Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8006149.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Mycroft_Holmes/Sherlock_Holmes, Mycroft_Holmes/Greg_Lestrade
  Additional Tags:
      Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Sibling_Incest, Implied/Referenced_Drug_Use,
      Unresolved_Sexual_Tension, Daddy_Kink, Gender_Issues, Greg_is_the_best,
      Angst, Pack_Dynamics, Light_Asphyxiation, Tagged_Daddy_Kink_because_there
      is_no_such_thing_as_Big_Brother_Kink, Orgasm_Delay/Denial, mating_cycles/
      heat
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-09-11 Completed: 2016-09-23 Chapters: 6/6 Words: 19600
****** In my arms (temptation) ******
by FrenchCaresse
Summary
     Sherlock, too old at nineteen, has not managed to escape biology it
     seems. Sherlock is presenting. As Omega. And he has asked for
     Mycroft.
     Holmescest, angst, gender issues, and Alpha/Omega heat. With a
     sprinkling of Mystrade. Written for adults.
***** The ride home. *****
Chapter Notes
     Hi guys!
     This story is... different. First off, new fandom for me so I
     probably twisted canon some. I couldn't resist exploring Alpha/Omega
     dynamics though.
     Secondly, Mycroft took control of POV. And he is not particular
     coherent, especially at first. I swear, I can actually write full
     sentences! I completely blame Mycroft for the choppy style that takes
     creative licence with grammar and uses present tense.
     Thirdly, this is a one-shot with 4 or 5 chapters. I am currently
     halfway through chapter 4, so I anticipate no problems posting
     weekly.
     And now, the warnings. I write for adults. Will contain angst and
     sex. Also, a new one for me, sibling incest. Mention of drug use.
     Finally, there is always the consent issue when playing with Omega
     heat, although Sherlock is remarkably lucid.
     Lets dive into Mycroft's head a bit, shall we?
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Sherlock presented.
Finally.
Mycroft leans back against the plush car-seat, making the black leather creak.
Sherlock presented. Rather, Sherlock is presenting.
Right now.
Mycroft's hand is clutching the umbrella handle too tight. He makes himself let
go, watching the drab scenery flash by. Finds himself smoothing his thick
trousers over his thigh instead.
Sherlock is presenting...
As an Omega.
...
Mycroft purses his lips, being driven back to the Holmes Estate. Of course, the
parents aren't there. But Sherlock is.
Sherlock.
Sherlock, an omega.
Sherlock, an omega in heat.
...
Mycroft feigns nonchalance, wishing for a smoke. Inside, he is screaming at the
driver to go fasterfasterfaster. He can't get there quickly enough. If Mycroft
plays this right...
It is more than anticipation, this itching jittery roil inside him. It is
trepidation, overwhelming and annoying. The surprise culmination of years of
longing from his brother and staunch refusal by himself. Archaic conventions
repeated ad nauseum.
Siblings.
Brothers.
Incest.
Wrong.
Sherlock does not believe rules apply to him. It is annoying, because it makes
his behavior unpredictable. Mycroft doesn't believe in rules either. It is a
deeply buried secret, but Sherlock has figured it out. It makes him
insufferable. He sees Mycroft as a challenge; teenaged Sherlock grew ever more
inventive in his seduction while maintaining apparent innocence.
It was maddening. Mycroft's body betrayed him every time. It still does.
His brother's long frame draped just-so on the couch, too-big pyjamas bottoms
falling off sharp hip-bones; Mycroft maintained control. Barely. The soft brush
of fingers against his, passing the newspaper, had Mycroft swallowing down an
indecent moan. A whisper of air across his neck, pointing out something on the
screen over his shoulder; Mycroft tried to remember how to breathe. Control. He
clung to it desperately.
He still does.
Sherlock knew. Sherlock still knows.
Brothers. Wrong.
Then WHY did it feel so right?
...
Mycroft licks his lips. He's too hot.
Sherlock is waiting for him.
...
Temptation.
Mycroft resisted, for so long. Forever.
It had become a game to his little brother. Mycroft knew it, but he couldn't
make him fucking stop. It had become the cruellest exercise in self-control
Mycroft could have devised. Temptation. Mycroft had cultivated calm refusal
like an art form, ignoring his body clamoring for relief, for more, for just a
touch.
Torture.
Until Mycroft didn't even know why he still held back. Eventually, he'd lashed
out when it got too much. Temptation. Too much. Mycroft wanted to scream in
anguish.
As a last resort, Mycroft had tried to force his infuriatingly arousing brother
away. He'd hurt Sherlock with words and brutal truths while his own will-power
crumbled between his fingers.
It had worked too, or maybe that was just life taking them down their
independant paths.
Torture.
The Holmes' brothers tightened the masks they wore. Locked away fragile
childhood emotions and desire; hid behind cutting remarks and cold disdain.
They barely saw each other. Even less, now that Sherlock had escaped heavily
into drug use.
He was still tempting to Mycroft, even high and too thin. Gods it was worse, in
some ways. Those big eyes, glazed and not quite focusing on Mycroft, still
promising more; Sherlock was all pointy elbows and too much pale skin these
days, marred by bruises and track-marks.
It hurt. Chapped lips pouring out facts that were like barbs, pointy and
impossible to dislodge; pure unfiltered glimpses into his brother's ripped
heart.
It hurt. Mycroft hated to see Sherlock wasting away. Hated, hated the unbidden
thrill in his blood when he rescued Sherlock from yet another crack den. The
sigh of relief when he found him still alive. The heady power of gathering
Sherlock's uncoordinated body into his arms. Of being stronger, of feeling
wiser; he was the big brother who would always be there.
Mycroft hated himself for savoring the power-trip. But he repeated the pattern
anyway. Helpless. Trapped. Stupid.
It always hurt even more when Sherlock came down, spewing vitriol and sick,
thrashing to get away. Mycroft knew he couldn't comfort Sherlock. Not how he
wanted it. It was tearing him apart. Mycroft needed to bring the innocence back
into Sherlock's too-cold eyes. He hurt to keep his brother safe.
Torture.
Staying away, watching his brother destroy himself through the cold lense of
grainy surveillance imagery.
Masks, barely held in place.
Hurt, his erection unrelieved and painful, alone in his apartment; remembering
the smell of Sherlock's soft hair.
...
Mycroft had forced Sherlock into rehab three months ago.
...
Masks, slipping.
Genuine distress in Sherlock's stormy eyes. He was out of control and he knew
it. Hurt. Mycroft had allowed himself to hug his shaking brother, held him
close during the long drive to the center. Temptation, still, even if Sherlock
was unwashed and too bony. Temptation, muted by the lancing hurt.
Triumph, when Sherlock had softened in his arms; quietly pliant and heavy over
his knees. Sherlock had allowed Mycroft to massage the knots from his
shoulders; to draw circles and formulas with his fingertips, inscribing words
he couldn't say on his brother's too-bumpy back.
"Why?" An unasked question, screeching in the silence.
Regret.
"Make it stop." A barely heard plea, breathed into the warmth of his lap.
Mycroft had needed to close his eyes, concentrating on keeping the panic at
bay. Sherlock, broken.
It was going to be okay. Hurt. Sherlock falling apart. Hurt, so strong Mycroft
could taste it.
Sherlock would be all right. He had to be. A shared quiet moment in a car that
drove too fast. Their first real connection in years.
Then... Masks, falling back into place.
Sherlock's viscious whisper as he left.
"I hate you, Mycroft."
Hurt. God, it hurt.
It had needed to be done.
...
Sherlock had gone through with rehab, surprisingly, and Mycroft had stayed away
since. Paid for everything, of course, and the miserable room his brother was
currently living in too.
Well, the room he HAD BEEN staying in.
Now, he waited in his old bedroom.
For Mycroft.
...
Mycroft shifts on the hard car seat.
Sherlock, waiting.
For him.
...
Because Sherlock is presenting.
Sherlock is Omega.
Sherlock isin heat.
And Sherlock has asked for Mycroft.
...
Mycroft is done with control. Done with torturing both of them.
Mycroft is tired. He's been hurt too badly. He almost lost his brother.
...
Mycroft is Alpha. Of course he is. It had never even been a question. He
doesn't use his gender much, except when strictly necessary to ensure things go
his way. He never succombed to rut. He has never mated. Lovers are a liability,
possible fodder for black-mail. Better to endure the occasional inconvenience
of his body uselessly wanting to knot than to see years of work destroyed by a
photo or two.
Control.
It is hardly difficult, after Sherlock.
...
Sherlock is Omega, unbelievably. Not Beta after all, as everyone had come to
believe when he failed to present.
Sherlock, too old at nineteen, has not managed to escape biology.
The news had thrown Mycroft like a blow to the gut; so short for a life-
altering message. A few terse words.
"Sherlock is presenting as Omega. He needs you."
A cellphone number no-one knew, except for a couple presidents... And Sherlock.
Always Sherlock.
The message was genuine then. Mycroft's world twisted sideways. He could
actually feel his walls desintegrate to shambles, gravity re-orienting itself.
Enough.
Mycroft, broken.
...
He had ensured the utmost privacy, as much absolute secrecy as he could under
the circumstances. At least Sherlock had stayed out of public hospitals. He had
picked an unlikely, but truly trustable ally. Sherlock might be Omega, but he
was still intelligent.
...
Sherlock is Omega.
His Omega.
...
Mycroft leans his head back against the car-seat as the vehicle jolts on
unkempt country roads. They are getting close.
Sherlock waits.
Sherlock is in heat.
Sweet Sherlock, his brother.
Omega.
...
 
Chapter End Notes
     This chapter was mainly backstory. And hanging participles and one-
     word sentences. The next one is more coherent. Mycroft is about to
     get a surprise when he reaches home!
     Note; If you are one of my Ai No Kusabi folllowers, thank you for
     your patience. This story invaded my head and I couldn't write proper
     Katze when Sherlock was taking all the space! I'll get back to you
     guys as soon as I can!
     xxx
     FrenchCaresse
***** In the kitchen *****
Chapter Notes
     So, an early post because I notoriously suck at holding back fully
     finished chapters! I am in awe of how active this fandom is, thanks
     to all the people who gave this fic a chance!
     A word on gender. In this verse, your gender is Alpha, Beta or Omega.
     As such, your sexual orientation is defined by it. A heterosexual is
     attracted to someone of opposite gender (example alpha-omega). A
     homosexual is attracted to the same gender (example omega-omega). etc
     Your physical sexual traits, male or female, has no incidence on your
     gender much like race doesn't in our world (example being caucasian
     does not impact whether you define yourself as a man or woman).
     Let's get this story moving!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
Mycroft smells him as soon as the car door opens.
Sherlock.
The driver smells him too. The man stands tall in his black suit, as competent
a bodyguard as he is a driver. He is Alpha.
He is taller than Mycroft. It is annoying.
The man's nostrils flare, once, twice.
He unconsciously savors the aroma, sharp spice and maple sugar. Enticing.
Omega.
Heat.
Sherlock.
The pheromones are faint, in the windy garden, but they are unmistakeable.
Sherlock waits.
...
The driver is Alpha. Mycroft can't stand having him so close to Sherlock, not
like this.
He cordially sends the man away.
Mycroft is Alpha; he is the man's boss.
Mycroft heads to the door. His umbrella claps the cement smartly, counter-
melody to his steps, and he uses the handle to knock.
Rat-a-tat Tat.
Mycroft barely stops himself from humming. Soon, very very soon, he'll be with
Sherlock.
...
Mycroft is not ready for the surge of Alpha-instinct that swamps him when the
door opens.
He knew.
Intellectually, he knew.
Knew how Omega heat drove Alphas mindless, caused riots and rapes.
He knew the man Sherlock had chosen to trust before his brother arrived was,
unexplainably, Alpha.
Mycroft had blithely imagined it would be like the rest of the time; his inner
Alpha sniffing around the baseboards of the empty room in his mind Mycroft
locks him in.
Mycroft was wrong.
When the Holmes Estate door cracked open, Mycroft's Alpha went mad.
Mycroft is caught with his guard down, suddenly frantic, trying to prevent a
disaster.
Omega! My omega!Mycroft's Alpha rose bristling, sniffing the air.
Then...
ALPHA.
Enemy.
Take him down.
Mycroft's inner-Alpha crashed right through the wall holding him in an
explosion of splinters. It lashed it's tail and growled. Bloodlust. Rage.
ALPHA. ALPHA. Wrong. No. Bite. ALPHA. Nooo. Omega. Mine.
Fight-fight-fight-fight-fight-fight-fight-
Frothing at the muzzle, Mycroft's Alpha had momentarily wrenched control from
his unprepared intellect.
Mycroft maintains just enough conscious restraint to force himself to
stillness. Locks his eyes on the bare feet in front of him, not daring more
direct eye-contact. Mycroft is standing too straight, he knows it; every single
muscle in his body is tensed, obviously posturing. Primitive. Disgusting, he is
not an animal, goddammit!
Mycroft can't help it though. It is taking more strength than he thinks he has
not to hurl himself at the other man.
Alpha. Fight. My Omega. Alpha. Take him down. Fight-fight-fight-
Mycroft knows he waits too long, motionless on the doorstep; knows it with some
analytical part of his psyche that is not influenced by the Alpha's rage.
Fight-fight-fight-fight-
And yet, it is torture to control the outraged Beast. Mycroft squashes the
instincts, forces them down. Fights an inner-battle that he mostly manages to
keep from showing on his face. He hopes.
Mycroft is getting angry. This is ridiculous. The bestial urges will not
control him.
The Alpha's anger is full of slobber and sharp teeth. Mycroft's anger is a cold
slithery thing, that wraps itself around it's prey and gradually tightens the
noose. Annoyance is a good thing. It gives him leverage over the raging mound
of unrefined instinct that is his Alpha.
Finally, finally, too late, Mycroft gains enough control to speak.
"Detective." He grates.
He forces a grimace intended to be smile, finally stamping his inner Alpha down
enough to be able to draw a full breath.
Mycroft is sweating. He hates sweating.
Cautiously, feeling his Alpha shudder ominously, Mycroft raises his eyes.
"Mycroft." Lestrade answers warily.
He knows. Damn.
Oh, the detective knows. His eyes pierce right through Mycroft's sham at
civility. His posture remains carefully neutral, his voice vibrant yet non-
threatening. Strong, unintimidated; somehow gentle and trustable too.
Now that the red haze is settling, Mycroft can see the deliberate aura of
leashed power Lestrade cultivates. Years of succesfully coaxing frightened
victims to tell their story. Too long hours at work. A failed marriage.
Effortless domination, when he needs it. Strength. The thrill of the chase.
Cowing lesser Alphas into admitting whatever secret the investigation needs.
Alpha.
Very, very powerful Alpha. With such good control of his instincts that he has
managed not to respond to Mycroft's slip. Most Alphas would have been snarling
in his face right now. Probably a few Betas with an attitude too. Not Gregory
Lestrade though.
It is rare that Mycroft faces an equal. Or what might be an equal. Which is
probably why, combined with the omega scent, his Alpha has nearly provoked a
scene.
Omega.
Sherlock.
Oh god, Sherlock.
...
Mycroft swallows, tries to work moisture back into his dry, dry mouth.
Lestrade watches him, standing tall in the door. He is taller than Mycroft. It
is annoying.
Just when Mycroft is about to make a snide remark, or maybe apologize, the
detective seems to decide he is in-control enough and opens the door wide.
Protecting Sherlock. Making sure Mycroft is not overwhelmed before letting him
in.
Mycroft can't help an admiring nod, yanking the chain tighter around his Alpha.
It responds restlessly; tugging, more intrigued than angry now.
ALPHA. Strong.
Enemy?
Fight?
Mycroft ignores the Beast's hesitation.
Sherlock waits.
...
Lestrade stays in the doorway, blue eyes seeing too much. He forces Mycroft to
pass much too close to his warm body on the way in.
Mycroft smells him as he does, gun-metal and coffee.
His Alpha whines, turning in a tight circle. Mycroft ignores the clenching in
his stomach.
"Where's Sherlock?" He asks instead.
His voice is better, smoother. Almost himself. The pheromones are stronger
inside the house.
Omega.
Heat.
Mycroft's prick feels heavy; he is aware of his balls, swinging sticky with
every step.
Gregory closes the door. He is still calm, artificially collected as he heads
to the kitchen.
"Still knocked out. He should be up soon."
Mycroft follows Lestrade into Mummy's kitchen. The detective's body is lean and
muscular, under the jeans and checkered shirt. He was not working then;
Sherlock surprised him on a day off.
Lestrade's hand rubs the back of his neck. Probably, he can feel Mycroft
staring at it. The Alpha howls, forlorn and wild, and it is disconcerting.
Mycroft wishes it would shut up.
"Do you want a drink?" It is strange, ironic, that Lestrade is playing host in
Mycroft's own family house. Yet he was there first, and he looks very at ease
in the sunny kitchen. Domestic.
Does Mycroft want a drink?
God yes. His father always has fine scotch. There is sure to be a few bottles
of the Chardonnay his mother favors too.
The Alpha lunges inside him, half-heartedly, at the sight of Lestrade turning
around and looming too close. Again.
Mycroft sighs, regret on his thin features.
He is perilously close to losing it. He shouldn't allow himself a real drink.
Sherlock.
Lestrade.
Sentiment, a murky greenish pool. Lust, an endless acid sky.
Alcool will blur the edges a bit.
Mycroft sits on a too-tall stool at the counter.
"Tea please." He says, almost keeping the bitterness from his voice.
Lestrade smiles warmly. Proud.
He knows. The detective knows the struggle.
He is pleased Mycroft resisted. He busies himself fixing a cuppa. The water is
already hot, a half-drunk floral porcelain cup on the counter Mycroft notices
only now. Unforgivable. Mycroft is not a fucking teenager; he should be able to
think, even with his hormones raging.
The silence is filled with Lestrade's approval.
Mycroft's Alpha basks in it, panting with great breaths that make it's rib-cage
move.
...
Mycroft takes a sip.
Strong, too much sugar. It soothes him anyway. Lestrade's hand did not shake as
he handed it to him.
Strong.
"Why..." Mycrofts starts, then has to stop.
He does not know how to finish the sentence tactfully. He should have thought
it through before he started.
Stupid.
Mycroft can't think, his mouth clogged with Omega, Heat, and Alpha, Alpha. He's
half-hard now, in his mother's kitchen at two in the afternoon, waiting for
Sherlock to regain consciousness. Sherlock, who is dripping leaking writhing
with his first heat, waiting to be fucked. No, don't think of that. Bad enough
that he can smell him. If he allows the visual to fill his mind, Mycroft will
lose it. He takes an unsteady gulp of too-sweet tea, wishing his hands didn't
tremble.
Mycroft's dick kicks, in his pants. His Alpha is back to pacing, all it's hair
on end. Ready. God.
Mycroft presses his wide lips tightly together.
Lestrade, surprisingly, comes to his rescue. He fills the silence with words.
"He showed up on my doorstep at home yesterday, you know. I'd given him a few
cold cases, a month ago. When he said he was clean."
He pauses, and his eyes flick over Mycroft. Evaluating. Intelligent. The cop is
peaking true.
"That was your doing, was it?" Gregory asks.
Mycroft nods, refusing to share more.
"Good." Lestrade's voice is warm and his approval is doing funny things to
Mycroft's Alpha again. There is too much understanding in them, weariness from
long years on the Force. But it's not that. It's more.
He looks at Mycroft, and there is gentleness. Not pity, but something
comforting, welcoming of Mycroft's repressed emotions. Mycroft is the Iceman.
He has no friends, no lovers. No-one looks at him like that... No-one notices
him. No-one, except Lestrade is doing it now, when Mycroft is so so close to
drowning. The undiluted compassion, it chokes Mycroft; his throat knots with
unexpected tears.
He knows.Greg knows how hard it is to watch someone you love destroy himself.
He is listening, ready to take on part of the burden if Mycroft wants it.
Mycroft licks his lips, cursing his eyes for swimming with treacherous unshed
moisture. God, he wants to spill the angst out. Lay his broken heart in
Lestrade's hands, let him support the too-big pain for just a few minutes.
He won't. Mycroft wavers. He barely knows Lestrade.
He won't.
He won't.
Lestrade just waits, patient, and it makes the urge even worse.
No-one listens to the good boy, the strong brother who controls himself, who
studies and fulfills expectations. No-one thinks he needs it. Mycroft's world
has always spun around turbulent Sherlock.
He sniffs hard, looking down at the counter because he can't stand Lestrade's
gaze. Intense. Mycroft feels exposed. The words are on his lips. He swallows
them down.
He won't.
Weak.
Sherlock does not need weak. Sherlock needs strong, Alpha.
The moment stretches, unbearable. Then Lestrade decides to continue, sparing
Mycroft to scrape his raw emotions together. God he is a mess today.
"Sherlock solved them all of course. I've had him on a crime scene or two
since." Greg laughs, toying with his cup.
"Well." He amends. "Sherlock showed up at a few scenes. He's quite good."
Lestrade stares into space. A smile still tugs at his lips.
Both men sip their tea.
...
Mycroft is calmer. Sunlight shines in a wide rectangle across the tiles of the
floor. Lestrade gathers himself, finishes musingly "I might consider having
Sherlock help me on a semi-regular basis. A consultant of sorts."
Blue eyes suddenly lock with Mycroft's and time freezes again.
"Heck of an attitude though. I always thought he was Alpha." Greg admits.
"Until he barged into my place, more than halfway into heat, yesterday. His
first heat. Christ. Do I even want to know how he got my address?"
Mycroft shrugs. Answers the tediously obvious question first.
"He's Sherlock." He says.
And the detective nods as if that statement actually makes sense.
"What I want to know." Mycroft adds. "Is why? Why you? Why show up at an
Alpha's door, asking him to take him to another Alpha? It doesn't make sense!"
Inconceivable. It amounts to the ultimate tease. Lestrade should not be so
calm. He shouldn't even have called Mycroft, or opened the door for him. His
Alpha must be screaming for him to keep Sherlock all to himself.
Sherlock, in heat.
"What did you do to him?" Mycroft asks, and his voice is harsh again.
Lestrade does not seem bothered by the implications. He shouldn't be so calm.
It's not fair.
"I listened to what he wanted. What he needed. He slept a bit, I fed him
breakfast. Then I phoned you, and I took him here."
Mycroft's dark eyebrows rise incredulously. Lestrade's eyes sparkle.
He admits. "I tranquilized him... With my service injector. Didn't want to risk
full heat in a car. Now I'm gonna have to find a way to explain that one to my
superiors!"
Greg spent three hours, locked in a closed vehicule with Sherlock in heat.
Bathing in his scent. Hearing his breaths. Mycroft is pretty sure that even
medicated, an omega this much in heat would have made little noises. His
brother is too far along not to.
Mycroft imagines Sherlock's long lashes, fanned on his sharp cheeks while his
head rolls obscenely with the bumps in the road. Drugged. Those plump lips,
artificially slack. Helpless. Was he strapped in almost upright? Or curled up
in the back? Ready. Hips shifting, maybe humping the car-seat a bit;
instinctive search for friction, for relief. Relief Sherlock will not find
until he is stuffed with an Alpha's cock.
Christ. Mycroft is fully hard, and it aches. He adjusts himself efficiently,
hidden under the counter. His hand wants to linger, to stroke and press and
soothe. Mycroft doesn't allow it to.
Torture.
Mycroft picks up his luke-warm tea and takes a swallow. Bitter dregs and too
much sugar. He grimaces.
He does not know how Lestrade managed to stand it.
Lestrade, who is too calm.
Unbidden, Mycroft takes a deep deep inhale, scenting the other Alpha. Lestrade
allows it. He leans closer obligingly, elbows on the counter-top. His eyes
don't sparkle anymore. They are dark, dark, dark.
After-shave, pleasant if fake.
Musk, darker than Sherlock's.
Alpha. Like an aged wine, oak and tannins coating the back of his tongue.
Mycroft closes his eyes, greedily drags air through his open mouth.
Alpha. Arousal. Like a shot of port in a bitter black chocolate cup.
Intriguing. Not as decadently pleasant as Omega, but not repulsive either.
Alpha. An acquired taste, perhaps.
Mycroft leans even closer to Lestrade. He is aware the other man is scenting
him back, air whuffing over Mycroft's cheek in a ticklish draft. There is a
hint of sound from Lestrade, not quite a groan but some primal throaty sound
that rumbles under the Alpha's exhales.
It is making Mycroft dizzy. It has been years since he indulged in such animal
pleasures as scenting. And Mycroft's Alpha is not going beserk around the other
Alpha. It is attentive. Fascinated.
The inner-Alpha wants more. It wants to nuzzle Lestrade's neck, wants scent him
without his clothes. Wants to taste him.
Alpha.
Strong.
Aroused.
Ally?
Mycroft sits back suddenly. He needs space before he does something stupid,
like kiss another Alpha while his brother is in heat upstairs.
Lestrade looks shaken. He runs a hand through short salt-and-pepper hair. It is
not as steady as it was earlier. There is a large bulge at the front of his
blue jeans. Mycroft thinks it's been there all this time, but he didn't allow
himself to look earlier.
Three hours in a car with Sherlock in heat.
God.
Mycroft reaches long fingers, unthinking; he just wants to touch the wiry fore-
arm. Lestrade jerks back. His eyes flash.
"Don't." he commands, and there is gravel in his voice.
Mycroft sees then. He knows, suddenly, how strained Lestrade's control is,
despite appearances. Of course it is! He is only human. Alpha.
Three hours, in a car with Sherlock in heat. For nothing.
Dear Lord. What a mess.
Mcroft offers to replace the godamn service injector. It's the least he can do.
Being a minor governement official, Mycroft will ensure the detective suffers
no consequences for what was actually a brilliant choice, even if it is
illegal.
Time floats a bit, an awkward shyness between the two men that wasn't there
earlier. Mycroft's Alpha is fucking preening, slithering through his mind with
an annoying pleased flurry of movement designed to seduce Lestrade. What the
heck?
Mycroft can't fucking think, what with Sherlock and heat pheromones and now
same-gender attraction. He's never been homosexual.
Most people assign him the asexual label. Mycroft doesn't correct them. He
wishes he were asexual; life would be so much less complicated without the
lustful pulsions.
Asexual. Mycroft isn't asexual. He is simply meticulous about refusing to act
on the urges. And now it seems that Mycroft might be at least bi-sexual too.
Lestrade clears his throat a few times. He refuses to meet Mycroft's eyes.
Suddenly, the power balance has flipped.
After too long of fidgeting and avoidance, Mycroft steels himself.
"We should probably adress this..." He does not know how to call the pull
between them, unnatural for two Alphas, so he flaps his hand around. Lestrade
nods tightly.
"Before Sherlock..." Mycroft adds, softly.
Sherlock. In heat.
"Yes." Greg nods. He squares his shoulders. Mycroft suddenly regrets pushing
for resolution. Of course, Lestrade is not a coward. He has trained extensively
in how to react in high-pressure situations.
"Are you gay?" Lestrade asks gruffly. Words straight to the point, his blue
eyes are pinning Mycroft mercilessly.
Mycroft holds the gaze with a coolness he does not feel.
"No." He answers honestly. The pull is still there, stronger now that they are
locked in eye-contact. Mycroft's Alpha is keening inaudibly.
"I've never... Before..." Mycroft is horribly incapable of forming complete
sentences today.
Mycroft draws a shuddery breath. Lestrade is tense, jaw clenched. Mycroft still
wants to kiss him.
"What is your Alpha's reaction to all this?" Mycroft asks quietly.
He breathes through his mouth, subtly getting more of Lestrade's addictive
scent. He wonders what Greg would do if he tried to touch him again. He really
wants to. Really reallywants to. Not sexually, not really. Mycroft opens and
closes his fist, fingers loose on the counter; he tries to dispel the need
without actually reaching for the other Alpha. His whole arm is fucking
tingling.
Lestrade's eyes narrow, then shut decisively. When they open again, they are
almost black, the pupils dilated obscenely.
In sync with his Beast.
The tingles are spreading, running rapid-fire everywhere just under Mycroft's
skin.
God.
He can feel the power of Lestrade's Alpha. It does not frighten him. Nor does
it create the urge to fight this time.
Lestrade has been very, impossibly, good at taking care of Sherlock.
Mycroft's Alpha recognizes this and now everything is changed and confusing.
"Yours?" Lestrade rumbles, voice too deep.
Mycroft can't let his Alpha take control.
He can't.
He won't. He doesn't dare.
It's only fair he try.
His Alpha is being perfectly behaved, sensing the unique opportunity. It waits.
Lestrade waits too.
Mycroft wants.
He can't.
He won't. Mycroft's head hurts from the tension.
He hesitates. It is like being on the edge of a cliff. Mycroft tries to
convince himself to make that leap.
Lestrade's Alpha regards him calmly with it's too-dark eyes. Centuries of
instinct carefully leashed in the kitchen. Greg is taking quite a risk; it is
extremely dangerous to merge at the moment because there is an omega in heat so
close by. Mycroft envies Lestrade's healthy relationship with his Alpha. He
must truly trust his Beast.
Mycroft does not trust his Alpha. He has spent his entire life suppressing it.
Lestrade waits.
Mycroft is sweating again. He hates sweating.
Mycroft does not trust himself.
He crumbles, hiding his face in his arm. The counter is smooth and cool against
his heated forehead.
"I'm sorry." He mumbles, voice muffled by his elbow. "I can't."
I won't.
Greg and his Alpha make a sympathetic sound, like a grumble. Suddenly, there
are strong fingers in Mycroft's hair. Stroking lightly, then with more
confidence when he doesn't push them away. It feels good. Soothing.
The gentle caresses go on and Mycroft melts.
His spine is turning to water, his anxiety lulled away.
He floats.
Relaxed. Better. Safe.
The fingers stop.
Mycroft's head is too heavy to lift. He returns to himself slowly. Lestrade has
moved around the counter.
Sometime.
Mycroft missed that happening.
Greg stands right behind Mycroft's bent over form on the high bench. Mycroft
can feel the man's body heat, radiating so close. He is swimming in Greg's
Alpha pheromones and he hadn't even noticed. Strange.
The detective leans closer. He speaks softly in Mycroft's ear.
"Do you know what my Alpha says?" It is a wonder he can form full sentences.
Mycroft is incoherent, distracted by Lestrade's hand at his nape. Not doing
anything. Just resting there, heavy and warm.
Mycroft sluggishly forces himself to pay attention to his own Alpha.
Mycroft realizes his Alpha is just as out of it as he is, splayed unashamedly
on it's back with it's tongue drooping out one side of it's mouth.
Completely relaxed.
Shit!
Showing his soft furry belly.
Oh no.
Submitting.
Mycroft jolts, panic jerking his self-awareness back.
No, no, no! He is Alpha, Greg is Alpha, he can't allow-
He makes a strangled sound, shoulders tensing in preparation to throw the other
man off. His Alpha is up on all fours, looking around wildly for a danger it
does not see.
Lestrade's hand clamps down on Mycroft's nape. Hard. Strong. Implacable.
Mycroft groans, from deep in his chest. He slumps again, eyes rolling upwards
with how good, how right it feels.
His Alpha drops immediately at the pressure, four legs giving out instantly. It
grovels on the ground, quivering. Not fighting the domination at all. Traitor.
Mycroft's mouth opens to speak, even if he has no clue what he wants to say.
Greg's hand squeezes again, pressing against the tight tendons tied to the base
of his skull, and Mycroft's attempt at arguing dissolves into smoke. He groans
again, embarassing, and vaguely tries to gather the will to protest.
"Ssshhh." Lestrade's face is practically in Mycroft's shoulder as he soothes.
His iron grip never fucking lets go.
"Don't fight it." Mycroft thinks Greg is kissing him lightly, along his ear,
but he is shaking too hard with conflicting feelings to be sure.
"I've got you." And Mycroft's Alpha is whimpering, reveling in Greg's
dominance. Happy, begging, tail wagging and penis hard.
"Do you know what my Alpha says?" Lestrade sounds a bit annoyed that Mycroft is
still trying to control himself. Failing miserably and nauseous with denial but
he won't go down easy.
And okay, that was a lick, down the side of his jaw. Mycroft's head rolls,
stretching to the other side. Elongating his neck. Presenting, good grief.
Lestrade licks at Mycroft's collar-bone, little kitten swipes and wet sucks.
For a brief instant, teeth press against his skin, hard and smooth.
No. NO. Mycroft invisibly struggles harder, flailing inside his head. It is
useless. He can't pull away.
Mycroft is about to receive a bond-bite from an Alpha and his own Beast is
gagging for it.
Greg's lips move away. It costs him, Mycroft can feel him tremble; tremors
travel from where his hand still holds Mycroft down. Greg ignores the body
shudders, caused by the pure intensity of the moment. Mycroft is having them
too, and his erection is sending little bursts of pleasure at the hint of
friction.
"My Alpha says..." Greg's words are slurred. He swallows.
Agony.
"Pack." A rough whisper.
Light explodes behind Mycroft's closed eyelids. Pack.
Yes.
Mycroft's Alpha agrees, unequivocal and certain as only an animal can be.
As unlikely as it is, what with Sherlock in heat, or maybe because of it,
Mycroft's Alpha has recognized Lestrade's.
Pack.
Family.
Trustable.
All the fight goes out from Mycroft.
Pack.
Yes.
He floats again, glorying in waves of peaceful acceptance, finally one with his
inner-Alpha.
Lestrade makes happy sounds behind him, his hand finally releasing Mycroft's
nape to stroke up and down his back.
Good..
Pack.
Mycroft doesn't have to worry. His Alpha's got him.
Greg.
Mycroft's Alpha.
...
Mycroft blinks back to himself slowly, consciousness building in paper-thin
layers until he feels strong enough to sit upright.
Lestrade kisses his hair once then pulls away.
Mycroft's face feels puffy, like he's over-slept or he's been crying. Maybe he
has. The past half hour is all blurred together.
Greg.
Pack.
Right.
Greg moves back around the counter. His Alpha is gone, held back inside again.
Mycroft's Alpha can feel it and it makes it happy.
Greg's Alpha lives in a forest, full of moving shadows and little wild noises.
Mycroft does not know how he can be sure of this, but he is. He suddenly feels
guilty for the bland box he's been keeping his Beast in all these years. His
inner-Alpha licks his hand decisively. It is not angry; it did not know either.
Mycroft adds a shining bowl of water and a heap of blankets to the enclosure in
his mind. His Alpha's yellow eyes mock him. Mycroft tries better. Changes the
walls out for a sunny field of waving grasses. He hesitates, then settles for a
loose fence of silver wire. He mentally apologizes to his Beast. He can't let
it roam free. He'll try. It will take time.
Mycroft vows to work on his relationship with his Alpha. It is happy. It barks
at a funny-shaped cloud then lopes over to investigate the blankets.
Mycroft focuses on his physical surroundings again.
Greg is watching him with a little smile on his face. Mycroft swears he hears
the distant happy howl of the other man's Alpha.
Now that they are back to being two regular guys, things are strange. Greg
seems a bit shy, a bit sheepish, but his joy shines through from deep inside
and makes everything all right. Mycrofts mouths a silent "thank you."
They hadn't planned the bonding; there will be consequences and long
conversations to be had.
Later.
Pack.
Lestrade maintained enough control not to actually bite, so in theory the bond
can be undone. If they fight it, for months and months, maybe years, it will
gradually fade. It will be unpleasant. For both of them. It is doable. Maybe.
Mycroft does not want to fight anymore. He is tired. They'll make this work. He
is not very happy with the hierarchy that was established, but Mycroft's Alpha
is adamnant that it's what he needs. Mycroft decides he won't challenge Greg
for dominance.
It's impossible to go back, anyhow. It is harder even to regret the pack-bond
when every fiber of both their beings is so satisfied at how right it is.
"Well."
Both Alphas jump and look to the kitchen door. Sherlock is leaning there. He is
impeccably dressed, in a tight fitting grey shirt and black trousers.
"How interesting." Sherlock seems normal enough, voice aloof and chin high.
Maybe there's been a mistake. Sherlock is supposed to be omega. Sherlock said
he was in heat.
Mycroft gulps, feeling like a kid caught misbehaving.
"Are congratulations in order then, brother-dear?"
 
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     Cliffhanger, sorry not sorry. The story needed to breathe. We are
     getting closer to the porny goodness!
     Next up, we meet Sherlock!
     I appreciate feedback, especially since this is a new fandom for me!
     xxx
     FrenchCaresse
***** Living room conversations. *****
Chapter Notes
     You guys are killing me, ya'll! It is so nerve-wracking to post in a
     new fandom and not get any feedback! Someone please put me out of my
     misery! Pretty pretty please!
     Posted a third chapter in a week because I have given up, these
     characters are pushy.
     There is some deep stuff to get through before the sex. So warning
     for intense angst. Upset Sherlock finally being honest, overwhelmed
     Mycroft, Greg is the best; a little mention of drug use. I don't want
     to tag this properly not to give too much away.
     Be ready, this chapter is an emotional free-fall.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
Sherlock's words ring harsh and mocking in the quiet kitchen.
His brother's words are cutting, agressive like always. Always pushing, forever
challenging.
This is not how today was supposed to go. Mycroft is taken aback by the depth
of his deception.
Today, things between them were supposed to be right. Sherlock was supposed to
finally let Mycroft be close to him. He'd recognized his need for Mycroft, so
Mycroft stupidly imagined Sherlock was going to let him protect and help him.
Mycroft had hoped he could at last be the big brother he's longed to be during
all those years of misunderstanding.
But Sherlock is not friendly and grateful.
He mocks Mycroft again, for displaying sentiment; probing triumphantly at any
weakness he detects.
Sherlock is being... Sherlock.
It hurts.
Mycroft can't speak. Too much has happened today, Mycroft is stripped bare,
worn down by emotions and the bonding. He can't fend off his brother's sarcasm.
The best he can do is keep his face blank, stoically silent.
Lestrade bristles for him; Mycroft feels it through their connection before the
man speaks.
Pack.
His Alpha has his back.
"Sherlock." Greg's voice cracks sharply, more than a hint of Alpha-Command
running through it. It makes Mycroft's insides tense, as if his very nerves are
wired to his Alpha's wishes.
"Behave." Alpha-Voice.
Mycroft swallows. He is happy to be sitting. He has never been affected by an
Alpha's command before. He has never had an Alpha before. Even though the
disapproval was not directed at him, Mycroft's inner-Alpha is flat on it's
belly, ears laid back and eyes round marbles.
Mycroft lifts his head to smirk at his brother, deciding to examine his
ambiguous feelings towards Alpha-command later. He is reasonaby certain
Lestrade won't use the privilege too often.
...
Crap.
Sherlock is half-crumbled against the door-frame, head hanging with his dark
curls in his eyes. All the false bravado from earlier is stripped away.
Sherlock looks so so vulnerable suddenly, breathing in rough sobs.
Omega.
In heat.
Greg looks mortified.
"Sorry." He breathes. "I'm sorry Sherlock, I shouldn't have done that."
Sherlock's fingers on the ancient wooden door-frame are white with strain.
Spider-legs, clutching desperately; the only thing keeping Sherlock up-right.
Greg is blushing, it makes Mycroft want to lick his face. Remorse is pouring
off of him and the officer frets. "Will it make it better... or worse... if I
touch you, Sherlock? I really want to hold you now."
Sherlock licks his lips, shakes his head.
"Sit? Please?" His voice is only a thread but it spurs Mycroft into action. He
rises and leads his brother to the living room.
Sherlock moves clumsily, and when he stumbles in the corridor Mycroft finds
himself closer to him.
Too close.
Ready.
The scent of Omega, Heat, smacks him in the testes but Mycroft grunts and
otherwise ignores the sudden revival of his dick.
He pushes Sherlock down onto the sofa. The taller man goes unresisting; he
leans foreward with his fore-arms braced on his knees, graceful hands hanging
loose between them. Mycroft wants to sit beside him, but he worries he won't be
able to stop himself from touching Sherlock. He settles for pacing tightly.
Minutes pass.
Greg is still in the kitchen, obviously giving Sherlock some time to recover
from Alpha-Voice.
There is tension in the air, so thick Mycroft can almost see it shimmering off
the tasteful wallpaper.
The time-out works.
The shivers gradually stop and Sherlock's eyes are focusing on Mycroft. Too
sharp again. Mycroft is boiling in his suit. He removes the jacket with a few
efficient tugs, folding it over and setting it on the back of Mummy's armchair.
He still looks put together in his shirt and vest, maroon tie a tad loosened.
He rolls his sleeves, three crisp turns; Sherlock is fucking devouring the
sight of his brother undressing.
Greg comes in, and Mycroft is glad. His Alpha. Greg gives him a smile and hands
a tall glass of cold water to Sherlock like a peace offering.
Sherlock smiles too, enigmatic, such luscious lips just made for kissing, and
whispers "thanks."
Sherlock drinks. His adam's apple moves. Mycroft imagines that long throat,
taking in an Alpha cock.
He turns swiftly, puts a couch between him and the omega in heat. Mycroft walks
in tight loops, trying to work off the nervous energy. Mount, Fuck, Take. He
locks his hands together at the small of his back. He left his umbrella in the
foyer.
Greg seems to be back in control. Mycroft can barely feel his pack leader's
Alpha, even if he concentrates on the bond.
They are all on edge, hormones running rampant and with a fresh pack-bond
further muddling things.
Greg apologizes again, swearing he won't abuse Alpha-command. He explains that
with a fresh bond he hadn't been able to think before defending his mate when
Sherlock hurt him. Mycroft winces, turns to stare out the window. He never
acknowledges that his brother's words touch him. He is the Ice-man.
He can feel Sherlock watching him; evaluating, quick-fire new connections
sparking. Mycroft does not know if that is a good thing.
Finally, Sherlock shrugs; Mycroft can hear his shirt rustling against the
couch. He assures Greg not to worry. Sherlock doesn't sound angry at Greg's
slip, even if it was obviously horrible to be forced to heel like a pup.
Apparently, transparency has worked well for Greg's relationship with Sherlock.
Huh.
"How are you, Sherlock?" Greg's voice is still cautious, subdued. He steps into
the room. Mycroft turns around quietly.
"All right, I guess." Sherlock shrugs again, staring into his empty glass. He
sets it down on the floor by the couch.
"Uncomfortable." Sherlock continues. "It is manageable."
He frowns.
"For now." He adds.
Mycroft hears the slight waver in his voice, the doubt at the admission.
Sherlocks hates not being in control. His body is staging the ultimate
betrayal. Of course Sherlock is anxious.
Mycroft is still tongue-tied.
Greg sits on the coffe-table in front of Sherlock, his posture carefully non-
threatening.
Mycroft knows this is his "I'm a good cop, talk to me" personna.
Sherlock sees it too, Mycroft can tell by the twitch of his nose.
It works anyway.
Sherlock unwinds a bit, some of the brittleness in his body slipping away.
Mycroft remembers that floating feeling he experienced when he submitted and
let Lestrade guide him. His inner-Alpha is proud of itself.
Good.
Pack.
Mycroft trusts Gregory. He hopes Sherlock can trust him too.
"Did you already know you were Omega?" Greg asks. A direct question, no useless
coddling.
Sherlocks eyes flicker around the room, hesitating.
His phermones are deepening, just from being in the same room as two Alphas.
Mycroft can smell the change. Heat. Progress. Surely Sherlock must feel it.
His brother sighs, and when he speaks Mycroft knows he will answer truthfully.
"Yes." Sherlock says. He is panting a bit.
Greg does not seem surprised. He nods.
"How long?"
"Since I've known?" Sherlock barks a laugh that feels like a paper-cut. Tiny
but smarting like heck, a bead of blood hinting at soft mushy flesh beneath.
"Years." Sherlock speaks too fast, like he does when he's deducing. "I think
even in childhood, I knew. It's why Mycroft attracts me so much, maybe. At
adolescence I deleted the urges, barricaded that wing in my mind-palace. I
tried. "
Sherlocks cheeks are pink. "I tried. I tried so hard. I tried to convince
myself I wanted to mount, to chase. I almost believed it."
His eyes, grey and troubled, settle on Mycroft standing near the wall. "I liked
pushing you well enough, brother."
Mycroft doesn't answer. He tries to keep his face blank at the confirmation of
what he already knew. Sherlock truly was seducing him on purpose.
Sherlock fidgets. He never fidgets, usually. There is sweat at his hairline.
Sherlock finishes quietly, defeated, adressing Mycroft rather than Greg. "But I
knew that if I ever did catch you, it would be the other way around in the end.
I couldn't win. Even if you had broken, I still couldn't win. I wanted you to
fuck me. Like a pathetic Omega whore. "
Greg is sweating too. Mycroft can see the little curls at his nape darken.
Sherlock is still agitated. "You wouldn't let me have my way, Mycroft, and that
was infuriating. Anger was good. It made me feel strong. Agressivity is an
Alpha trait. It kept me going for a few years."
Sherlocks fingers flick open three buttons on his shirt in rapid succession.
Mycroft does not think he realizes he has done this. A triangle of ivory skin
is bared, tempting the Alphas. Sherlock's gaze is still turned inward, frowning
at his troubled years.
"My body wouldn't change. Not how it should. It was wrong. Every morning, I
hoped to feel that knot at my cock. Maybe the hormone levels were finally high
enough."
Sherlock won't look at them now. His eyes dart around the living room, looking
for escape before concentrating furiously on an empty spot on the wall. Prey.
Omega.
"My knot never developed. It was never there. Wrong. Every day during puberty
started off with deception. I never got used to it. I always expected..."
Sherlock holds his head in his hands, fingers tugging too hard at the silky
locks. He does not seem to notice.
"Stupid." He spits. Mycroft doesn't know what to say.
Sherlock continues. "Wrong wrong wrong. I got taller, but I never got muscular.
My pilosity never increased; stupid soft pale skin. I wanted to scratch it off.
After a few years, the idiotic hope dwindled then disappeared. My body was
broken. It was wrong, everything was wrong. I hated it; hated myself but there
was no way to make it right!"
Sherlock's confession is clawing Mycroft to pieces. He is thankful for Greg's
steadying presence. He does not think he could have faced this alone.
Sherlock grunts a bit, pained. His hand presses to his belly and he curls over
a bit.
"Cramp." He answers the twin worried Alpha expressions watching him.
He shakes it off, anxious now to finish his story before his transport takes
over.
"I thought drugs could help. And they did, at first." Sherlocks face closes. He
knows how sensitive the subject is for Mycroft.
His eyes are soft, apologetic. "I lost control then."
Mycroft blinks. The room is blurry. He blinks again. His eyes burn. The tears
won't go away this time. Mycroft has to press his thumbs into his eyeballs,
hard, and hope no more tears rise. His self-control is precarious.
He looks up to see Sherlock crying softly, face hidden in his long thin
fingers. Greg looks torn. He wants to touch the vulnerable omega; instinctively
wants to hug him, but he doesn't want to spike the heat again.
Mycroft moves to sit on the couch by Sherlock. He doesn't touch him either. He
can respect him that much. Mycroft wants to take his brother in his arms; he
really really wants to. Temptation. Always. Greg's strong hand grips Mycroft's,
squeezes tight tight tight. It helps. A bit.
"Oh, Sherlock." Mycroft doesn't even recognize his own voice. He is dizzy with
the pheromones, this close to Sherlock.
"Can I hold you?" Mycroft asks. His own Alpha instincts are furious at him for
letting an omega in heat cry.
Sherlock shakes his head furiously. He sniffs and wipes his cheeks.
"Sorry." He says under his breath.
His legs press together and then spread, his hand digging into the meat of his
thigh; Mycroft can see the outline of a small hard Omega dick, unattended in
his brother's trousers. Unacceptable. Lick, suck, mount. Mycroft's Alpha
thinks.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry." Sherlock is repeating endlessly.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stuuuu-piiid." A hysterical sing-
song that scares Mycroft. He's never seen Sherlock lose it. Not mentally
disconnect like this anyway, even when he was buzzed out of his mind on illegal
substances.
It's Greg who breaks him out of it, who places a warm hand on Sherlock's
jittery knee.
Sherlock's breath catches and he sits straighter.
He nods. The flush on his cheeks spreads down his neck in blotches that
disappear into his collar, Mycroft notices.
"Well." Sherlock's voice rings with false cheer.
"I'm off drugs now!" He says brightly.
"No ignoring facts anymore, right! My body is settling into it's natural state.
I'm Omega!"
He means to fake light-heartedness, Mycroft thinks, but there is a faint wobble
in his voice that gives away his discomfort.
The comment falls flat, lands with a thud in the tense room and Sherlock's face
locks down. Masks.
Greg's thumb strokes Sherlock's bony knee-cap silently.
He is thinking. Mycroft can see the intelligence.
Mycroft can't think at all. He will need time to digest all that.
"I." Greg stops, frowns.
Decides he's right and says decisively. "I think you might be trans."
...
Sherlock is a pale statue with huge eyes, drinking in Greg's words.
"I'm not an expert; there are specialized therapists you'll have to consult,
tests that will have to be done."
Mycroft is frozen. But he knows the truth of the statement the moment the
detective says it. Trans-sexual. An Alpha in an Omega body.
Sherlock. Why did Mycroft never see it?
Greg is still speaking.
"It's just... that level of dysmorphia... You nearly killed yourself to escape
it, Sherlock. If you ARE trans, there are hormone treatments, surgical options,
support groups..." He trails off.
It's true. Trans people are a minority, but they exist. They have become more
pro-active in recent years. Mycroft's vision of the political landscape shifts.
If he tweaks legislature and pressures a few high-ranking officials, there are
changes that can be made. Equality, more rights. Mycroft sees the way to that
goal like a roadmap spread out. Connections, big and small spreading in a
brilliant grid. All Mycroft need to do is a snip here, a push there...
Sherlock looks shocked. His processor has shut down. He chews on his lower lip,
an uncharacteristic nervous tic.
"It's... Possible." He analyzes slowly. "I need more data; I'll have to
reclassify years of evidence."
Another cramp seizes him, stronger than before because his hand instinctively
reaches out, grips Mycroft's leg beside him in a bruising clench. Sherlock's
breathing is labored. The omega hand on Mycroft is igniting a raging burn in
his groin. Mycroft's hips roll once before he can still them. His hard-on
twitches, again, and again, and again because Sherlock is touching him and
Sherlock is in heat.
The spasm is finally over, and Sherlock lets go, flexes his fingers; Mycroft
swallows a moan. He supposes it's a good thing the contact is broken. He was
half-way to knotting, untouched and in his pants.
"I can't deduce... Not today." Sherlock's voice is strained. His bum keeps
clenching and releasing. Mycroft knows, he can see the fabric of his pants
shifting.
"Of course not!" Greg reassures. "Just know that you're not alone. You're not a
freak."
Sherlock shudders at that one and Mycroft remembers child voices taunting, mean
and high-pitched.
"There's no rush to label yourself. Even if you are trans, you've been passing
as Alpha for years. You needn't change much; maybe a only a scent dampener to
start, now that you've presented."
Sherlock looks thoughtful, then his face abruptly twists.
Sherlock gasps, "Oh God", folding over. His shirt stretches over his back, the
fabric vaguely shimmery. Sherlock grips his ankles, face hidden over his knees.
His hips rock now, needing, and Mycroft knows it humiliates his brother that he
can't control his movements.
Sherlock is in heat and it hurts him.
Greg waits, more patiently than Mycroft thinks he can, for the surge to pass.
"Getting stronger?" He asks as Sherlock slowly sits back up.
Sherlock nods. He looks haunted, scared. His jaw is clenched tight and his face
is red.
"You need to decide who you want for your first time. Now."
Mycroft almost whimpers.
Traitor.
Pack.
Alpha.
Mycroft almost whimpers because he knows if Sherlock picks Greg, he won't fight
it.
It will kill him inside, but Mycroft can't, won't resist Sherlock's choice.
Greg is a strong Alpha, with a gentle hand and an understanding heart. He is a
good choice.
"Mycroft." Sherlock says.
His voice is firm. He sounds lucid enough.
Suddenly, he is kissing Mycroft and then it's all lips and growls and heat and
...
...
"Guess that's my time to leave!" Greg's dry chuckle covers a layer of
rejection. Mycroft knows it and he jerks apart from his brother guiltily.
Sherlock bolts right off the couch and out of the room, muttering for Greg to
wait for something.
"I'm sorry." Mycroft says, and he means it. Greg deserves better than to be
tossed out on his Alpha tail.
Greg smiles again. His face is shuttered, tightly in control.
"It's okay. I'll survive. Blue balls never killed anyone." Mycroft's Alpha is
whining, whining, whining. It wants Greg satisfied.
"If there's anything I can do..." Mycroft blurts.
Greg stands. He towers over Mycroft.
"Are you offering to suck my dick?" The detective jokes.
"Yes." Mycroft answers thoughtfully. He wasn't of course. He hadn't thought of
that. He's never...
"Yes." he says again. It's a genius solution actually.
"If it's what you want, what you need, then yes, Greg, I want to suck your
cock."
Mycroft is warming to the idea.
He sits straighter, eying the bulge that is right there in front of him. He
takes a deep breath; tries to smell the musk, to detect the scent of pure
undiluted Alpha. His Alpha.
"I can't promise I'll be very good, but I'll do my best." Mycroft admits. Greg
is not responding, immobile in front of the couch.
"I might choke a bit." Mycroft warns. If the distorsion in his pants is any
indication, Greg is HUNG.
"That... It's okay. Doesn't bother me much." Mycroft explains.
He reaches for Greg's belt, fingers grazing worn leather. The buckle makes a
clinking sound when Mycroft tugs.
Greg backs away suddenly, wacks his knee against the coffee table and does a
strange hobbling dance sideways.
"What?" Sherlock has walked in and he looks confused.
"Your brother is offering to suck my dick." Gregs tattles, voice rough.
"Oh." Sherlock says.
Then he stares into space, eyes glazing over. He looks between the two Alphas,
and his face is eager, hungry.
"Oh." Sherlock says again. "I want to see that." He groans and his fingers
press to his chest.
Greg backs away, circles the arm-chair, breathing hard.
"Okay." The Alpha promises, flustered and blushing again. "Okay. Another time.
There... There'll be plenty of other times."
Greg is no longer composed. He is losing it, scurrying away in a panic.
Mycroft remains sitting, a picture of politeness in his goddamn impeccable
shirt and vest. His smile is almost fake, oily and unappealing. Greg knows how
undone Mycroft is though, can feel it through the bond and his Alpha. Mycroft
licks his lip, staring intently at the detective. He really was going to blow
the other Alpha. The man is an enigma.
"I'm going now." Greg reaffirms. His palm cups his cock for a second, over his
jeans. He must be aching fiercely.
Hours, in a car with Sherlock in heat.
Mycroft really really wants to suck him, now that the idea has been planted.
The way Sherlock is looking at Greg is similar; pure decadence offered.
"Jesus." Greg swears. "I really really need to leave."
He sounds like he's trying to convince himself, to psyche himself up to
actually act.
"Gotta go." He repeats.
"Before I can't." He mumbles softer.
Greg hurries to the door, rather desperately. His usual smooth gait is choppy;
his mind is warring with his instincts and his body is stuck somewhere in
between.
Omega. Heat. Pack.
Temptation.
Greg is wired tighter than he's ever been.
Sherlock throws a sealed evidence bag at him. Greg catches it without thinking,
frowning at the unidentified contents.
"My underwear." Sherlock states helpfully. "For later."
Soaked through with omega slick, certainly.
God.
The brothers can see when Greg understands; a vein pulses on his forehead.
"Okay." he chokes. "Thanks. Bye."
The door slams hard with Greg's haste to retreat.
Mycroft is alone with Sherlock.
Sherlock.
Omega, at least physically.
Sherlock.
In heat.
Together.
...
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     The last chapter is pure kinky Heat sex.
     It is also ridiculously long, so there might be a more normal delay
     before posting. It is fully written, but editing is proving to be a
     struggle. I keep getting overwhelmed and needing a break.
     xxx
     FrenchCaresse
***** Living room conversations, without Greg *****
Chapter Notes
     Thank you, thank you, thank you to the amazing readers who commented
     or kudo'd. You are my inspiration and my motivation. And you saved my
     sanity!
     The last chapter was extremely long, close to 15 000 words, but
     mostly it was soooo crazy intense. I couldn't even get through the
     whole of it and I wrote it! I have decided to split it into more
     manageable parts, that I am posting all at once. So feel free to
     devour them all like a mad-woman. Or take a break or two to, um, cool
     down.
     Finally, this is where the tags come in. Twisted incestuous role-
     playing heat denial torture for your reading pleasure! Oh and some
     gratuitous asphyxiation, just because...
...
After Gregory leaves, there is a strange unstable moment.
Anticipation.
Heat.
Together.
Finally.
Remembering Greg's undignified exit, Mycroft feels a smile tugging his lips.
Sherlock threw his fucking underwear at the detective!
A quick glance at his brother and suddenly the hilarity won't be contained.
Mycroft laughs and laughs, joined by Sherlock. The whole situation is so
unusual it is absurb and Mycroft's brain has given up, letting the tension ease
through crazy cackles.
Sherlock flung his fucking underwear at Greg... for masturbatory purposes.
After Mycroft had offered to suck his cock.
The look on the poor detective's face!
The laughing fit keeps on for a while; Mycroft gasps and shakes, his belly
hurting. He hasn't let go like that in years.
God it feels good!
Sherlock calms first, moving to perch stiffly on the sofa.
Mycroft joins him, muttering "Poor Greg." with a final humph.
Sherlock's lips twitch, but his face is strained, posture antalgic. Cramp.
Again.
"Sorry." Mycroft says. He reaches a tentative arm around Sherlock's frail
shoulders. Initially tensing furiously, Sherlock eventually relaxes. He slumps
against Mycroft with a grateful moan.
Together.
Finally.
All is right.
"Tell me what you need." Mycroft whispers, hugging Sherlock closer. "Whatever
it is... I won't hurt you, Sherly. I promise. I would never hurt you. You know
that, right?" Mycroft's voice is gruff now. There are years of emotion behind
the statement.
Sherlock simply nods, but his face is serious. He understands.
They sit for a bit, Mycroft reveling in the simple act of having his brother
finally in his arms. There is much yet to be said, but for now this is enough.
They are peaceful together. Mycroft's dick is still hard, but he hardly notices
it. Minor inconvenience, easy enough to ignore.
Sherlock shivers a bit.
"I'm scared." He admits softly. Mycroft tightens his arms. Something slithers
inside him, some dark interest.
Mycroft tamps it down.
"First heat..." Sherlock says. That thing inside Mycroft rears it's head. He
bites his lip not to make a sound.
The thing inside wants to grow, take up all the space. It is not Alpha instinct
or arousal, even if sends electric shocks right to his crotch; it is something
deeper, scarier. Something rooted deep deep in his soul that is reacting to
Sherlock's words. Potential.
Mycroft turns his attention inwards. He needs to understand what that thrill is
to be able to disperse it.
Mycroft's hand rubs soothingly over Sherlock. His brother is still too thin,
Mycroft can feel every vertebrae in his spine.
It reminds him of when Sherlock was younger, before it all went to hell.
Tactile memory, rubbing his back just like when his little brother crept into
Mycroft's bed at night, scared and shaking. Sherlock had never been like other
children, afraid of monsters and nightmares. He had been frigtened of all the
real possibilites; earthquakes and meteorites and armed robbery. Mycroft had
held him, night after night, filled with fierce protectiveness. He had
explained what adults believed Sherlock was too young to understand; taught
Sherlock about statistics and probabilities in a low voice, until his baby
brother's breathing deepened and he slept.
It's that same feeling that is filling Mycroft.
That strong head-rush of being responsible and invincible.
Somehow, that healthy emotion has blended with the years of repressed sexual
longing.
Sherlock being vulnerable makes him seem younger. He is dependant on Mycroft.
First heat.
It makes Mycroft's stomach tense with want; NOW his dick is hard to ignore.
Strong.
Alpha.
Sick. He shouldn't be reacting this way. Mycroft vows not to let his perversion
affect his behavior with Sherlock.
His brother is watching him with his grey grey eyes, keen and piercing.
God. Mycroft attempts a weak smile.
Sherlock kisses him, and everything is buoyant and luminous for the next
minutes. Like when they used to observe the pond in the summer sunlight. Fairy
lights; blinking twinkles gilding the surface of the dark dark lake, unbothered
by the murky depth of the waters.
Through the kisses, Sherlocks hand are busy. They tug at Mycroft's tie in hard
yanks; he amuses himself by pulling his brother closer with red silk. Mycroft
resists at first, just to feel the pressure where the fabric digs under his
jaw.
Sherlock's eyes narrow, and with a deft flick of his wrist, he snaps the tie
over his hand, once, twice. NOW he has an unshakeable grip and a simple twist
of his fist pulls the tie tight. Too tight.
Fuck.
Mycroft's breathing is very very close to being cut off and he is getting
dizzy. Mycroft makes a choking noise against Sherlock's soft lips. His Alpha is
panicking at the asphyxiation; fight, it wants to get free NOW.
Mycroft doesn't move, remembers to keep his breathing as shallow as possible.
His lungs are starting to burn. Sherlock wouldn't actually kill him, would he?
His brother's face is cold, Mycroft can not read anything on it.
Adrenaline races uselessly through his veins. His hands grab instinctively,
clutching Sherlock's fore-arms, but Mycroft doesn't do more than hold on. His
face is ugly, tinting into dark red and his mouth gapes as he wheezes.
There is an odd peacefulness to Mycroft's surrender. His body jerks against
Sherlock's through their last oxygen-deprived kiss.
Mycroft is losing his grip on consciousness. His vision blurs, the walls
weirdly rounded like they are bending towards him. The pressure on his neck is
vaguely reminescent of Lestrade's hold. Fuck. Lestrade.
Mycroft's eyelids flutter. Sherlock's knuckles are white from his unforgiving
hold on the tie.
Greg will be so mad at Mycroft's lack of self-preservation. Probably the Queen
too, but Mycroft finds he doesn't give a fuck about the Governement at the
moment, even if it is his whole life. How interesting; petty human attractions,
pack, prove to be important after all when faced with his own demise.
Sherlock's face crumbles and he releases Mycroft.
Both brothers gasp for air, greedy greedy gulps. Mycroft coughs fitfully,
returning consciousness and oxygen making his synapses snap alert. Everything
is over-exposed now, after the dimness of strangulation. The texture of his
clothing, the smell of Omega, the taste of blood in his mouth; Mycroft hadn't
even realized he'd bit his cheek... Mycroft rides the hormonal high, panting.
His body shakes.
Sherlock's lips are moving all over his sweaty disgusting face, kissing Mycroft
in silent apology. He tugs the tie up over Mycroft's head, catches his ears
painfully, and throws it away. Mycroft is still recuperating while Sherlock
removes his vest, leaving only his white shirt. Sherlock's fingers brush
lightly over the zipper of Mycroft's pants.
Sherlock pulls away and arches an eyebrow. Mycroft is not hard anymore, his
erection entirely gone.
"Didn't enjoy that?" Sherlock whispers.
Mycroft doesn't know how to answer. The primal rush of survival instinct was
interesting, but it certainly wasn't a sexual thing for him.
"You owe me a tie." He rasps, fingering lightly at the tender skin of his
throat. Fuck. That will bruise for sure.
Sherlock chuckles softly and kisses him some more. When he pulls away, their
foreheads are almost touching and Mycroft has forgotten his turmoil.
Sherlock's cheeksbones are stained with two red splashes, and his eyes are too
bright.
Sherlock.
In heat.
Mycroft smiles tremulously.
"You'll help me, right Mick?" Sherlock's thin fingers clutch at Mycroft's hand
and he blinks slowly. His brother's eyes are wide, trusting. God, he looks so
young.
That thing inside Mycroft roars in his ears and he can't breathe for a minute.
Fuck.
Sherlock has pulled away, and his expression turns calculating, shrewd. He
absently wipes the sweat from his forehead.
"Mycroft?" He inquires, and he is back to the cold adult Sherlock of the recent
years.
Of course, he's deduced his brother. His first theory was wrong but now...
He knows.
Mycroft sighs deeply, closing in on himself.
"I'm sorry." He says, voice still hoarse.
"I don't know what..." But he does, he knows now.
"I'm sorry." He says again.
"I'll... I'll go, if you want. Greg can't be far."
...
Sherlock's face is inscrutable, intelligent, even if his hips won't stop
rocking.
Then he grins and pokes Mycroft in the meat of his arm.
"Mycroft has a kiiiii-iiiink." He teases. Sherlock's eyes are bright with
humor.
Mycroft doesn't answer. What can he say? It's true.
Masks. Gone.
Sherlock chuckles breathlessly. He doesn't look angry. Mycroft is mortified.
His brother sobers suddenly.
"Are you a pedophile?" He questions.
A... Mycroft is horrified.
"No. No." He assures.
"God no." He can see how it is a logical conclusion though. He does not want
pre-pubescent bodies. What he wants is...
"It's the innocence, I think. You needing me, depending on me... I wanted, for
so long... The ultimate power trip, I guess. Sorry, my ego is out of control."
He blunders awkwardly.
Sherlock is analyzing, his eyes narrowed. A cramp hits him again and he gasps;
Mycroft rubs circles on his back, feeling helpless. He doesn't dare move his
fingers lower like his Alpha wants; doesn't to dip below the waistband of
Sherlock's pants and bury his hand in the warm wetness surely there.
Sherlock takes a shaky breath when the contraction is over.
He nods and confirms, wiping at his wet eyes.
"Daddy-kink. I can work with that."
Mycroft splutters, scandalized.
"You don't have to. God Sherlock, that's... I'm sorry, no! I'll control it, you
don't have to..."
Sherlock looks much too wise and knowing as he kisses Mycroft to shut him up.
First heat. For Mycroft.
"It's okay, Mycroft. It's normal to have things that trigger you. Haven't you
ever exploited it with your lovers?"
Mycroft reddens. Dear God, don't let Sherlock deduce that last bit, let Mycroft
keep his dignity, don't let him-
Sherlock gasps again "You've never..." And there is honest shock on his face.
Mycroft won't look at him.
"No." He whispers to the abstract swirls of colour on the couch.
He doesn't elaborate.
He doesn't have to.
Sherlock's hands are in his hair, stroking the side of his face until he looks
up.
"Me neither." He assures. "Well, I've never been taken. I played at being Alpha
so I've fucked others before..."
"I stopped, after a while."
Darkness passes over Sherlock's expression, there and gone.
"It never felt right."
Mycroft kisses him then, open-mouthed and wet; he can't help it. Time distorts
again.
Vague humiliation still makes Mycroft uneasy. Daddy-kink, dear Lord. There have
been too many insights into his own dysfunction today.
"I have a kink too." Sherlock mutters against his lips.
"I like to edge."
Mycroft doesn't understand, so Sherlock explains.
"Orgasm delay. Get right to the peak where you can't hold back, then wait.
Again and again, until my transport is unbearable."
Sherlock pants, and his hand moves to grip his dick.
Control. It makes sense, especially in the light of recent revelations. It's
so... Sherlock.
"Usually alone." Sherlock continues, unaware of Mycroft analyzing him.
"With you..." He shudders. "Oh, the potential..."
Sherlock goes still, gathering himself.
Then there is a change in him, some minute shift in his posture or attitude. He
is young and vulnerable again.
"You'll help me wait, right?" Sherlock pleads, and there it is. Mycroft reacts
with his gut, deep deep thrill again.
He nods stupidly.
"First heats are long, huh?" Sherlock says hesitantly. He snuggles closer to
Mycroft. He's shaking. Something pops in Mycroft's ears. His dick gives a
mighty lurch; he can feel the pre-come blurting out.
Christ.
Mycroft tries to fight it. He lasts a few seconds. It's too strong, too big,
that calling and Mycroft is intoxicated by Omega Pheromones.
"Yes. Omega's first heats last a long time." His voice has taken on a scholarly
tone without his conscious consent, dry and a bit condescending. He firms his
arms around Sherlock.
"It takes time for your body to be ready for the Alpha knot." Mycroft is
watching Sherlock. Bullshit. With a few fingers first, Sherlock could take him
right now. Maybe even without.
Mycroft's words affect Sherlock. He sees his pupils dilate, hears the catch in
his breath.
"I'm sorry." Mycroft says, stroking Sherlock's cheek with a thumb. Liar.
"I'll help you wait." He promises, feeling a dizzy elation at the words.
Sherlock moans at that, throaty and sinful. Mycroft's dick pounds.
"I won't hurt you." He adds vehemently, and that at least is the truth.
Sherlock nods, sharp understanding like a wave in his grey eyes before they go
all fuzzy and adoring. Mycroft's insides clench.
"How... How long?" Sherlock asks tugging at his bottom lip with straight white
teeth.
He takes his hand off his erection, deliberately, instead curling both fists
into Mycroft's shirt.
Mycroft can't breathe.
"Hours." He grates. Liar.
Sherlock shudders delicately, sinking into his role.
"And mine is just starting?" He squeaks. Liar. Sherlock has been in heat for
over a day. It's a miracle he's still able to talk.
Mycroft gulps.
Nods red-faced.
Wrong, wrong, so wrong yet so RIGHT. What should have been, years ago.
Sherlock makes a little whimpering noise Mycroft has never heard before. He
squeezes himself to Mycroft's chest, hugging like a bur.
"It's okay." Mycroft says. "I'm here."
For a while his brother just trembles in his arms. His hands twitch in
Mycroft's pricey shirt and Mycroft knows Sherlock is resisting stroking
anywhere that will relieve either of them.
He can do this. If Sherlock can tolerate heat, Mycroft will keep his knot under
control.
"Do you know what happens to an Omega's body during heat?" Mycroft asks,
somehow making his voice strong and confident.
Sherlock hmms which could mean anything.
"Your body will produce a lot of hormones. It will feel like a fever. Your body
will be getting ready for pregnancy."
Sherlock gasps in shock. Mycroft hushes him.
"It doesn't happen anymore. A long time ago, Omegas could birth babies.
Evolution has changed that, but your body will still try."
Sherlock relaxes.
Mycroft kisses the top of his head.
"Your opening will get ready for an Alpha knot. It will loosen and grow blood-
engorged and very sensitive." Mycroft should feel ridiculous preaching like
this, but instead he is more aroused than he's ever been. Sherlock is hanging
onto every word.
"Your body will produce secretions so I don't hurt you. You might leak a bit
later." Liar. Mycroft can smell Sherlock's slick right this minute.
"You might get an erection." he confides. Sherlock groans and shifts at the
reminder of how his dick desperately needs contact. Mycroft's hurts too.
Mycroft is light-headed. Sherlock absorbs the information quietly, like he
always did. He is scenting Mycroft without meaning to, his nose teasing along
his brother's collar.
Mycroft tolerates it as long as he can.
"Do you want me to check your progress?" He asks quietly. God, he can't wait to
see Sherlock. To touch, to smell. Omega. Heat.His inner Alpha is plagued with a
hard-on as bad as Mycroft's, and it doesn't know what to do about it.
Mycroft waits as Sherlock debates.
Finally, Sherlock pulls away.
"No." He says shyly, voice small. "Not yet."
Mycroft's Alpha growls at the nonsense. Sherlock is ready now and Mycroft will
have him. Mycroft takes a breath. Inhales more Omega heat pheromones that drive
him crazy. He can't... His Alpha struggles to take over. Mycroft needs air,
needs to get out of the room, he can't...
He smiles tensely, trying to be reassuring.
"How about a walk then, to help things progress?" Mycroft proposes.
Sherlock stares at him in pure wonder. His admiration makes a warm yellow glow
ooze through Mycroft's chest cavity.
Strong. Alpha.
He preens.
"Yes!" His omega agrees breathlessly.
His omega.
Sherlock.
They are doing this.
...
***** In the garden. *****
Chapter Notes
     Carry on, if you are an adult!
 
Sherlock has agreed to take a walk with Mycroft before they relieve his heat.
The dark thing in Mycroft has curled deep in his belly, satisfied and heavy.
Watching.
Sherlock gets up heavily from the couch and oh, for a vertiginous moment
Mycroft wonders if it's too late. Sherlock stands, bent over with his hands on
his knees and his face dark. His nostrils flare in irritation at his transport.
Mycroft has to help him walk; Sherlock really is that far into heat.
Mycroft can't imagine the stubborness his brother possesses, to force his body
to move when it is in such a state.
Sherlock's hips twist, the friction of his ass-cheeks must be excrutiating; it
causes a stilted, oddly sensuous gait that has Mycroft positively aching.
Sherlock huffs, but he doesn't actually complain, holding Mycroft's hand in a
sweaty palm.
It seems to get easier once they are in motion.
Sherlock is steadier; he pulls Mycroft along and a huge smile splits his face
at the sight of the green outdoors. There is a path right to the door-step; it
meanders off through the gardens, winding between hedges. The sun blinds them
momentarily when they step out, creating dancing purple spots on their retinas.
A bird chirps somewhere nearby.
Sherlock looks around, drinking the familiar sights as though fascinated by
everything; he seems excited like he used to be when he was younger. Always
into mischief, grass-stained and muddy with twigs in his hair; Sherlock loved
the garden. He spent entire days poking at the soil and gathering leaf
specimens, bent on discovering every last secret of nature.
Mycroft remembers. He inhales deeply; earth and sun-baked grass. Sherlock
squeezes his hand tightly, then he lets goto trot off with a whoop.
A few yards later, a cramp hits him.
Sherlock goes red in the face, looking wildly around him. His knees want to
buckle as he presses a hand low to his pubic bone.
Fuck. He is outdoors in the middle of a pathway. He refuses to drop to the
dirt. Sherlock bites his lip, stifling a moan. Something inside him rolls, an
unnatural twisting in his gut that takes his breath away. His asshole throbs,
like his finger did that time he caught it in the door. His abdomen is becoming
rock-hard, a slow tension that rises and rises; up to his navel, higher,
spreading around his sides and down the insides of his thighs.
Then Mycroft is there, warm and solid. He steps close, encourages Sherlock to
sling his elbows over his strong shoulders. Mycroft easily supports Sherlock's
weight as he gratefully sags, all of his attention turned to his lower half.
Mycroft shushes Sherlock automatically; meaningless words. He swallows at how
Sherlock's pelvis jerks, trying to relieve the ache. Not only in his ass then.
The heat is now further along than simple anal lubrication; the burn and
wetness in Sherlock's ass pales in comparison to the pain of his body trying to
rearrange his organs.
He knows most Omega's don't experience this; they relieve the heat at the
beginning. Good little Omegas. Sherlock isn't good. He doesn't even want to be
Omega. It feels right for his first heat to be painful. A rite of passage.
Stupid wrong Omega body.
Good little Omegas take care of themselves; they do not allow the hormones to
reach that critical threshold Sherlock has passed. Evolution has changed Omega
bodies; in a few centuries, the transition stage of heat probably won't exist
anymore. It's entirely Sherlock's fault he's going through with it; it's what
he gets for waiting too long. Right. He has awakened a deep deep drive; his
body is trying to dilate his vestigial uterine cervix, to ready him for bearing
a child.
Stupid. But helpful too.
The pain distracts Sherlock from the urge to be fucked. It helps if he hangs
off his brother, spreading his knees into an awkward squat.
When it's over, Mycroft frets. He has fuzzy knowledge of what happens to omegas
who suffer transition. Severe abdominal pain. Delirium. Dehydration. Mycroft
worries; he tries to turn Sherlock around and get him back inside. Knot him.
Sherlock shakes his head in adamnant refusal. He is so enticing like this, with
his cheeks ruddy and his hair all wind-blown... Little Sherlock, all grown up.
Omega. Protect. My Omega.
Mycroft can't resist his little brother's pleading. He resisted too long,
forever; today he means to indulge him, gorge on defying convention. Right. For
them.
So Mycroft lets himself be pulled down the path by a grinning Sherlock. Further
and further from the safety of the house.
They will have to control themselves now; they can't simply fuck in the garden,
even if they hedges are high and keep them mostly out of sight of the
neighbors.
Mycroft does not know how long their walk lasts.
It is a lot like labor, he reflects. Quiet stretches of peaceful wandering,
together, then bouts of intense abdominal contraction that are slowly taking
their toll. Sherlock, coming of age. He certainly isn't complaining about
having to endure his Omega body's demands, even if the sounds that do escape
him are positively sinful.
Mycroft can almost understand why he is putting himself through this. It is a
way to punish his body, ignoring his Omega needs.
So Sherlock...
First heat...
As long as Sherlock is not in real danger, Mycroft resolves to do this his way.
After a while, Sherlock can barely walk; he waddles along uncomfortably.
Surprisingly, Mycroft is no longer having to pretend. The urge to mount, knot,
RIGHT NOW is muted. Now that Sherlock is in transition, he is in actual pain.
Mycroft's Alpha realizes it, and for some reason it also aknowledges the
backyard is not the right place to knot.
Nest.
Mycroft's Alpha sniffs around in the corners of Mycroft's mind. It does not,
can not, understand this omega's behavior.
Mycroft is still erect, of course. But it's fine, he can ignore his dick for
now. All of his attention is focused on Sherlock, on supporting and consoling
him through the waves of pain. They find a bench and sit for a while, listening
to the dry rustle of the leaves. They kiss a bit.
Sherlock grabs at his dick after a particularly bad spasm and Mycroft
wordlessly takes his hand away.
Sherlock makes a hurt, frustrated noise, so Mycroft kisses his knuckles in
remorse.
Sherlock smiles then, even if his eyebrows are drawn down with strain.
"Thank you." He whispers.
He shifts on the bench, hips rolling again. Grinding. Needing to be fucked.
Mycroft swallows.
"So close." Sherlock says forlornly after a while, looking at his lap.
Mycroft looks too. He wants to bury his face there.
Omega. Heat.
The fidgeting continues, even if Sherlock's hands are obediently held away,
arms spread wide along the low back-rest of the wrought-iron bench. Mycroft
thinks he sees a small dark spot where the head of Sherlock's dick pushes
against his trousers.
"I could finish." Sherlock murmurs a few minutes later in that same too-calm
voice. Mycroft nuzzles his neck, overheating.
Sherlock grips his knees. His ribs move with his breaths. Abdominal
contraction. When it is over, Sherlock places his arms back into their previous
position, clutching the back-rest.
"Oh." Sherlock's teeth are making white indents in his lip. Mycroft watches
him, light-headed with perverted fascination.
"I'm going to cum, it's not going away, god-duh." Sherlock leans back, head
tipped up on his long neck. The underside of his jaw is sharp; his adam's apple
bobs as he swallows. His hips fuck upwards, choppy useless thrusts. Mycroft is
speechless.
"Ugh." Sherlock grunts. Mycroft is tormented by a terrible tension in his own
crotch.
"Please." Sherlock begs.
"So bad." Sherlock's voice is barely a whisper. He is hanging on by a thread.
Mycroft groans helplessly.
"Mick, I can't... It wants...Right now." Sherlock whines, and his head rises.
Then he kisses Mycroft with all that bottled up despair.
An explosion of desire crunches through Mycroft's shock-induced hesitation. He
needs to help Sherlock cum.
Mycroft's large hands grip the sharp wings of his brother's hipbones, digging
in.
Enough teasing, Mycroft is going to make Sherlock cum. Sherlock deduces it,
reads the way Mycroft's posture stiffens.
"Hah." Sherlock gasps, wrenching away from the forbidden kiss with his mouth
slack and his eyes screwed shut.
Mycroft blinks stupidly, trying to process the sudden loss. Sherlock curls into
a ball, drawing his knees up with his feet flat on the hard bench. He isn't
wearing shoes and his toes grip the edge.
"No, no, don't." The omega,his omega, pleads shakily.
Mycroft can see the dark stain, all down the seat of Sherlock's pants.
He can't, he needs.
Sherlock needs...
Sherlock doesn't want...
Temptation. Torture.
Mycroft gets up to pace again.
He runs a hand through his short hair.
"I..." he starts.
His Alpha is torn; protect-mount-nest-knot.My Omega.
This is unnatural. It's what Sherlock wants.
His brother's eyes are open now, brilliant and unfathomable.
He looks finally calmer. Not having Alpha scent in close proximity probably
helps.
Sherlock's voice is filled-with-glass-shards rough as he admits.
"So close... God, right on the edge... For so long. I've never managed, alone."
Mycroft starts to apologize but falters under the warm blanket of Sherlock's
adoring look.
"Thank you. " Sherlock finishes and that's it, he has Mycroft wrapped around
his little finger again.
" ´m so hot." Sherlock whines. And... he's back in his little brother role.
Afraid. Dependant.Mycroft is dizzy with lust.
He croons empty reassurance; good boy and doing so welland I'm here, it's okay.
Mycroft helps Sherlock take his shirt off. His brother's fingers are awkward,
fumbling buttons and his elbow gets caught in twisted fabric. Mycroft tuts and
sets him right. Sherlock is panting.
Mycroft kisses the flushed skin of Sherlock's smooth chest, ignoring the peaked
nipples. They are swollen and hard and Mycroft thinks neither his nor
Sherlock's restraint will stand the strain if he suckles one directly.
Sherlock's fingers thread through his hair as Mycroft takes his time, sinking
to his knees to lick the salty sweat from his abdomen.
Mycroft's tongue laves around the cute navel; it makes Sherlock squirm and
giggle so he does it again.
"Tickles." His brotger protests, too high-pitched. Sherlock rubs his belly
absently when Mycroft's lips leave, smearing the wet trail. He does not dip
below his pants, but they are low-slung enough that a fair bit of skin
tantalizes Mycroft.
"Sore?" Mycroft splays his hand over his brothers.
Their fingers are different. Sherlock's are longer, thin and graceful; a
violinist's fingers. Mycroft's are thicker, the bone structure different. His
nails are cut straight and pink.
Sherlock nods, looking at Mycroft with dark dark expectant eyes.
Omega. Heat.
Pheromones so intense there is a taste like metal in Mycroft's mouth.
Mycroft gets up, quickly evaluates their surroundings: he sits on the ground a
few feet away, in the spotty shade of a huge tree. Mycroft never sits on the
ground. It is unrefined and primitive and fuck, Sherlock is in heat.
He leans his back against the rough gnarly bark and spreads his legs, patting
the ground between them. After a minute's hesitation, Sherlock lurches over and
drops down into the vee.
Mycroft's shirt buttons dig into his skin; it is unbearable.
He jostles Sherlock who is mid-cramp again, tugging his shirt out of his pants
and finally finally feeling the cool breeze on his chest.
They settle together under their tree.
Sherlock melts against him with a happy hum.
Their bare skin rubs together, back to torso and the contact appeases the Alpha
somewhat. Mycroft's arms wrap naturally around his brother in this position. He
is free to run his hands over all that glorious nakedness. It would be even
better without their pants, but Mycroft tries not to think of that.
Sherlock leans his head dreamily back on Mycroft's shoulder and their scents
mingle. Right. My Omega.
Mycroft's hands are drawn to Sherlock's tummy, where he aches, so close to his
cock. Mycroft's hand rests there, low on Sherlock' body, while both his
brother's hands grip his thighs. Mycroft rubs slow circles that make Sherlock
shudder, a pretense at soothing. Torture. Temptation. Sherlock bites his lip
and submits agreeably, like a good lost little brother.
Mycroft's cock is hard, trapped in his pants. It grinds against Sherlock's back
though, which helps take the urgency off.
Sherlock seems to enjoy the new position. He arches with his mouth open when
the spasms hit, rubbing himself against Mycroft's chest hair with a crackle; he
stops the cat-like motions as soon as the cramps are over. Then he goes all
mellow and content; if he actually were a feline, Mycroft is sure he would be
purring.
It is lovely. Knotting is an after-thought, the need not so urgent as they
savor the current stage of heat.
The wind is strong; it makes the long grass wave and the branches move with dim
clacking sounds. Dappled green sunlight bathes them, cleanses away all the
angry hurt. A bee buzzes by.
Good.
Mycroft's brother rests pliant in his arms.
They wait together him to be ready. They are lost in a shared fantasy.
Sherlock, Omega. He has stopped fighting it.
Sherlock is leaking more in this embrace. Mycroft can smell it.
"So strong." Mycroft whispers. Mycroft is amazed by his beautiful Omega
brother.
Then. "You're doing so good, Sherlock. I love you." Words he never dared say
before, faced with cold cynical adult Shelock.
Sherlock moans and stetches a long arm up to press Mycroft's head closer to his
own, crushing their cheekbones together.
Sherlock closes his eyes, lets himself be one with his omega urges. The pains
are steady now. Sherlock is no longer afraid. His brother will take care of
him.
"Breathe, Sherlock." He reminds him when it gets worse. "Just one more. You can
do it."
His thumb pushes into Sherlock's flat belly, feels how tight and aching and
hard it gets. Mycroft soothes until the cramp eases; until Sherlock is sweaty
and relaxed again. Endorphin high.
Time goes by. An hour, maybe.
Mycroft can't tell. He does not tell time in minutes. He tells time in the
waves of Sherlock's heat.
Sherlock, Omega.
Eventually, Sherlock grows more agitated. He writhes, even between the cramping
that is relentless now. He is more vocal, bending in half as his body takes
over.
Sherlock, ready.
Mycroft wants to knot now. He can feel the blood pooling low in his belly.
Their time of rest is over.
Mycrofts makes the decision to take them back inside.
Sherlock, his omega.
...
It is almost too late.
Mycroft waited too long. He had not realized how bad Sherlock's state was,
lulled by how calm and happy his brother was. Now, it is almost too late.
Adrenaline surges in Mycroft. He has to get them inside. It's his
responsibility to ensure Sherlock's safety.
 
Sherlock stumbles on jelly legs, dragged by the strength of Mycroft's hand in
his.
"Please." He begs breathlessly, pupils blown impossibly huge in sea-glass eyes.
"I can't." Sherlock says, and he means it.
"You have to, Sherly." Mycroft pleads. Mycroft mis-judged. He messed up.
God, he needs to get them inside.
"Come on, you can do it." He encourages, that dark thing inside him squeezing
squeezing his lungs. "It's not far."
Sherlock moans, loud and wanton;he clutches a fence post, nearly dropping to
his knees. Control, slipping away.
Mycroft hauls him back up before the cramp has fully dissipated; he allows more
firmness to creep into his voice. He forces Sherlock back into movement, off-
balance with too-long strides when all Sherlock's body is to do is present on
all fours.
Sherlock, in heat.
Fuck.
Mycroft manages to get Sherlock inside by sheer force of will; fully utilizing
the inexplicable mix of bullying and coaxing only a brother can wield.
Inside. The door slams.
Finally safe.
...
***** Bathtubs and Bedrooms *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 
The house is quiet; it's shadowy interior is soothing.
Sherlock sags against the door gratefully. His hair is plastered to his head
with sweat and his face shines, but he looks more put together than a few
seconds ago.
"I'll get you some water." Mycroft says.
Sherlock shakes his head.
Mycroft rubs his shoulder.
"You need it." Delirium. Dehydration.
Sherlock admits quietly, staring at his shoes. "I have to pee. Real bad."
Oh.
Mycroft can feel his ears turn red, awash with tenderness for his shy brother.
He solicitously ushers him to the washroom, gently admonishing him for not
speaking earlier. Sherlock stand awkwardly in the loo, hands wringing together
as he waits for his big brother to get out.
The door closes with a clack.
Mycroft leans against the wall, finally alone. He palms his cock vigourously,
fingers working over his zipper. It is a relief to finally be able to touch
himself, but it is not nearly enough.
If Mycroft took his pants off, he would come in seconds.
He runs a hand over his stomach instead, shivering as the sweat dries. He feels
the softness at his middle, so unlike Sherlock. Mycroft is not fat, not
anymore, but no matter how he pushes himself on the threadmill he can never get
rid of the pillowiness. He hates it.
He remembers Sherlock, a cubist collage of hard angles that somehow work;
jutting hip-bones and concave mid-section, sharp nose and too-flat cheek-bones.
Mycroft knows the truth now. Sherlock's firm transport is not healthier than
Mycroft's detested softness; it is born from drug addiction and disregard for
his basic needs.
Mycroft used to be bitterly jealous of how his brother nonchalantly flaunted
his lanky physique. Now he knows how much Sherlock hated it; how he fought
against his own body day after day.
Bodies.
Just bodies.
Transport.
An Alpha.
An Omega.
An Alpha in an Omega mold.
Transport.
The realization casts a strange green glow on Mycroft's perception of beauty,
coloring the ideals he so aspired to reach. He will need to reflect on the
matter. Later.
"Mycroft?" Sherlock's voice wavers through the bath-room door and Mycroft
instantly jerks to attention.
"Yes. I'm here." He says, keeping the panic of his rabbit-heart out of his
voice.
No answer.
"Sherlock?" Still no answer. Fuck.
"I'm coming in!" Mycroft announces, turning the handle. He really hopes
Sherlock didn't lock it.
It opens easily and Mycroft's bursts into the room with undignified haste.
Oh god. The smell.
Mycroft groans and bumps into the counter-top as his Alpha roars inside.
Omega- heat-mine. Knot knot knot knot knot knot knot.
He takes in the sight of Sherlock, who seems unharmed.
His brother stands in front of the toilet, caught in Mycroft's wild stare.
"I, Mick, I just..." Sherlock's voice is too weak, too uncertain.
The dark thing rears up too, fights the Alpha for control. Mycroft knows
Sherlock is acting on purpose, playing on his sensibilities to force Mycroft to
behave.
The dark thing absorbs the light, forces the Alpha back into a corner panting.
Sherlock is holding his undone pants up with one hand. The other presses to his
delicate throat.
He blinks, slowly. God.
Sherlock blushes, looking at the floor. Mycroft wants to hold him again. The
Alpha recedes grudgingly.
"I thought you might check my progress." Sherlock mumbles too fast.
Mycroft swallows. He needs to be strong; needs to be a good sibling and think
of his brother first.
"Okay." He answers, room swaying in his peripheral vision as he heads foreward.
Omega. Heat. Mine. Finally.
He runs a hand down Sherlock's back and his brother stays quiet. Sherlock bends
forward, grabbing the cistern lid with both hands and dropping his ruined pants
to puddle at his ankles. As an after-though, he steps out of them, the motions
making his ass flex. God it shines with slick, all down the back of his thighs
too.
Don't. Control. Strong.
Maybe Sherlock isn't ready for a huge cock. Omega's first heats are long.
Sherlock is a virgin. Mycroft clings to the fantasy; the net of whispy lies
just barely holds him in check.
Mycroft places a hand on Sherlock's ass cheek. Wonders at that smooth smooth
skin. Does Sherlock shave? Probably not. Mycroft remembers lack of body-hair is
an omega trait, one probably evolved to drive Alpha's crazy. All that glorious
unblemished skin makes Mycroft want to lick and mark and rub his face all over
and no.
He needs to check Sherlock's progress.
"Okay." Mycroft says again, fascinated by the evidence of how aroused Sherlock
is. His body is telling a different story than his face is. Masks. Lies.
Mycroft kisses Sherlock's shoulder-blade without thinking, sliding his index
finger directly into Sherlock's ass crack. It goes in like butter and oh
goodness, so hotand wet and the sound Sherlock makes... Such an indecent moan;
it makes Mycroft's toes curl.
Mycroft stills his finger, doesn't fuck Sherlock like the Alpha wants him to.
He pauses, takes a shaky breath; control like a sheet of tissue paper in the
wind. The world grinds to a halt, narrows to the over-bright sensation of
Sherlock's slipperiness smearing over the rest of Mycroft's hand.
Sherlock's head hangs and he is gripping the toilet desperately. When Mycrofts
looks down over his brother's trembling shoulder, he can see the angry red
omega cock bobbing.
Sherlock is losing it. He tries to back up on Mycroft's finger; his spine curls
so his ass turns up. Mycroft can feel his inner mucles gripping and releasing,
trying to milk his finger.
Omega. No. Wait.
Mycroft groans, digs the fingers of his other hand into the muscle of
Sherlock's ass as he pulls his index from the warm hole.
Angry red finger marks form on pale white flesh. Probably, they will bruise.
Mycroft isn't sorry.
Mine.
Sherlock lets out a sob at the loss of penetration, humping air.
Sherlock hurts. Sherlock is in heat.
Mycroft hurts. His hand goes to his dick and he squeezes.
He wants. God, he wants.
Sherlock wants.
Sherlock is ruled by biological impulse at the moment. It isn't what he really
wants.
KNOT.
Mycroft can't fucking think.
Mycroft waits; a minute, an hour, a lifetime.
Until Sherlock quiets a bit; inhales rough, loud in the small bathroom.
Mycroft swallows thickly. He will deny them, once; offer Sherlock one last
chance to pursue his fantasy. Then he will KNOT.
"Sherly." Mycroft kisses that sharp shoulder-blade. He digs into himself, finds
his concerned big brother voice despite the ringing in his ears.
"Sherly, I'm sorry." He adresses his little brother. "I know that hurt." Liar.
"I'm sorry."
Sherlock grunts. Mycroft is not sure he understands words anymore, his heat too
strong.
One last chance. Before he KNOTS.
"I'm going to try again, ok, Sherlock?" Mycroft says.
His dicks kick so hard at his next words that they come out strange and flat.
"Try not to clench so hard. I know it's weird and uncomfortable." Liar. Liar.
Liar.
"But you have to let my finger in. I need to check how far along your heat is.
First heats are so long and I promise not to hurt you. I swear, Sherlock, I...
I can control my knot. But we need to know..." Mycroft is babbling and he stops
himself.
Mycroft's breath won't seem to get into his lungs.
Ripe Omega pheromones.This is the last chance.
KNOT.
Mycroft takes his time, as much as he can.
He lets Sherlock feel his hands on his ass.
Mycroft spreads his brother and indulges; he allows himself to really look at
the pornographic sight of Sherlock's body in heat. He groans; Sherlock's hole
is puffy and glistening. As Mycroft watches, it winks, searching for friction;
a drip of clear fluid seeps out. God that's hot. Mycroft wants to taste.
Instead, Mycroft slowly, methodically, drags his finger down through the
slipperiness.
He stops with his index just on top of the orifice; feels it pulse with rythmic
greedy need. Torture. Temptation.
"Don't clench." Mycroft warns again through gritted teeth.
He holds his breath and pushes his finger in. It sinks effortlessly into the
swollen gland. Mycroft's Alpha sags in relief. KNOT.
Then, inside, there is resistance.
Unbelievably, the second ring of muscle is tight. Mycroft probes a tiny bit.
The resistance does not let up, although Sherlock makes a noise like he's
dying. Mycroft can't get his finger further.
Omega.
Not ready.
Mycroft's heart splits in two; sinking into a deep canyon of frustrated despair
while simultaneously launching into the stratosphere with elation.
His amazing, brilliant brother. They are going to continue this twisted fantasy
for a bit.
Too tight. Not ready. Mycroft promised...
Even in such an advanced stage of heat, Sherlock understood the double meaning.
Don't clench.
Don't.
Clench.
D...
Clench.
Mycroft wasn't sure Sherlock would get it, or that it was what he wanted or
even that he would be able to physically tighten down there. He would have
fucked him gladly if Sherlock had been ready. His Alpha digs at the ground with
a hind paw, tail lashing.
Mycroft does not linger and pulls his finger out; he watches a veritable flow
of lubrication follow it as Sherlock's hole gapes in relief.
Sherlock sinks to sit on the toilet seat, backwards with his long legs splayed
and his forehead on the cold reservoir.
"Well?" He asks in broken whisper.
Mycroft clucks; he runs his hand through Sherlock's sweaty hair, scratching at
his nape to watch the goosebumps spread.
"Not ready." He says, voice glowing with disappointment.
"Sorry." He feels compelled to add, even if Sherlock was pushing him away on
purpose. They are back to their rightful roles; helpful big brother and
tormented little Sherlock, waiting waiting waiting for his body to be ready.
Sherlock stays where he is and Mycroft wonders from his breathing if he's
crying. Maybe.
"There is engorgement." he reassures.
"And a bit of slick." A blob of Sherlock's thick fluids drops into the toilet
with a plop then. Mycroft falters.
"You're just too tight still." Liar. Torture.
Sherlock doesn't answer. Mycroft thinks he's pouting, like he did when he was
five and things didn't go his way.
Mycroft needs to find a distraction, because his restraint is slipping away. He
can't keep his hands off Sherlock. Soon he will be back to the genitals where
Sherlock he is all too tempting.
Knot, knot MOUNT; Mine.
Taking inspiration from the pseudo-labor aspect of transitional heat, Mycrofts
says the first thing that comes to mind.
"How about a bath?" He inquires.
He thinks Sherlock is too far gone to understand, but after a minute he answers
weakly.
"Yes."
A bath. Good. It gives Mycroft purpose. He can prepare a bath.
Mycroft busies himself with the taps, listens to the old pipes clang.
"Not too hot." Sherlock says, face still hidden. He sounds so tired.
Mycroft sets the water to lukewarm, colder than he would like personally but he
is not the one in heat.
"Up you go!" he says, when the bath-tub is full.
Sherlock is agreeable enough, struggling to his feet and leaning on Mycroft
before clambering over the side and dropping heavily into the water with a
splash.
He looks high, fucking wasted, eyes dilated and body gangly.
Mycroft gets up; he cracks the door a bit. He can't stand the concentrated
omega scent when faced with all that wet nakedness.
"Don't go." Sherlock pleads, lips cracked.
Mycroft reassures him; he finds a little bench that he drags by the head of the
bath and sits on it. He remembers that bench. He remembers helping little
Sherlock climb up to brush his teeth, chubby fingers awkward on the too big
toothbrush. Mycroft can't believe Mummy kept it all these years.
The bench is too low and Mycroft grips the edge, white-knuckled. He widens his
knees, trying to get comfortable. That is how he finds out he can rub his
erection against his fore-arm; little furtive motions that maybe help the ache
of denial a bit.
Humping.
Bestial.
Mycroft is ashamed but he can't make himself fucking stop.
Sherlock is watching him with slitted eyes, but he does not comment.
"This is nice." Sherlock breathes. He is visibly more relaxed, floating in the
water with his knees sticking up pointy, too long legs like a grasshopper.
Sherlock closes his eyes, dark slash of fuzzy eyelashes; he hooks his neck over
the edge of the tub and rests his arms along the sides of the ancient claw-
foot. His pelvis is suspended, bobbing in the water. The smell of slick is
muted by the liquid too, and Mycroft can breathe without choking on Alpha
instincts.
Sherlock does not seem as bothered by the cramps in the tub. Mycroft can tell
when the heat peaks because his brother's face gets more intense.Those slender
musician hands grip the rim of the tub tightly.
From his position by Sherlock's head, Mycroft looks down his body; he can
actually see his omega's abs clenching with the heat. Sherlock bites his lip,
hips curling up. His legs move uncomfortably; the water makes soft lapping
noises in waves against the enameled sides of the bath before he relaxes.
Sherlock's dick is impossibly hard, bobbing in the water. Mycroft wants to suck
it.
He doesn't. Now is a time for him to take a step back, to observe.
Sherlock is entirely focused on his body, and he is handling the heat
exceptionnally well.
Sherlock seems to be concentrating in a bubble of his own creation, and Mycroft
doesn't touch him. He sits on his hard bench, crooning nonsense and perpetually
amazed by his brother. So strong.
Time grows molasses slow and bitter-sweet again.
Sherlock.
Omega.
Soon he will be ready for Mycroft.
...
Much much later it feels, an interminable lifetime of waiting later, Sherlock
is starting to grow more distressed. He is vocal again, shifting roughly and
nearly making the water spill. He looks straight at Mycroft, panic in his eyes.
His breath is short and too fast.
It is Mycroft's turn to be strong.
"Time to get out!" he announces, keeping his voice firm. The respite has helped
him. Mycroft feels in control. He can think.
Sherlock nods, chewing on his bottom lip again. His lip is red and swollen,
Mycroft jumps when Sherlock suddenly disappears, sinking into the water. It
gives him a fright to see black hair floating like lifeless seaweed on the
water.
Then Sherlock sits up, streaming water and wiping his face and ok, he's ok.
Mycroft finds a large towel that smells comfortingly of clean laundry.
Sherlock is docile, dripping water onto the mat. He lets Mycroft scrub him dry,
even if the texture of the towel is surely scratchy against his over-sensitized
skin. Mycroft wraps the cloth around Sherlock's shoulders; he rubs up-and-down
over his brother's biceps then vigourously musses inky curls. The pattern is
familiar, soothing; Mycroft is acting on pure muscle-memory. He used to take
Sherlock from the bath almost daily, since Mummy hated getting wet on her
clothes. Except back then, his little brother used to squeal and wiggle,
fighting Mycroft's capable hold. Sometimes, he managed to slip away stark naked
and run furiously through the house, bare-feet slapping hardwood till Father
intervened.
Today, Sherlock is too quiet, listening to the water gurgle as the tub drains.
He is sick.
He is in First Heat.
Mycroft must take care of him.
...
They head to Sherlock's bedroom, and Mycroft finally shucks his pants. They are
unbearable.
The afternoon air whispers over his naked body; the relief is so intense he
can't suppress a moan.
KNOT.
Sherlock is waiting on all fours on the bed; Omega. Heat.
Sherlock's body curves in such beautiful lines Mycroft wishes he could paint
that upturned ass, swathed in the fuzzy golden light of the diminishing
afternoon sun. He settles for comitting the image to photographic memory, to be
cherished and fondled forever.
Mycroft positions himself behind his brother. MOUNT.
"Ready?" He exhales.
"Check me first please." Sherlock begs.
Mycroft grunts. Fuck. He does not remind Sherlock not to clench; he is ready to
take his Omega NOW. Mycroft's dick-head hurts, leaking more pre-cum than he has
ever seen. It is ridiculous.
Sherlock mewls when Mycroft's finger, slow and deliberate, enters him. It is
dryer than before, the slick washed away by the bathwater.
Sherlock arches decadently.
Mycroft swears under his breath.
Still tight, too tight, god damn it. He won't hurt Sherlock.
Mycroft can't wait anymore. He can't.
He pulls his finger out and sucks it absently.
"So?" Sherlock's haunting eyes are watching Mycroft's struggle over his
shoulder. There is a look of triumph on his face.
Mycroft gulps, again.
He can't speak, trapped in their fantasy. Too much, too long, he can't...
Mycroft wars with his body, with his Alpha that is trying to force a Merge,
something it has never done before.
Finally, he gains control.
"Progress." He says in a deep voice he doesn't recognize. Like Lestrade when
he'd merged earlier. The Alpha, so close to the surface... Sherlock shudders at
the sound.
Mycroft traces Sherlock's flank, the muscles moving, alive, with breathing and
rythmic helpless rocking.
"I got a finger in." Even if you were trying with all your might to hold it
out. He does not add.
"Tight." Mycroft admits. "But getting there. Soon you'll open up more and
you'll be ready for my cock."
Mycroft holds himself by the base, sorta waves his erection at his Omega.
Instinct.
"Aurgghh!" Sherlock rolls to his side. He unravels before Mycroft's hungry
eyes, clutching his small dick. The last of his resistance went into that final
clench.
"It takes so long." Sherlock babbles. He tries to rub against the bed, hips
moving in slow circles.
"Please, Mycroft." He says. Mycroft's balls ache. Sherlock is writhing. It is
indecent. Omega. Heat.
"It hurts. I can't wait any longer." Sherlock pushes the clingy bangs from his
face, unable to be still.
Mycroft shakes his head, a fizzing rush of power through his veins when
Sherlock's face falls at the silent refusal.
"Oh. Oh." Sherlock reaches a pleading hand towards his brother, lets it fall to
the white sheet without touching him.
He does not touch himself either though, not his ass nor his penis, so some
part of Mycroft realizes Sherlock is enjoying the apparent loss of control as
much as he is.
"Please. Mycroft. Please. God, I need." There is awe in Sherlock's voice. All
his words are seperate sentences, half-formed pleas seperated by breathy moans
and lustful rolling.
Sherlock is beautiful in abandon.
Mycroft watches until Sherlock's begging grows earnest, an edge of raw
desperation spiking the words.
Mycroft kneels over Sherlock, jerking off slowly. Sherlock's eyes are
mesmerized, fixed on Mycroft's large Alpha cock. He has never felt so strong
and powerful as he does now, engorged to the limit with a prominent vein
twisting down the shaft. It is difficult to still his hand, to hold himself in
a virile display that has Sherlock on all fours again.
"I'm too big." Mycroft says. "I'll hurt you."
Sherlock shivers.
"I don't care." He says defiantly. Little Sherlock with his chin raised,
ignoring the rules.
"Do it. I... Do it." Flashback. Sherlock is shaking, his brother can hear the
worry masked by bravado.
Mycroft kisses Sherlock's neck, trailing hot breath down his back.
"Shhhh." He soothes.
"You can wait. I'm there. Just a bit longer." he coaxes. Sherlock's eyes are
black, huge and trusting.
Masks.
Burned to ashes.
Sherlock nods bravely.
Sherlock's body won't stop moving now.
He is leaking, leaking, leaking. Mycroft is burning, burning, burning.
Time is strange.
They spend a while on their sides with Mycroft hugged to Sherlock's back, until
the proximity of his dick to Sherlock's needy core gets too much. Mycroft can't
bear it one second more, he will shove it in.
He sits cross-legged by his brother.
Mycroft spends a long time stroking useless circles on Sherlock's skin, rubbing
his tummy like Mummy did when they were little and sick. He can not tell if it
helps or makes things worse anymore.
Sherlock's eyes are closed and he makes noise constantly. There are no more
visibly seperate cramps; just the impossible, never-ending slow surge of the
heat now.
Water, seeping into the glass box of their fantasy; the level rises steadily as
a trickle slowly fills every corner of a glass box. Inexorable. Soon, a tiny
crack will give from the pressure; a stress fracture in either Sherlock or
Mycroft that will topple them from this heady plateau.
Sherlock is soaked in sweat. So is Mycroft.
Eventually, Sherlock begs Mycroft to check him again.
He does, fully expecting to finally feel how gaping his brother is.
Instead, Sherlock tortures them, clenching stubbornly so that Mycroft gets only
one finger in. He is looser than before though. Maybe Mycroft could fit a
second one, if he works it. Maybe he could fit his cock in, if Sherlock stopped
fighting.
Mycroft never wants Sherlock's heat to end. His Alpha has given up; it whimpers
and paces, stamping it's hind legs to try to relieve the ache of constant
erection.
Mycroft takes his probing finger out immediately; he does not dare to leave it
longer than a few seconds. Sherlock is already grunting with pained exertion.
Mycroft thinks he might cry in frustration.
Reality and fantasy are all muddled. Not ready.Wait. He won't hurt his brother,
he will keep his promise.
Sherlock doesn't respond when Mycroft shakes his head.
Sherlock is delirious, almost. He rolls to all fours, burying his face in the
sheets. He keeps presenting, so inviting; his lean thighs are wide and his
fists grip the sheets.
He mewls pitifully and Mycroft can't resist looking at his hole again; god.
He's going to rim him.
Sherlock bolts away the minute Mycroft's tongue touches him, no no no, but his
hand clutches his dick and he jerks off in rapid pumps.
Mycroft wants to suck him.
"Lemme suck you." he asks, or maybe commands, in a throaty rush.
Sherlock moans and nods.
He settles on his back. Mycroft dives for his brother's dick greedily, barely
taking the time to situate himself properly. Sherlock's dick is a typical
Omega's, small compared to an Alpha's but so agressively hard.
Mycroft swallows it inelegantly down to the root, closes his lips tight. God,
the taste! Pure Sherlock.
Mycroft's Alpha lunges forth to take the lead. Mycroft lets it.
He sucks, slurping saliva all over his chin. He wants more; wants to feel the
organ twitch on his tongue and taste his brother's cum.
Mycroft moves his head up and down.
Sherlocks SHOUTS, arching off the bed. His hands lock onto the sides of
Mycroft's skull. Mycroft squints, tries to see his brother's face when Sherlock
abruptly goes quiet, convulsing rigidly as he spurts again and again into his
brother's mouth.
Oh lord, the taste. The taste of Sherlock's ejaculate is even better than the
pre-cum. Primal and thick.
Mycroft's Alpha wants more, wants to roll in the pheromones and bathe in the
scent.
Mycroft swallows all the semen;he laps at Sherlock's cock gently as his brother
recovers from the orgasm.
It's not enough to satisfy the heat.
It won't be enough, they both know it but for a few minutes the urgency is
lulled.
Sherlock looks relieved. Calmer.
His cock never goes down, of course it doesn't, but there is clarity in his
eyes.
He does not ask Mycroft to check him again. The ejaculation has washed away his
control. Riding the hormonal high, it is impossible for him to clench again.
His body has taken over.
Instead, Sherlock rises to his knees.
"You turn..." he whispers.
His turn? Mycroft is stupid, bogged down with lust. He lets himself be placed
as Sherlock wishes it, on his back. His Alpha thinks, hopes, that Sherlock will
sit on his dick. Not as good as other positions but by this point Mycroft's
Alpha will take anything.
"Yes." Sherlock says.
"Time to prepare your knot." And oh, he is evil.
As his dark head bends to suck at his Alpha's dick, part of Mycroft is
complaining.
Nonononono.
Alphas don't knot before fucking the Omega!
Sensations tear through Mycroft and he groans, knocking his head against the
pillow. Sherlock possesses the finesse of long experience at oral sex that
Mycroft didn't. He manages to take an impressive amount of Alpha cock, hardly
choking.
Sherlock sucks and his long fingers work the base of Mycroft's dick, fondling
his balls. Sherlock does a thing with his tongue, almost a flutter, right at a
sensitive spot Mycroft didn't even know he had and it makes Mycroft see stars.
So good. Mycroft can feel Sherlock's tongue and yes, fuck, his throat, work as
he swallows.
Mycroft doesn't know what sounds he makes. There is a sponginess near the base
of his cock, where he will knot. Of course, it isn't engorged fully yet! That's
just impossible, even if Mycroft is out of his mind from Sherlock's expert
blow-job.
Sherlock coos in disappointment when Mycroft fails to inflate, tries harder.
His brother can only blink at him, air whizzing through his nose desperately.
Sherlock reaches behind himself; he works a hand into his own ass crack. There
is nothing staged or enticing about the action. Mycroft winces. It's so real,
too real, efficient, like Sherlock must look like when he wipes after using the
toilet. Mycroft's face pinches in embarassement.
Sherlock's hand is glistening with slick when he puts it back on Mycroft's
genital. His long wet fingers squeeze and massage, mostly around the base
Mycroft's dick and ugh.
Mycroft feels the tingle start, the one that starts the knotting.
Of course, omega pheromones... Fuck.
Mycroft gasps.
"Let it happen." Sherlock instructs. "Knot, Brother."
Mycroft moans as blood starts to pool in his groin and does his best to relax.
Sherlock is looking intently at his face and Mycroft can not guess what his
Omega sees.
He is bare, raw.
Sherlock kisses him, madly, and Mycroft responds with slack lips.
Sherlock's hand continues to work his dick until Mycroft half-knots, whimpering
as he pulses.
It's uncomfortable and wrong, without an omega channel, and Mycroft weakly
pushes Sherlock away.
Torture.
"Now?" Sherlock asks while Mycroft is still trying to gather his wits.
Temptation.
"Fuck me, brother." Sherlock says seriously. The moment shimmers with
intensity.
Mycroft groans. His Alpha roars.
Faster than he would have thought possible, Mycroft flips their position.
Sherlock ends up on all fours like earlier, whining into the pillow.
This time, Mycroft rises confidently onto his knees and sinks his dick right
into the omega's ass. Enough teasing.
There is a brief moment of resistance when Mycroft's knot, swollen to more than
twice it's usual size, presses against the rim of Sherlock's hole. Except for
hours of teasing, Sherlock has not been properly stretched; Mycroft does not
even know if it's physically possible for an Omega to take a knot on the first
stroke.
Mycroft's Alpha takes over, using both hands to spread Sherlock's asscheeks; he
bends forward over his omega's ass and rises straighter on his knees, god
Sherlock is tall. A nudge with his knot, then a wiggle just so and Mycroft is
in.
He bottoms out, knot pushing passed Sherlock's rim.
Sherlock HOWLS. Then he shakes and abruptly cums, spurting untouched all over
the bedding below him.
It all happens so fast, Mycroft's mind hasn't caught up.
He hasn't cum. Yet.
But he is in, knotted with his omega brother.
Finally.
He tries to give Sherlock a moment to recuperate, but the urge is too strong.
Instinct takes over and Mycroft thrusts. He can't really fuck, knotted as they
are. But he rolls his hips, grunting and jostles Sherlock's body. His knot
swells even more and for once the Alpha agrees with him.
Knot.
Mount.
It does not want to cum yet either; it wants to enjoy the pretty omega.
Mycroft grinds into Sherlock until his brother's arms give out; Sherlock's
chest is flat on the bed, red-face turned unseeing to the side with his ass up
like a good little Omega.
Relief.
Finally.
Soooo Goooood.
Mycroft's knot feels huge, and it must be pressing against Sherlock's prostate
because he leaks continuously. With every deep roll of Mycroft's hips, fluid
streaks out of Sherlock's hanging dick. He takes himself in hand and Mycroft
licks at his spine as he continues the choppy strokes.
Omega.
Mine.
Intense pleasure that crackles through every nerve-ending.
Sherlock is making little forced noises, ha, hargh, ha, ha, Myc, ah, with every
move.
His hands slows on his dick for a stroke, two and NO. Mycroft pushes himself
deeper, draping himself over Sherlock; he is going to make him cum. No more
denial.
Sherlock keens. Then his body siezes again.
Omega.
Mine.
Sherlock's orgasm makes his channel contract around Mycroft and that does it.
Without warning, Mycroft is cumming and cumming and cumming. He empties and
empties and empties his pent-up seed into his brother, grunting hoarsely.
Sherlock mewls again and Mycroft think maybe he cums too, but his ears are
rushing too much to hear and his heart is racing, racing, racing, hard
irregular thuds; he is close to whiting out.
Relief slowly follows the thunderous pleasure, making Mycroft weak and trembly.
He sinks onto his side, taking Sherlock with him, trying to catch his breath.
His mind is reeling from how fast it all ended. They are stilk knotted, and
they have to wiggle around to find a comfortable position.
Still knotted and Mycroft never wants to let go.
My Omega.
Soon, they will start again.
Heat.
Sherlock's relieved breaths turn hicuppy and he presses a limp hand to his
face.
Mycroft goes on alert.
"Sherly?" He asks.
Sherlock's voice vibrates too much when he answers. "I think I might cry a
bit."
And he does, and Mycroft holds him in his arms, only this time they are firmly
knotted.
Tied together.
"Better?" He asks when Sherlock quiets.
Sherlock sniffs and nods.
"I'm Omega." He whispers.
Mycroft wants to answer, but he doesn't know the right answer. He can't tell
what Sherlock needs to hear right now.
Alpha.
Omega.
Trans-gender.
Whatever. He is Sherlock.
"You're my brother." He whispers fiercely.
Because that's the fucking truth that matters.
No matter the rest; Lestrade and Pack and Sherlock's gender identity and
Mycroft's weird kinks, the truth remains.
The foundation of their worlds.
The rest will work itself out. Sherlock.
I love you, he mouths silently against the salty skin of Sherlock's back. His
cock throbs, a deep twitch that seems to start in his spine. Sherlock's hole
spasms in response.
Knotted.
I love you. Mycroft thinks.
"Brother mine." He says out loud.
 
Chapter End Notes
     There have been several worried requests of "What about Greg?"
     Indeed, there is more to be written in this Verse. However, I am
     committed to a long story Arc in a different fandom. I might revisit
     these guys later, but for now it is firmly a one-shot.
     Thank you for reading!
     Xxx
     FrenchCaresse
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