Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/344459.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Mycroft_Holmes/Sherlock_Holmes
  Character:
      Mycroft_Holmes, Sherlock_Holmes
  Additional Tags:
      Underage_Sex, Sibling_Incest, POV_First_Person, Confessions, Kink_Meme
  Collections:
      Sherlock_BBC_Kink_Meme_Anonymous
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-02-21 Words: 1251
****** Sleep Therapy ******
by Anonymous
Summary
     Mycroft writes a letter of confession as to the nature of his
     relationship with his younger brother.
Notes
     From_sherlockbbc-fic
     Prompt: Sherlock (13-15ish) has horrible insomnia. On the rare
     occasions that he does manage to sleep, he often has nightmares. The
     only thing that will soothe him is being sat on Mycroft's cock and
     rocked until he comes. Sometimes he falls asleep with Mycroft still
     inside him.
My dear;
 
I suppose that given your role as my confidant and the rapport we’ve
built over the last several years, it would be prudent to address the subject
you so vehemently insist I speak on. I am talking, of course, about my younger
brother – one Sherlock Holmes. I understand that you believe our
relationship to be adversarial, and at many points it truly is… but it
has not always been so strained between us. True, like all family we have
quarrels and long standing feuds over perceived slights as children –
but we were happy. No, I can pinpoint the exact moment that things shifted from
an amicable relationship to what I’m sure my brother sees as that of the
most notorious of enemies… and lovers.
 
Yes, it’d do well to get that nasty bit of shock out of the way,
wouldn’t it? Is it really so surprising that I’d refer to him as
‘lover’? Even in these dark days he has, from time to time, come
back into my fold seeking the familiar touch. I was his first, and for quite
some time I believe he would not let anyone else so close to him. It began as
children, I cannot tell you when as my tongue hesitates to admit to such
depravity at all lest I provide an open target for your potential wrath, but we
were young and in our own way quite innocent. You see, my brother
suffered… suffers still… from terrible insomnia. Many nights, he
would lie awake until the small hours, crying silently and cursing at the walls
for days until sleep would take him without consent. It was in the long nights
where his fits would raise both worry and frustration that I allowed him into
my bed.
 
At first it was simply platonic comfort, cradling him against my chest and
showering him with affectionate kisses and kind words until he drifted off.
Then, some time after, it became something quite different; his delicate hands
would open the buttons of my pyjamas and we’d lie together, skin to
skin. The kisses grew more intent, more passionate – at first I thought
that he was unaware of the effect it had on my hormone addled body, but he
would later claim he planned it all along. It wasn’t until I was part
way into my undergraduate studies that it became overtly sexual each instance.
 
Like clockwork, when I was home from university and he couldn’t sleep he
would come to my bed. Even now, I can remember his pallid figure in the light
of a single lamp as he slid under the covers and curled his lithe, nude body
against me. “Mycroft…” he’d whisper against my ear
as he opened my shirt. I would like to say that I resisted, that as a man of
twenty I had the moral authority to tell him it was wrong to indulge in such
wickedness, but I encouraged it. I teased him with my hands, my mouth, the
delightful slip of smooth skin against skin – and for the first time he
was no longer content with simple frottage. He begged me for more, and I never
could refuse him in such a state.
 
Perhaps you don’t wish to hear this, but perhaps you are intrigued; in
that moment I wanted nothing more than to yield to his demand. He knelt between
my thighs and quite nearly worshipped my manhood with his entirely too talented
mouth and tongue, teasing me into such a state that when he climbed astride my
hips in my own bed, I protested only a moment – and then it was too
late. He guided my hardness into place and sank down on my lap with unexpected
and blissful ease; “I’ve been practicing for you,” he
said, his rakish hair flopped down in his eyes as he leaned closer against my
chest. I have not slept with many men, my dearest, but among them there have
been none that could do to me the things we did that night and many, many times
thereafter.
 
I kissed him as he gradually rocked his small body forward and back; across the
top of his head and down the slope of his brow, down the sharp angle of his
cheek and then deeply at his lips to hide his lustful moans. Each gentle thrust
left my resolve weakened until I began to raise my hips into each stroke,
pushing deeper and harder each time. I don’t doubt that it must have
hurt him greatly, practice or no, but he demanded more. With eager
inexperience, he bit at my lips and frantically rubbed his aroused length
against my belly, I can recall opening my eyes in the heat of the moment and
seeing his thin shoulders flushed pink when he reached climax and broke away
from my kiss. “Please, please… more…” he begged,
even as his fluids dripped down onto my thighs.
 
I don’t yet know if it was the desperate note in his voice, the
sincerity of his pleas, but something inside me snapped as slowly as a green
twig – peeling away in one wave of pleasure after another until my body
seized and he dug down hard against me. For a long while, we lay there –
sticky and spent, utterly exhausted. Even at that tender age, I understood that
we had broken the social taboo – that we should not have indulged our
passion so recklessly, but when I tried to whisper such to him, he only kissed
me once more. As I remained awake, he finally fell into deep, dreamless slumber
as he laid atop my chest – my dwindling manhood and the remnants of our
lovemaking still warm inside him until I was able to guide him onto the
mattress. Hmph, as I recall, I briefly entertained the notion of having him
again, right then – my youthful vigor showing as I watched him sleep
into the small hours of the morning.
 
That moment would set into motion events far more complex than the workings of
an international business arrangement; every moment we are together there is a
lingering hint of those young indiscretions as well as the many that would come
after. We argued, many times over many years, as I wanted to end our
clandestine nighttime visits… and I don’t doubt that in his own
way he hates me for such thoughts. Partially, I feel tremendous guilt for my
actions… and yet a larger piece feels a certain sense of attempting to
reclaim our past in those moments. I am indeed his enemy in both of those
respects, he has made it quite clear that there is no guilt on his part, nor
desire to return to those formative years.
 
Even now, I find myself wondering if I should chance to visit Baker Street
while the doctor is out late at night would I find him tangled in his sweets
and waiting for his brother’s touch? He hasn’t come to my bed in
nearly a year, the longest since university that we’ve been apart and I
cannot help but feel a certain sense of loss. Jealousy, I also admit… it
pains me to think that this Doctor Watson has taken my brother under his care
without knowledge of his terrible nightmares and difficulty finding sleep many
nights. I fear that in the end, I have attained my wish and it is now the end
of this book and the beginning of the next.
 
Most Sincerely and Appreciatively,
MH
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