
aware of his own desires. Having the warm presence of his brother at his back
made his wet dreams a given and he took to wearing several pairs of underwear
to bed so he wouldn’t leave the evidence of his unnatural feelings smeared over
the sheets. The longing he felt for his brother only grew each time he
returned, and eventually Sherlock made the decision to sleep in his own bed,
lest his desires overcome him and he give them away. He took to avoiding
Mycroft, hiding away, but if his brother wondered at the sudden change, he
never mentioned it.
“Sherlock?” Mycroft’s worried voice pulled him back into the here and now and
he bit harder on his lip, using the pain to focus.
“I’m fine,” he assured him curtly.
He arched a delicate brow, clearly not believing him but not wanting to call
Sherlock out on his lie. “How about I make us some tea?” he asked instead.
He shrugged. “If you want.”
Mycroft stood but then there was a loud crash from outside. They both jumped,
their heads whipping around to the window. “Sounds like a tree may have come
down,” Mycroft mused. “Come on, let’s go and see if there’s any major damage.”
“ What? ” Sherlock gasped. “I’m not going out there, Mycroft!”
His brother looked at him with sympathy but also determination. “You don’t have
to come out from the shelter of the verandah but I’m not leaving you alone in
here.” It was clear he was aware just how rattled storms still made his younger
brother. “Come on - I just need to see if it’s something that can be left till
morning.”
Grumbling under his breath, Sherlock got up from his armchair and followed
Mycroft down the hall. The wind grabbed at the door as it was opened and tore
it from Mycroft’s hands, slamming it open against the wall. They stepped
outside, the rain being driven right under the verandah and against the house.
Sherlock blinked the rain from his eyes and followed Mycroft around to the side
of the house. They could see one of the trees had fallen over, and part of the
canopy was leaning up against one of the verandah poles. Mycroft made a cursory
inspection of it while Sherlock huddled as close to the house as he could get.
It didn't take long before the older man had determined there was no structural
damage and he waved his younger brother to go back inside.
They stood dripping in the hallway, soaked even though they’d been under cover
the whole time. “Mummy is going to kill us,” Sherlock muttered. “Should we -”
He was cut off, speechless as his watched Mycroft begin to casually strip off
his wet clothes. “What are you doing?” he finally managed to croak.
“I’d much rather I didn't have to call off work next week because I’ve been
brutally murdered by Mummy for getting the antique hall runner muddy,” his
brother replied wryly, lifting his knee to pull his trousers off that leg. “If
I were you, I’d do the same.”
Frozen to the spot, Sherlock could only gape as his brother bundled his wet
clothes together, standing in the hallway in only his pants and his white
undervest. His eyes couldn’t help but drift up the legs that went on and on and
on, and he swallowed heavily as they finally ended and he caught sight of what
was at the top of them. Mycroft’s pants weren’t wet but they were damp and they
clung  to the ample package they were covering. Feeling his cheeks blazing,
Sherlock turned his back, hoping to get his body under control before Mycroft’s
attention was on him. He struggled with the buttons on his shirt, his fingers
clumsy as he willed away his raging erection. The eyeful he’d just gotten was
enough to provide wank fodder for the next year and his cock was begging to be
taken in hand  right bloody now .
Sherlock had never believed in a god, or any higher power, but right now he was
inclined to reevaluate that thought. He’d pulled his sopping shirt off his body
(unlike his brother, he didn't bother with a vest underneath) and was undoing
his jeans, thinking every horrible thought he could in an attempt to get his
cock to stand down, when the lights flickered and then went out. They were
plunged into darkness and his sigh of relief was probably audible.
“Dammit,” Mycroft muttered in the gloom.
“Yes, terrible timing,” Sherlock added, his voice surprising free of his
sarcasm. He peeled his jeans off, shivering as the cold air assaulted his wet
skin.
“Here, give me your clothes,” Mycroft instructed, groping towards him in the
dark, his fingers brushing Sherlock’s arm as he sought out the wet laundry. He
took them from him and then opened the front door, throwing the bundle out onto
the verandah. “I’ll let them in the morning,” he explained as he shut the door.
“It’s not like they’ll get any wetter out there.”
Unlike me,  Sherlock thought, the sight of Mycroft’s lithe form outlined
against the flash of lightning from outside burning into his retinas. His cock
had twitched in his pants and he could feel a damp patch on his underwear that
had nothing to do with getting caught in the rain.
“Come on, let’s go and find some warm clothes,” Mycroft said.
Sherlock nodded, even though it couldn't be seen and turned to make his way
back along the hall. He was shocked as a hand found his in the dark but he
didn't say anything, not wanting to make the situation awkward and cause his
brother to let go. They shuffled up the hall, heading for the stairs in the
dark, moving by memory alone. Sherlock had made the trip from his room to the
bathroom a thousand times in the dark but he’d had few reasons to move around
downstairs in the dead of night so it was less familiar to him. He could recall
every detail of the area if required but describing an area and moving through
it in the dark whilst distracted by a warm hand gripping yours were two
completely different things. That was why he totally forgot about the hall
table at the very bottom of the stairs, causing him to run into it and stumble.
A hand reached up to steady him in the middle of his back, right above his
spine and the warm hand felt almost hot against his cold skin. Once he had his
footing, Mycroft removed his hand but his fingers trailed down his skin
slightly as he did so. Sherlock shivered at the touch, hoping it wouldn’t be
noticeable, and trying to determine if it had been deliberate or not. It had
been a strangely sensual touch, the pads of his brother’s fingers dragging over
several of his vertebrae before ghosting away.
They carefully felt their way over to the stairs and Mycroft headed up first.
He twisted his palm as he did so, rearranging their join hands so their fingers
clasped together and squeezed gently. Sherlock was sure his brother would be
able to hear his heartbeat, it was thumping so loudly in his chest. There was
no denying now that something had changed between them. Holding hands to
navigate in the dark was one thing, but this was altogether different, much
more intimate. It was how lovers held hands, not brothers and a flare of hope
blossomed deep within him. Could it be that Mycroft felt the same way? Had he
been able to read the feelings that Sherlock had hidden for so long and
actually returned them? If he did, what would happen now?
The reached the top of the stairs and Mycroft paused, causing Sherlock to bump
against his back. “What is it?” he whispered, feeling the hair at the nape of
his brother’s neck tickle his nose. He was so  close .
“With no power there’s not much to do. It’s late anyway so I might just go to
bed.” He heard his brother swallow nervously. “Do you want to stay with me
tonight? Because of the storm?”
Yes, perhaps there was a god after all. Sherlock could hear the  want  in
Mycroft’s voice, an echo of his own feelings. He was confident in his
observations, sure of his deductions, and knew without a doubt now that Mycroft
felt the same way. He felt giddy and overwhelmed, anxious and nervous, happy
and terrified. He squeezed the hand that was still linked and lifted his other
to rest on his brother’s hip. He let a finger dip between the space where his
vest overlapped his underwear, brushing across the soft skin. “I’d love to stay
with you tonight,” he murmured. “But not because of the storm.”
There was a sharp intake of breath and Mycroft’s whole body tensed. Sherlock
moved his face forward an inch and pressed a kiss to the top of Mycroft’s
spine. His brother shuddered and he pulled their linked hands around to his
stomach, causing Sherlock to be pulled flush against his back. They both
groaned as Sherlock’s erection pressed against his arse and then Mycroft was
moving, pulling him quickly down the hall to his bedroom. Once they were
inside, Sherlock was let go of and he heard the door close and the lock turn.
Then there were hands on him, fingers gently tracing over his face and lips.
“Are you sure?” Mycroft whispered.
“God,  yes ,” the young genius said in a breathy voice, surging forwards to
press their lips together.
Mycroft’s arms closed around him and he walked them backwards towards the bed
as they kissed. Their cocks pressed against each other through their pants and
they slid against each other, trying to find friction. When his knees touched
the mattress, Sherlock pushed his underwear down, kicking it away so he was
exposed to the room. He felt Mycroft do the same, and then pull his vest over
his head. Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the room and giving Sherlock
a clear view of his naked brother. “Fuck, Mycroft,” he said, stepping forward
and running a hand from his chest down to his stomach. “I’ve wanted you so
long.” He was so caught up in the feel of the skin under his fingers that he
didn’t even flinch as the thunder rumbled afterwards.
“I know,” his brother replied, taking Sherlock’s face in his hands and pulling
him close for another kiss. “Do you know how hard it was for me to wait for you
to turn sixteen? Even now you’re too young but I can’t wait another two years,
I can’t wait to have you.”
“You don’t care that we’re brothers?”
“It appears only as much as you do.”
They kissed again and then with gentle pressure on his shoulders, Mycroft urged
Sherlock onto the bed. He scrambled backwards, positioning himself in the
centre so his brother could straddle his hips. Mycroft leaned over him,
aligning their cocks and then wrapped one hand around both of them. Sherlock
hissed in pleasure, wondering how Mycroft’s hand could feel so different to his
own. He thrust his hips upwards, feeling the drag of the silky flesh of his
brother’s cock against his own, their precome mixing to lubricate the way.
Mycroft ran a thumb over the tip, causing more fluid to pulse from his slit and
Sherlock couldn’t help but gasp. It was swallowed down by plush lips on his and
he lost himself to the overwhelming sensations he was experiencing. Lightning
flashed again but the only energy he could feel was the sparks between himself
and Mycroft.
They clung to each other as the storm raged around them, lost in the feel of
each other, sharing kisses and whispered endearments. Sherlock felt his
pleasure build and soon he was arching his back, thrusting into Mycroft’s palm
and crying out as he climaxed just as thunder rumbled through the air. He
panted hotly against Mycroft’s neck, his spent cock flopping onto his stomach
as his brother moved his hand rapidly over his own length, using Sherlock’s
release to slick the way. He tensed and then he was coming, painting the young
genius’ stomach with hot stripes of semen.
They lay curled against each other, regaining their breaths and having the
reality of the situation sink in. Sherlock knew he would have no regrets, he’d
gotten what he’d always wanted, and from the tender kisses Mycroft pressed to
his lips, he knew his brother would no regret their actions either. After a
while they forced themselves to get up, to head to the dark bathroom and clean
themselves of their mess. Afterwards, Mycroft linked their fingers together
once more and led Sherlock back to bed. He pulled his brother close against him
and Sherlock sighed happily and snuggled close.
The storm was passing, the thunder chasing the lightning at a slower pace, but
for the first time since he was a child, Sherlock didn’t fear the storm. He
curled into the protective embrace of his brother’s arms, knowing he was safe
and it wasn’t long before he’d fallen into a peaceful sleep.
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