Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6709675.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Mycroft_Holmes/Sherlock_Holmes
  Character:
      Mycroft_Holmes, Sherlock_Holmes
  Additional Tags:
      Spanking, Belts, Strapping, Non-Consensual_Spanking, Punishment, Corporal
      Punishment, Sibling_Incest, Incestual_Feelings, unrequited_incest,
      Masturbation, Underage_Object_of_Desire, Angst
  Series:
      Part 3 of Brother_Mine
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-05-01 Words: 2543
****** The Visit ******
by HipHopAnonymous
Summary
     I started this fic over two years ago, and randomly decided to finish
     it tonight. I honestly thought the answer to "will you write anymore
     fics" was "no, probably not" but here this is. I realize it may not
     be everyone's cup of tea.
     Just felt like I finally wanted to finish it!
Blood pounded loudly in Mycroft’s ears. He jogged up and down the city streets,
eyes darting around desperately for signs of a dark, curly-haired head. Terror
clawed at his throat, and his heart beat faster as the minutes passed by with
no sign of his brother. He stopped for a moment, panting. Mycroft was
unaccustomed to such legwork. Exercise was certainly not a priority for a top
student, he often justified to himself. Sherlock was in big trouble if Mycroft
found him. No, when he found him, he assured himself. He gave one last anxious
spin to look around before frustration overwhelmed.
“Sherlock!” he shouted into the chilly night air, startling a coed who was
passing by. The woman scowled at him before hurrying away. “Sherlock?” he
called again, not so loudly this time.
Silence was the only response to his futile, last-ditch effort. He fidgeted
nervously with his keys, palms sweaty and shaking, as he tried to think. His
mind was muddled from panic. He shouldn’t have left Sherlock on his own. He
should have made his brother come sit in on the damned seminar, but, quite
frankly, he hadn’t felt up to the inevitable argument over just how boring that
would be. In fact, Mycroft had done nothing but argue with Sherlock since his
brother had arrived, and he was, quite frankly, sick and tired of it.
It had been their father’s idea for Sherlock to come and visit Mycroft at
university. Apparently, at fifteen, Sherlock had fully embraced the clichéd
traits of “sullen teenager” and their parents just didn’t know what to do with
him. His father had decided that a weekend of brotherly “bonding” was just what
Sherlock needed to spark a renewed interest in his future. Or at least give him
enough motivation to stop skipping school and clean up his bad attitude.
Sherlock was supposed to see how interesting university could be and how adult
students behaved, and come home transformed into a model student and son –
polite and driven. Basically, he was to return as Mycroft. If only Sherlock
were so cooperative. As if a few days of being forced to share a small dorm
with his big brother would accomplish anything as insurmountable as that.
Mycroft could have told his parents that it wasn’t going to work, but he had
played along, always the dutiful and obedient son. If Sherlock were only a few
years younger, Mycroft would have instead suggested they simply take his
brother across their knees instead of wasting time sending him on a ‘bonding
weekend.’ In the past, a good spanking had been the only fail-safe medicine
Mycroft had found for Sherlock’s attitude and behavior problems. Apparently he
was “too old” for that now. Pity.
Honestly, their mother had (and presumably still) coddled him, which was
undoubtedly the reason for their parents’ current predicament. But alas,
Sherlock was nearly grown; already as tall as Mycroft. Spanking him at this age
would be improper and absurd, but damn it if Mycroft weren’t sorely tempted to
do so himself at the present moment.
Mycroft had (foolishly) given Sherlock free reign of the campus while he was in
class. He had recommended the library and computer lab and given explicit
instructions on meeting at a popular café in exactly two hours time. Mycroft
had not actually been very surprised when Sherlock was nowhere to be seen at
the designated meeting place and time, but his annoyance had turned to fury had
turned to panic when he couldn’t find his brother anywhere on campus and nearly
two hours had passed since Mycroft’s night class had ended. It was nearing
midnight and Sherlock was still nowhere to be found.
Mycroft had moved on to the surrounding streets in his frantic search, and was
trying to wrack his brain for anything that Sherlock had said or done that day
that might point to his current location. He forced himself to stop panicking.
He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing as he opened his mind and searched.
He finally honed in on the image of a collection of bright yellow fliers that
had been piled on several tables when they had visited the library together
that day. He recalled that Sherlock had focused on them for several moments
while ignoring Mycroft’s lecture on the history of the building. If he just
concentrated he might be able to get – yes! There it was – a street name on the
paper.
His eyes snapped open. The street in question was close; a few blocks at most.
His instinct was to run, but he settled for a brisk walk. There was no question
which house had been advertised on the flier. Mycroft could hear the music
booming from down the road. The building was lit up and people loitered in the
yard, shouting and laughing while throwing back cheap beer.
It seemed a long shot, but it was the best Mycroft had to go on, so, with a
grim look, he strode purposefully up to the front door. He didn’t bother asking
anyone outside if they had seen his brother. There was no use in asking such
intoxicated idiots anything. Instead, he merely marched through the door, which
was propped slightly ajar, and began his own search.
He found Sherlock in less than a minute. His brother stood amidst a relatively
large group, a beer in his hand, and a glassy, dazed look on his face.
Mycroft’s jaw dropped when he followed Sherlock’s barely focused gaze to two
women snorting lines of cocaine off a stained and cluttered coffee table.
Relief was quickly replaced with rage that flared hot in Mycroft’s belly. What
did Sherlock think he was doing in this seedy place? He was only fifteen bloody
years old, and Mycroft had expressly told him not to leave University grounds.
So long as Sherlock was visiting, Mycroft was responsible for his well-being.
He would never have forgiven himself if something bad happened to his brother.
Sherlock didn’t even like social gatherings. Clearly, aggravating Mycroft was
more than worth the unpleasantness of social interaction for Sherlock.
Mycroft strode up to his little brother and wrenched the beer from his hand.
Sherlock blinked slowly, seemingly confused by what had just happened, before
his eyes focused on Mycroft and widened. The momentary look of fear quickly
dissipated and Sherlock grinned stupidly at his brother.
“Mikey! Certainly didn’t expect to see you here!” his words were slurred and
Mycroft grimaced.
“How many have you had?”
A pause. “Mmmmany … what?”
Mycroft grasped the fabric of the shirt at Sherlock’s nape and gave his brother
a shake. “How many beers? Or rather, how much alcohol?”
“Hmmmmm. Six? I’m not sure. They appear to be free, and, ummm, there was a –”
he gestured vaguely. “A gentleman who gave me a tiny glass of something. It was
a prize.”He furrowed his brows. “Awful prize, really, burned like hell going
down, but it was a prize nonetheless.” He smiled broadly. “A prize for being
clever. I won the bet, I did. I did . . . knew where that girl was hiding her
phone number… was obvious…” He trailed off while continuing to nod his head
adamantly.
Wonderful. Sherlock was absolutely pissed.
“And the drugs? Sherlock?!”
“Drugssss . . .”
Mycroft shook him again, noticing that they were starting to attract an
audience. They needed to get out of there.
“Nevermind, we’re leaving, Sherlock. Now.”
With a vicelike grip on Sherlock’s wrist, Mycroft practically dragged Sherlock,
who stumbled behind without complaint, out the door and down the street. He
ignored the calls of jeers or jokes – he couldn’t tell which with the rage
boiling in his skull – following behind.
It took about a block before Sherlock’s impudence kicked in and he wrenched his
hand from Mycroft’s grip.
“Lemmee go! Why’d we leave?”
He made to turn around, but Mycroft grabbed him again, squeezing hard and
giving his brother a shake. His voice was low, but filled with fury. A part of
him realized that he sounded almost exactly like Mummy would in such a
situation.
“Sherlock, we are returning to my dormitory right this minute or else I will
call Mummy to come and pick you up now, and I can guarantee she will not be
happy to see you like this. If you want any chance at freedom for the remainder
of your youth, you will do as I say.”
Sherlock scowled and huffed, but made no further comment, following Mycroft
back to his dorm, seeming to stew the entire way. When they were finally back
in the safety of his bedroom, Mycroft sat Sherlock on the edge of his bed and
began to examine his brother's eyes.
“I’ll ask again – did you take any drugs?” he was relieved to see that
Sherlock’s eyes looked relatively clear.
“What d’you care?” Sherlock snorted and purposefully looked away.
Without thinking, Mycroft delivered a sharp smack across his brother’s left
cheek.
“You really think I don’t care?” he hissed, venom in his voice. “You think I
ran around town in a panic trying to find you because I don’t care? You think I
had you hear to visit because I don’t care? You think Mummy and Father and I
aren’t worried sick about your falling grades and lack of motivation to live a
successful life? Of course we care!”
Initially Sherlock could only stare, mouth gaping in shock after being struck
in the face by Mycroft – Mycroft! But then his (somewhat drunken) temper
returned.
“Yeah, right. Nobody cares about how damn bored I am all the time. Everything
is a waste of time – school, peers, family … I’m surrounded by idiots.”
Mycroft couldn’t believe his ears. His anger had reached its boiling point at
this absurd temper tantrum he was witnessing from his brother. Apparently,
while he had been away at school, Sherlock’s attitude had taken a turn for the
worst.
“Listen here, you spoilt little brat – you have been living a charmed life. I
thought that Mummy and Father were giving you too much leeway, and now I have
proof. You want for nothing, and this is how you repay your family? Getting
drunk? What you need, brother mine, is an attitude adjustment.”
Sherlock made a rude, disgusted grunting noise. “What I need is for you to take
your huge nose out of my bloody business.”
Propriety be damned – if his brother insisted on acting like a bratty child,
then he could certainly be spanked liked one. His parents really should have
done that instead of sending him on this useless visit.
“No, apparently, what you need is a good spanking.”
Sherlock flushed, his jaw dropping and his eyes fluttering before his face
settled into another one of his scowls. “I’m not a little kid anymore, Mycroft.
You can’t just put me over your knee.”
“The hell I can’t, little brother.”
Mycroft made his move. Sherlock was usually quicker, but with his senses dulled
by alcohol, and Mycroft’s fueled by rage, after an awkward, but surprisingly
short scuffle, he was somehow able to pin Sherlock face down over his bed by
twisting his arm behind his back. Both were panting, but Sherlock seemed to
have given up. Maybe he thought Mycroft was bluffing – well, he would soon see.
Mycroft didn’t waste any time in raising his hand and bringing it down sharply
across the seat of Sherlock’s nearly too-tight slacks. He delivered several
more smacks in quick succession.
Sherlock chuckled. “Is that all, Mycroft? Is that truly meant to teach me a
lesson?”
Why was Sherlock goading him? Was he just being impertinent? Still furious,
Mycroft didn’t take the time to think it through, and instead responded with
anger (a mistake he often made when he came to Sherlock.)
“Need more, do you? Very well,” he reached around Sherlock’s waist to unfasten
his trousers and made quick work of jerking them, along with his pants, down to
his knees. He should have wondered why it was so easy, but he was too blinded
by rage. Sherlock didn’t even move when he released him to step back and
unfasten his own belt, removing it and folding the leather strap in half.
“Father should have done this ages ago instead of letting your piss-poor
attitude continue,” he snarled before swinging the belt down to crack across
Sherlock’s now exposed buttocks.
He struck him again and again, painting dark pink bands across the white flesh.
Now, at least, Sherlock began to cry out, yelping at the sharp sting of the
make-shift strap. Suddenly, Mycroft realized that the cries were taking on an
unusual quality. They were beginning to sounds more like moans. He stopped,
breathing heavily. Sherlock’s bottom and upper thighs were covered in crossed
welts, red and angry looking.
“Mycroft!” Sherlock gasped, suddenly flipping over on the mattress, wincing and
letting out a short cry at the pressure on his sensitive, freshly punished
skin. “Please …”
To Mycroft’s horror he realized that Sherlock was aroused. Very aroused. His
penis was hard and red, standing tall against his belly. Sherlock’s eyes were
moist, but heavily lidded, his cheeks flushed, lips parted slightly.
“Please,” he repeated, writhing on the bed. “Don’t … don’t stop. I’ve thought
about this before – since the last time, but you’re never around anymore. I
never thought ... but ... Please … touch me …”
Mycroft recoiled, practically throwing the belt to the floor. He turned away
quickly.
“Go to bed, Sherlock.” He said, thankful that at least his voice did not waver.
Without another glance, he turned off the light and shut the door behind him.
He sat on the sofa in the dark, his back riged, mind reeling. He was in shock.
Sherlock was drunk, that was all. He didn’t know what he was saying. Maybe he
had tried some drugs, after all. Maybe. What did he mean – ‘the last time’? He
couldn’t mean … that was ages ago, and he had been a child. God, oh God, what
had Mycroft done?
After some time had passed, Mycroft heard some movement from the bedroom. He
held his breath, waiting, finally relieved to realized that Sherlock seemed to
take his advice and go to bed. Mycroft waited a bit longer before he laid down
on the sofa, pulling an afghan over himself. His heart wouldn’t stop thumping
and twisting, and it took ages before he fell asleep …
… only to awake hours later, his cock hard and aching. Had he been dreaming?
Images from earlier that evening kept flashing, unbidden and unwelcome in his
mind. Sherlock on the bed. Sherlock’s plump buttocks covered in welts from his
own hand. Sherlock hard and writhing, begging to be touched. Mycroft groaned.
He couldn’t think about his brother that way – his brother! He tried to push
the thoughts away, but it was impossible.
Finally, he gave in.
“Fuck,” he breathed, whispering, as he shoved his hand down his pants, wrapping
thin fingers around his hot, hard erection. “Fuck.”
He hated himself. He stroked furiously, his need spiraling out of control. He
was disgusting. He was close, so close. Sherlock begging. ‘Please … touch me.”
God. Mycroft came with his free hand pressed against his mouth, stifling his
moans. For several blissful moments, there was nothing but raw pleasure. And
then there was nothing but shame and guilt.
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