Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/775656.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV), Sherlock_Holmes_&_Related_Fandoms
  Relationship:
      Mycroft_Holmes/Sherlock_Holmes, Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson
  Character:
      Mycroft_Holmes, Sherlock_Holmes, John_Watson
  Additional Tags:
      Sibling_Incest, Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Omega_Verse, Omega_Sherlock,
      Alpha_John, Alpha_Mycroft, Underage_Sherlock, Virgin_Sherlock, Arranged
      Marriage
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-04-27 Words: 2530
****** It Will Be Today ******
by fayfayfay
Summary
     In a traditionalist society, Sherlock and John are a young Omega and
     Alpha couple happily promised to one another. Mycroft Holmes cannot
     abide this lack of control, and he sets to owning his baby brother in
     a way that Dr. Watson cannot eclipse.
     Underage Non-Consensual Sibling Incest otherwise known as Oh Dear, it
     appears I’m going to Hell.
Mycroft Holmes sits, thinking. He is half scrubbing away irritation at the
sweat growing like a moss on the back of his neck and half ardently chanting to
himself: It will be today.
The sound of Sherlock Holmes stirring in his room catches the attention of
Mycroft’s ears and suddenly, his senses rouse. He feels the heat of the day
anew; the midday sun bakes the house with late summer temperatures and the
sweat eases out of his pores, sticking Mycroft’s starched white collar to his
neck.
Today.
Sherlock paces from his bathroom to his bedside yet again; Mycroft chose this
room for its precise location under his brother’s nimble footfalls. Sherlock
would be warm today, imperceptibly warmer than the August heat would stir in
him; his skin would be flushed pink under his weightless cotton pajamas. Should
anyone stir him from his shiftless lounging, he will be petulant and fitful. He
will groan and hiss and kick his legs and Mycroft will love him fiercely still.
In just a few months, Sherlock will turn seventeen and his bonding ceremony
will take him from the family estate and into the city, and Dr. John Watson
will be charged, then, with caring for Sherlock in these difficult climates. He
will lay delicate and careful hands on Sherlock’s limbs and take time off from
his career and set out food and water and he will fuck Sherlock through his
heat, and then through the next, ad infinitum until their hormonal production
shrivels with age, all while Sherlock produces child after child for to dwell
in their happy home.
Hot blood gushes through Mycroft, rage and jealousy potent in his coiled
stance. Of course, he will be watching his little brother’s life unfold. He has
already secured a live feed to Dr. Watson’s London flat and can watch him eat,
sleep, masturbate, snore, bustle, tie his shoes, even now.
Sherlock refused all of his suitors, at first. As the only Omega born of the
Holmes family for generations, he had been identified early by the family
physician and, since, has been treated with every luxury. Opposite of rejecting
his status, as Mycroft naively expected, Sherlock reveled in his new privilege.
His sudden withdrawal from boarding school was met with delight; Sherlock
thrived as sociability became a disused afterthought and daily experiments in a
self-taught curriculum became de rigueur.
Shortly into Sherlock’s sixteenth year, the normally private and at times
reclusive Holmes family began to entertain regular guests: heirs, magnates,
politicians, even professors and lab researchers in a desperate appeal to
Sherlock’s intellect. All were intended by Mother and Father Holmes to draw
Sherlock’s attention somehow, but Sherlock rejected them all: some with a quiet
roll of his eyes, others with thrown utensils and sneering, caustic insults. A
few remarkable instances saw Sherlock refuse to even come to dinner, claiming
he could smell the bumbling incompetence from his rooms.
The metallic crunch of bedsprings piques Mycroft’s attention. His fists curl
tightly and he is just beginning to smell faintly the warm, sweet and bitter
scent of his brother’s hormonal bouquet.
Today.
When the suitors began to make their circulation, Mycroft decided to move back
into the family household, to make the daily commute to London so he could
rejoin his family for evening meals. He would ensure the best of results for
his younger brother. He would protect him from an ill-suited match. It wasn’t
until later that Mycroft’s feelings were thrown into relief, and it was
startling, agonizing, and enraging.
Mycroft had been lulled into security, trusting that no one would be good
enough for Sherlock. He never envisioned that Dr. Watson would materialize and
his lack of foresight damned him.
Father had met the Doctor, John, at a luncheon that John wasn’t even supposed
to attend. In a miserable slip-up, John, the decorated war hero, the caring
physician, affable yet serious, a study in gentle strength leaning on a medical
grade cane, had been invited to share his military adventures with the group of
retired statesmen and god damn him, he had impressed Mr. Holmes to the point
where Mr. Holmes would offer up his Omega son like so much meat on a spit to be
licked clean.
Well, John had been invited to dinner.
Sherlock took to him immediately.
He took John to see the bees, even. Well, he insisted they carry their
conversation into the garden while Sherlock attended to his most favored and
most charmingly innocent hobby, but Mycroft knew. Sherlock knew and Mycroft
knew the significance of this and the intimacy of it smacked Mycroft like a wet
sock, stunning and disgusting.
Soon, however, after his initial displeasure, Mycroft accepted John with
grudging necessity. He was open, honest, tolerant of Sherlock’s stubborn
autonomy, his self-destructive negligence as well as his Holmesian
eccentricities. He wasn’t rich, influential, or even tall—Mycroft knows that
Sherlock prizes this, and would resent a partner that overtook him in any
intellectual or physical sense, the way that hardly anyone truly could. The way
that Mycroft could.
Part of Mycroft enjoyed seeing his brother take to someone so completely. But
as love crowded Sherlock’s countenance, an equal jealousy bubbled up in
Mycroft, suffocating and rotten. Sherlock and John were engaged within a
fortnight. It was a romantic, traditional, happy solution, and the family was
entirely pleased, but for Mycroft.
It is potent, now. Curls of scent wind their way under Sherlock’s door, down
the corridors, over each carpeted stair and into the study where Mycroft
lounges and sweats. Mycroft waits patiently, staring at the pointed toe of his
Italian leather shoe, focusing intently on the crease of his elbow where layers
of suiting folded, sodden, into his skin. Mycroft tries not to hear Sherlock
moan pitifully, while simultaneously he counts the seconds. The servants will
leave at two o’clock. Mother and Father will return from their leave later in
the week, giving Mycroft plenty of time to coax his brother through his first
shared heat, a heat he will be sharing with Mycroft.
It will be today.
Sherlock could be texting John. He could be sharing the intimate details of his
discomfort, could be pleading for relief; John could be promising in return the
sweetness that will follow their bonding ceremony, the first breach of
Sherlock’s virgin body while John whispers into the pallor of his hairline
love, devotion, security. Sherlock could be texting John—if John hadn’t lost
his phone on the train to a last minute conference in Edinburgh that happened
to include, as a guest, one of John’s old favorite instructors—a lucky guess on
Mycroft’s part, really. Mycroft feels the warm weight of John’s phone in his
waistcoat pocket, powered down because Mycroft doesn’t think his pride can
accommodate Sherlock’s begging for release, for safety, for comfort to someone
who definitely and most sincerely is not Mycroft.
If Mycroft closes his eyes he can see Sherlock’s skin darkening with want under
the freckles he and his brother share. Fifteen minutes past two o’clock.
Mycroft stands.
 
The door is cracked open. The hot air sits stagnant and fragrant in Sherlock’s
room, yellowed, dusty, and damp. Mycroft pushes his way in.
Sherlock is wound in his bedding, white t-shirt and cotton pajama bottoms
soaked with sweat and fluids, sticking to his hyperventilating body. Mycroft
watches his ribcage rise and fall for whole minutes, his feet twitch while he
dozes in and out of coherence.
Sherlock’s breathing escalates unwittingly as he inhales the alpha hormones
being thrown off of Mycroft like water from a dog. Mycroft walks toward him
assuredly despite his erection growing more impossibly full by the second; he
breathes in the smell of his fitful baby brother, the young man tossing in his
soaking white sheets.
It will be today, he thinks again as his fingers finally perch, so, so lightly
on the damp fabric of Sherlock’s t-shirt. Sherlock’s pulse is heavy through the
layers of muscle that compose him.
Sherlock stills. He breathes, “John—”
“No,” Mycroft says. His jacket is thrown off and for a second, he feels
blissfully cool.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock breathes, and Mycroft surges toward the note of relief in
his brother’s voice, “Mycroft.”
Mycroft’s waistcoat, and then his tie, find their homes on Sherlock’s floor.
Sherlock’s knees have drawn up as if trying to escape under him; he’s trying so
desperately not to hump his mattress. He’s so wet. The love Mycroft feels for
him rushes into his fingers, his joints, pumps hot into his every capillary.
Holding his hands over Sherlock’s body is like finding the door to someplace
secret you’re not supposed to know about but have always wanted to go. He helps
Sherlock out of his t-shirt with all the care of a nurse and absently runs a
hand over Sherlock’s chest, cataloguing and saving the feel of his taut, dark
nipples before replacing him on the bed. He kneels over Sherlock’s shoulder and
places an open mouthed kiss on the blade, and Sherlock backs into him
unwittingly. He can only imagine the dazed, sorrowful thoughts in his head:
consumed by want for an alpha, his alpha, and today, that is Mycroft.
Mycroft leans away and, finally, he begins to peel away the waistband of
Sherlock’s pajamas.
Sherlock tenses, then, slightly, and breathlessly, he says, “Mycroft?”
Mycroft hums in acknowledgement, watching the sticking, lukewarm fabric come
away from his brother’s arse, which is flushed pink with invitation.
“What are you doing?” he says, exhausted and wet, the way someone asks when
they can see quite clearly what it is you are doing.
Mycroft strips the fabric away and pulls Sherlock’s pajamas past his gangling
knees and long, knobby feet. Sherlock moans into his pillows as his leaking
erection has new contact with his bedclothes. Mycroft breathes faster.
Mycroft prizes apart the cheeks of Sherlock’s bottom and watches his
lubricating fluids gush out, watches his opening flex and contract in need.
Sherlock’s hands reach out, to stop him, to pull him closer, to fling him away,
to make him stay. He’s grunting and panting into his pillows even as Mycroft
takes both of his spindly wrists into one over-large hand and uses the other to
unbutton and unzip his trousers. His cock springs out, larger and more flush in
the presence of an Omega than ever before.
Sherlock gurgles and shakes, confused. Mycroft toes out of his shoes and kneels
between Sherlock’s legs, using the hand holding Sherlock’s wrists to press them
to his back, holding his brother down as he thrashes, even as his body begs him
to submit. Mycroft takes himself in hand, and, surveying his brother, whose
eyes have begun to dash about, whose body is hyperventilating, presses the head
of his cock to Sherlock’s leaking, soaking entrance. The place where their
bodies meet is desperately hot and perfectly yielding.
“Please know that I love you,” he says, those last desperate words, and drives
his erection into Sherlock. Sherlock cries aloud, sobbing as his body accepts
what his mind cannot. He is Mycroft’s.
Mycroft revels in the heat of his brother’s body, wrapped entirely around him,
invading his senses. He pulls in and out, grunting loudly into his brother’s
ears as Sherlock wrenches out screams, half in pleasure, half in dejected
agony, pleading with Mycroft to stop, to fuck him harder, to get off of him, to
keep going. Mycroft braces himself above Sherlock’s thinner, smaller body,
taking pleasure in him even as he crushes him. Mashed between his body and the
sheets, Sherlock’s prick releases his first orgasm; Mycroft wraps an arm around
Sherlock’s shoulders and under his neck and Sherlock bites him viciously.
“You will always be mine, little brother,” Mycroft says, “You must understand
this,” he half-cries in a violent pleasure, digging his other arm under
Sherlock’s waist and holding his whole hot, sweating body, hauling his own body
over it and sliding blissfully in and out of Sherlock. His toes dig into the
mattress, launching and smashing himself faster into that sweet, tight
darkness, and Sherlock cries louder, louder over the sound of their flesh
smacking together.
Sherlock’s hole contracts around Mycroft, who moans and fucks into his brother
harder, wanting to scratch an itch he’s had since John looked at Sherlock like
he was truly something special, not just an Omega but a genius and he was and
Sherlock showed him the damnable bees. Mycroft will always have this. Even if
John never knows, even if Sherlock has a dozen of his children, Mycroft will
have had the first alpha cock that Sherlock accepted into his body, that he
orgasmed around, that he begged for even while screaming for it to stop.
“Mycroft, please, you’re too—” he says, but he’s so wet, and Mycroft can’t
stop, can just now begin to feel the inflation around the base of his cock, the
folds of tissue bloating to create a permanent sitting place for his brother,
his Sherlock. Sherlock pushes back against him but moans as his juices refresh
themselves, pooling around Mycroft’s cock and in between their bodies, as
Mycroft’s rocking motions rub Sherlock’s penis against the sheets.
Mycroft’s knot has gotten round, and firm, and he can no longer pull Sherlock
to sit fully around his cock. Sherlock, as if he knows why, shakes with renewed
panic.
“I’m going to knot you,” Mycroft says, and Sherlock begins to cry as Mycroft
fucks him in earnest.
“Mycroft, no, please, Mycroft,” his gasps shake his entire body. “It’s too big,
too big already, something is going to happen, Mycroft—”
“Oh God, I have to, Sherlock—You must,”
“I can’t!” Sherlock begs, and sobs out.
Mycroft grunts and fucks forward and then, gripping viciously to Sherlock, he
does it. Sherlock’s body stretches to accommodate him but only just; Sherlock
screams in pain as another orgasm claims him, ratcheting throughout his nervous
system, flushing him a deep, hot color.
Mycroft’s vision whites out and his hips pump desperately into the body that’s
impaled upon him. Semen gushes forth and floods Sherlock’s body, soaking his
insides as Mycroft pulses inside of him.
Mycroft thinks deliriously about what would have happened if he hadn’t been
slipping Sherlock contraceptives in his tea for the last week. He thinks he
would have named the bastard Mordred. He rocks the two of them onto their sides
and holds Sherlock close as he comes three, four times, clamped in the warmth
of Sherlock. Their legs twine together in a sweating heap and Mycroft presses
their shoulders together, maps of freckles that mirror each other perfectly, if
not precisely.
Sherlock dozes in and out of consciousness, left in the state that he inhabited
before Mycroft had even stepped over the threshold. As Mycroft softens, he
kisses Sherlock’s shoulder, then his forehead, gazes appreciatively at his mess
leaking from Sherlock’s backside. Mycroft dresses.
“Leave me,” Sherlock says, suddenly, without turning toward him. Though they
both know Mycroft will return, he chooses to concede, for now.
Mycroft straightens. “If it had to be someone, I’m glad it is Dr. Watson.”
Sherlock’s exhale is stilted and shaking. His ruddy face, leaking mucous and
tears, crumples. Mycroft walks from the room.
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