Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/386323.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV), Sherlock_Holmes_&_Related_Fandoms
  Relationship:
      Mycroft_Holmes/Sherlock_Holmes, Mycroft_Holmes/Original_Male_Character,
      Mycroft_Holmes_&_Sherlock_Holmes, Sherlock_Holmes/Original_Male_Character
      (s), Sherlock_Holmes/Greg_Lestrade, Mycroft_Holmes/Greg_Lestrade, Mycroft
      Holmes/Sherlock_Holmes/Greg_Lestrade
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, Mycroft_Holmes, Greg_Lestrade, Original_Male_Character
      (s)
  Additional Tags:
      Bondage, Anal_Sex, Spanking, Sibling_Incest, Sex_Toys, Blow_Jobs, Riding
      Crop, Domestic_Violence, Flashbacks, Food_Sex, Food_Kink, Dom/sub, Dom/
      sub_Play, Alternate_Universe, Mycroft_and_Sherlock_run_a_BDSM_B&B, BDSM,
      Dom!Mycroft, sub!Sherlock, dom!lestrade, Sub!Mycroft, Rough_Sex, Public
      Sex, slut!lock, slut!Sherlock, Beach_Sex, Prostate_Milking, Prostate
      Massage, S&M, Paddling, Pain, Painplay, Sherlock_is_a_Brat, Kid_Sherlock,
      Kid_Mycroft, Guilt, Brotherly_Love, Sibling_Love, Love_Triangles, Human
      Furniture, Rimming, Erotic_Electrostimulation, Vibrators, Butt_Plugs,
      Threesome, Threesome_-_M/M/M, Spitroasting, Angst, Angst_with_a_Happy
      Ending, Angst_and_Porn, Explicit_Sexual_Content, Porn_With_Plot, Porn
      with_Feelings
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-04-19 Completed: 2017-01-09 Chapters: 37/37 Words: 90906
****** Torquay Arms ******
by chasingriver
Summary
     Mycroft Holmes runs an exclusive BDSM B&B. Sherlock is an amenity.
     Lestrade pays a visit. Set in an AU. Sherlock/Lestrade/Mycroft and
     permutations thereof.
                                        
                                [Torquay Arms]
Notes
     Warnings:sibling incest, domestic violence (chapter 16)
     Author's Note: The first fifteen chapters of this are unabashed porn.
     At chapter 16, I delve into Sherlock and Mycroft's backstory, and the
     tone turns decidedly angsty. There's more porn later. And more angst.
     I always said I’d finish this, and I had every intention of doing so.
     But after season three, my interests changed and I expanded into
     other fandoms. I kept thinking, “At some point, maybe I’ll be able to
     finish it. Hopefully I’ll feel more motivated and other projects
     won’t take priority.” This has not happened. I’m sorry.
     I’ve cleaned up and expanded the chapters I hadn’t published (33 &
     34), and what follows from there is a plot outline for the rest of
     the story (35 & 37), and one more chapter (36) in between the two
     outlines. I know it’s not the same as having a properly completed
     story, but at least you’ll know how it ended. It seemed like a
     realistic compromise. Thank you for all the lovely comments you’ve
     left over the years, and thank you for reading.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** The Torquay Arms *****
Chapter Summary
     Gregory Lestrade books a weekend at an exclusive B&B.
Gregory Lestrade smiled to himself as he sent his medical references to the
exclusive Bed and Breakfast in Torquay. Something interesting must be going on
down there if I have to prove I'm clean before I can go.
His friend James had suggested it – raved about it, actually – but he'd merely
smiled when asked what was so special about the place. "You'll see. Trust me,
just go. The amenities are outstanding. You won't regret it."
Amenities? Like shampoo?
James was also a respected dominant, and Greg trusted his judgement.
"Take your toys."
"Oh. Ohhhh. Okay." He'd booked the appointment that afternoon, and he'd been
looking forward to it for weeks.
He phoned to confirm his reservation, and the phone was answered by a refined,
elegant voice.
"Good afternoon. The Torquay Arms, how may I help you?"
"Hello, Gregory Lestrade here. I'm supposed to have a reservation for this
weekend."
"Of course, Mr Lestrade. We are eagerly anticipating your visit. Shall you be
arriving by car or by train?"
"By car. I have the address."
"Very good. And will you still be joining us alone or will you be bringing a
guest?"
"No, it's just me."
"Very good. I look forward to meeting you, Mr Lestrade. Good day."
"Um, good day."
Greg wasn't really used to the formal speech patterns, but he shrugged it off.
He was used to getting his way, and class distinctions didn't make a lot of
difference to him.
He drove down to Devon on Friday afternoon. He was glad to be out of London for
a change. He liked the coast – there were fewer people and it was frequently
sunny – more frequently than the rest of the country, at least. "England's
Riviera." He wasn't sure how well it competed with France for hot sunny
beaches, but that wasn't why he was here.
'The Torquay Arms' was a nicely appointed townhouse on Beacon Hill, overlooking
the English Channel. Painted in a lovely light yellow, it practically glowed in
the early evening sunlight.
He was greeted by a tall, elegant man in a three piece suit. "Mr Lestrade. It's
such a pleasure to meet you at last. I'm Mycroft Holmes, proprietor of 'The
Torquay Arms.' May I assist you with your luggage?"
"Thank you." Greg motioned towards a medium-sized suitcase in the boot. He
didn't have many clothes, but his 'toy' collection took up a fair amount of
space.
"As you may know, Mr Lestrade, we only host one guest or couple at a time. I,
and my brother, will be happy to serve all your needs for the entire visit."
Greg noted the odd inflection on the word 'all.' "Thank you, Mr Holmes." He
paused. "Your brother?"
"Sherlock. My younger brother. You'll meet him very soon."
Greg wondered if Sherlock was the reason James had told him to bring his toys.
Mycroft Holmes didn't seem like the submissive type – he certainly couldn't see
him on his knees begging for release. Greg found him very attractive in an
elegant, refined sort of way. An equal, perhaps… he didn't often play with
other doms, but he certainly wasn't opposed to the idea. His thoughts were
interrupted as Mycroft spoke again.
"Your suite is at the top of the stairs, Mr Lestrade."
"Here – I'll get the bag, thanks."
Mycroft gave a slight nod. "Please inform me if there's anything at all you
need."
Again, that odd inflection.
The door at the top of the stairs opened into a spacious living room, decorated
in light, muted tones. A comfortable looking sofa and chairs surrounded a low
table. It was very refined and tasteful, but nothing out of the ordinary.
Greg slid back the rice paper shoji screens leading to the bedroom and
involuntarily gasped. He wasn't sure which was more striking, the ocean view,
the massive four poster bed, or the naked, collared, gagged, and absolutely
fucking exquisite specimen of a man kneeling on the floor in front of the bed.
***** You Must Be Sherlock *****
Chapter Summary
     Gregory Lestrade meets Sherlock Holmes, the ultimate amenity.
This must be Sherlock. Fucking hell. Now I see why James recommended this
place.
There was a small metal tag attached to Sherlock's collar. Greg lifted it up to
read it. 'Use me.'
Amenities, indeed.
He stepped back to take in Sherlock's long, lean frame. His skin was pale,
unmarked, and almost luminous. He had longish black curly hair, blue-grey eyes,
and a lovely mouth. It's obscene, stretched around that ball gag. Beautifully
obscene.A generously-sized cock lay half-hard on his thigh. Clearly gets off on
submission.
Greg undid the gag and pulled it from Sherlock's mouth. "You must be Sherlock."
A voice like dark chocolate and dripping with sarcasm replied, "Aren't you
brilliant. How long did it take you to figure that out?"
"Oi, mouthy little bitch, aren't you? I can see why you were gagged. Does your
brother know you're this rude to the guests?" He shoved the ball back into
Sherlock's mouth and roughly refastened the buckle. "Stand up and turn around.
Let me see the rest of you."
Sherlock stood and slowly turned towards the bed.
"Oh, very nice. Even better without the sarcasm." Greg ran his hand slowly over
one magnificent arse cheek. Grabbing a fistful of dark curls, he pulled
Sherlock's head back roughly and slapped his arse, hard.
The amenity moaned around his ball gag.
"Oh, a submissive and a pain slut, eh? I'm going to have fun with you. Kneel."
Sherlock knelt with his head bowed. Greg took in the rest of the room with
interest. On further inspection, there were a few non-standard items of bedroom
furniture. The most obvious was a metal cage in the corner - it looked like it
would accommodate a person on their hands and knees. The bottom of the cage was
open, and there were attachment points for cuffs at all four corners.
He investigated a large wooden wardrobe and found an impressive and neatly
organised array of floggers, canes, crops, and paddles. There was a sizable
collection of cuffs, ranging from metal to padded leather, and spreader bars of
varying sizes. The drawers in the lower portion of the wardrobe contained a
variety of sex toys, nipple clamps, hemp rope, medical supplies, enema
equipment, and lubricant. Greg realised he could have left his own toys at
home. He'd never seen a collection like this before.
One wall was partially covered by a large tapestry. It matched the decor of the
room but seemed slighted slightly anachronistic. Peering behind it, he
discovered two vertical rows of eye hooks securely fastened to the wall.Ah.
Attachment points for bondage. Very nice.An image of Sherlock, limbs spread and
attached by cuffs to the wall – with that plush arse, his for the taking –
leapt into his mind and refused to leave.
He opened a door to reveal a cupboard. Along with the usual space to hang his
clothing, it contained an interesting looking bondage chair and a padded
sawhorse. Greg smiled and removed the sawhorse. That would come in handy
shortly. Sherlock needed to be taught a lesson in manners.
A large copper soaking tub, a generously sized glassed-in shower, a toilet and
a bidet made up the massive, slate-tiled bathroom. A large stack of fluffy,
white towels rested on a small wooden stand.
"Well, with the exception of your atrocious manners, I must say, I'm quite
impressed. Let's see if we can beat some decency into you, shall we?"
He set up the padded sawhorse on a towel in the large open area. He grabbed
Sherlock's hair and pulled him to a standing position. "Alright you, over
here." Pulling him over the sawhorse, he attached the cuffs on Sherlock's
wrists and ankles to the snap hooks at the base of the saw-horse. "Oh, how
lovely. It's been made just for you, hasn't it?" Sherlock was stretched taut
over the device, his inviting arse just at the right height. Sherlock was fully
hard now, his length pressing awkwardly against his leg.
"Let's see. What to do first? So many choices." Greg walked over to the
wardrobe and selected a sturdy wooden paddle. "This should work."
Standing behind his new plaything, Greg let the paddle fly through the air. It
landed with a satisfying 'crack' on Sherlock's generous arse. A muffled cry
escaped from around the ball gag. Another swat, another cry. A third hit, and
this time he heard a moan. That's more like it."You're a little pain slut,
aren't you?"
Sherlock nodded.
A quick series of hard slaps brought a lovely shade of red to the cream-
coloured surface of his arse. There were no cries now, only muffled moans of
pleasure. Greg had long ceased to be an dispassionate observer. He was
rampantly hard and rutted, fully clothed, against Sherlock's tender arse.
He laughed. "I don't know what I'm waiting for, there's already an engraved
invitation on your collar." He took off his trousers and pants, placing them on
the bed. Grabbing some lube from one of the drawers, he slicked up a couple
fingers and plunged them, without warning, into Sherlock's arse.
Sherlock pressed back against them, as much as his bondage would allow.
"You're already nice and lubed up – all cleaned out and prepared for me, eh?
How thoughtful. Tell me, does your brother prepare you for his guests, or does
he make you do it yourself? Oh right, your pretty little mouth is full at the
moment. What a shame. I'll have to ask him myself."
Greg pulled out his fingers and added another before plunging them into the
second knuckle.
"You're lovely and loose already. Does he keep you plugged when you're not
serving the guests? I know I would – one of those nice heavy steel plugs I saw
in the drawer over there. I love using those on a sub. The weight means you
can't forget it's there."
He looked appreciatively at Sherlock's reddened arse. "I think you're ready
enough. I like it a bit rough myself."
Using one hand to steady himself, he lined up the head of his huge cock against
Sherlock's entrance. Grabbing the sawhorse, he forced his way into Sherlock in
one hard thrust.
Sherlock made a delicious noise that hovered somewhere between lust and pain.
"Fuck, you're tight. I think I'll do that again." Greg pulled all the way out,
teased his entrance with his cock for a second, and thrust back in again. "Oh,
that's nice."
Without giving Sherlock any time to adjust, he started fucking him at a
punishing pace. This wasn't about maximising Sherlock's pleasure – he had no
intention of letting him come at all – Greg just wanted to take the edge off
his own need. The sight of Sherlock's lithe body just fuelled his lust. He dug
his fingers hard into Sherlock's thigh, knowing it would leave bruises on his
pale skin. It wasn't long before he felt his own body tense as he shot his load
deep inside Sherlock's arse. He groaned in relief.
"Oh, that was nice. Just what I needed after a long week at work." He pulled
out of Sherlock, his cock slick with lube and ejaculate. He cleaned himself off
with a nearby towel, thinking how much nicer it would be if Sherlock's mouth
were available for the task.
Greg got dressed and looked at Sherlock's reddened face. "Now, I'm going to
talk with your brother about your atrocious behaviour. I don't think you'll be
going anywhere, will you?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"I didn't think so. Back in a sec."
As he made his way down the stairs, Mycroft Holmes rose from his chair behind
the wooden desk in the foyer. "Mr Lestrade. How may I be of assistance?"
"Well, the room is lovely, but your brother…"
He gave Mycroft a bit of a smile – he wanted him to know that he was looking
for some friendly 'assistance.' He wasn't actually angry.
"Oh, dear…"
"He has a bit of an attitude problem. He's fine when he's gagged, of course,
but I'd dearly love to use that mouth of his."
"I'm so sorry, Mr Lestrade. He sometimes does this to instigate punishment. I'd
be happy to help if you'd like to reinforce some more appropriate behaviour.
Greg took in Mycroft Holmes' subtle smile and attractive physique. Oh, I think
that would be very nice."Thank you. I'd like that."
Greg took to the stairs with Mycroft following him.
***** Electric Chair *****
Chapter Summary
     Mycroft helps Greg punish Sherlock for his insubordination.
As they entered the bedroom, Mycroft gave a low hum of appreciation. Sherlock's
arse, still a lovely shade of red, leaked a mixture of semen and lubricant down
his inner thigh. He turned to Greg. "I'm glad to see you already extracted some
punishment. May I?"
"Please."
Mycroft unhooked his brother from the sawhorse and moved it to the side. "Kneel
on the towel, slut." Mycroft removed the ball gag, shiny with saliva.
Sherlock flexed his jaw and swallowed.
"I hear you were rude to our guest. How dare you?" Mycroft pulled back on his
head so Sherlock couldn't avoid his gaze. Greg wondered if Sherlock's hair was
long for precisely this purpose.
"This insubordination will cease." He turned to look at Greg. "I'm so sorry.
I'll put him in the electric chair."
Greg's eyes widened in horror until he caught Mycroft's smile and remembered
the device in the cupboard. Mycroft set up the chair as Greg watched. In the
light of the room, it was more obvious that it contained multiple holes in the
seat for various-sized dildos and attachments. There was an electrical box
attached to the back of the chair. A remote control with various switches and
dials sat in a storage pocket.
"Sit."
Sherlock, quiet now, sat in the sturdy wooden chair. His erection, no longer
impeded by the sawhorse, was hard against his stomach. Mycroft attached his
wrist and ankle cuffs to the eye bolts on the arms and legs of the chair. He
went over to the wardrobe, returning with a leather cock ring and a silicone
dildo with embedded electrical wires.
He snapped the cock ring tightly around the base of Sherlock's erection. "We
don't want you getting too excited, now, do we?" He looked at Greg. "While this
is punishment, he does tend to find it… stimulating."
Greg smiled. He'd heard of these devices, but he'd never seen one in use. They
emitted small electric shocks through a variety of attachments. He looked at
the dildo Mycroft had brought back – it was designed specifically to stimulate
the prostate.
Mycroft quickly lubricated the device and knelt on the floor behind the chair.
Using his hands to find the correct hole in the seat, he worked the toy through
the hole and up into Sherlock's arse. Sherlock shifted slightly, his arse
impaled on the chair, and moaned. After firmly securing the dildo, Mycroft
attached electrical leads to it. Grabbing the remote control, he stepped in
front of the chair to face his brother.
"Now, Sherlock. You're going to give Mr Lestrade a proper apology."
Sherlock emitted a short laugh.
Mycroft slapped him across the face, hard. "You ungrateful little slut. You'll
pay for that, believe me, but not quite yet." He turned to Greg. "Please, show
him no mercy – he loves having his mouth assaulted. Don't you?"
Sherlock nodded, his face still stinging from the slap.
"I'll be stimulating him while he services you, but the cock ring should ensure
he doesn't get any release. Not until we decide, at least." Mycroft smiled at
Greg, who had taken the opportunity to undress and put on the plush dressing
gown hanging in the bathroom.
Greg would normally still be in recovery mode, but the sight of Sherlock, who
had only gotten harder when Mycroft slapped him, made his cock twitch with
anticipation.
Mycroft turned a dial on the remote and Sherlock's body convulsed. "Remember,
Sherlock? Remember what this feels like? How good that feels on your prostate…
How it will start to torment you when you can't get any release?" He turned the
dial back down a bit, lowering the shocks to a maddeningly stimulating, but
infinitely tolerable level.
"Mr Lestrade. If you'd be so kind?" He motioned to the area in front of the
chair.
Greg stood in front of Sherlock, held his semi-hard cock in front of him, and
grabbed Sherlock's hair. "Open your mouth, you little cock slut."
Sherlock looked up at him with lust filled eyes and ran his tongue over his
lush lips. "Oh, now you're behaving, eh? C'mon. Suck me off, and make it good."
He shoved Sherlock's mouth onto his cock, groaning as it was engulfed in tight,
wet heat. He pulled Sherlock's head down until his nose was buried in his curly
pubic hair.
Sherlock twitched and moaned each time one of the shocks coursed through his
body. His complete concentration was focused on expertly sucking Greg back to
full hardness. It didn't take long. Sherlock smiled to himself. He took pride
in being a damned goodcock slut.
Mycroft noted the look of bliss on Greg's face with satisfaction and turned up
the intensity of the shocks a couple of notches. Sherlock moaned as his tongue
circled the head of Greg's cock, teasing it.
"How's he doing, Mr Lestrade?"
"Please, nghhh… call me Greg." Greg was having a difficult time keeping his
composure. "God, he's good."
"He is talented – I trained him well. But he's a filthy little whore. That's
the problem with pain sluts – they're so hard to discipline." He turned to look
at Greg. "And with this one, the only real punishment is to withhold sex."
Greg's eyes widened slightly at the implication. Brothers.He did a quick moral
inventory and decided if Sherlock was his brother, he'd fuck him, too. He
smiled at Mycroft. "Perhaps we should make him suffer a little, then. I'd
certainly like to see you out of that suit." He gasped as Sherlock sucked his
cock harder, unhappy at no longer being the centre of attention.
"I'd like that very much." Mycroft smiled and turned up the electrical
stimulator another notch. Normally, it would have sent Sherlock over the edge,
but the cock ring was keeping him painfully distant from any release.
Mycroft threw the remote on the bed, ignoring his brother as he looked at Greg
with undisguised lust. Of course he'd considered the possibility. He'd even
ordered Sherlock to be rude to Mr Lestrade, hoping that Greg would involve him.
But any more than being involved in Sherlock's punishment? He'd dismissed
thattantalising idea as unattainable.
Greg pulled his cock from Sherlock's mouth almost reluctantly, but he wanted to
get Mycroft out of his clothes. He pulled him in for a kiss, not yet sure of
the power dynamic between them.
Mycroft relaxed into it, letting Greg lead. He moaned as Greg's tongue slid
between his lips. So long since I've been with anyone but Sherlock. So good to
let someone control me. He gave himself over to sensation as Greg's tongue
passionately explored his mouth.
Greg hadn't expected Mycroft to be submissive. He growled in approval and
pushed Mycroft gently against the wall.
Leaning close to Mycroft's ear, he whispered, "Not all dom then, eh?"
The smooth sensuality of Mycroft's voice was like a caress. "Not for you,
certainly."
If Sherlock was a blazing fire, Mycroft was smoldering embers. Greg was glad he
wouldn't have to choose between the two brothers. He pinned Mycroft's wrists to
the wall with one strong hand and resumed kissing him.
***** Not His Department *****
Chapter Summary
     Lestrade entices Mycroft to stray a little from his job description.
Mycroft's focus was entirely on Greg. Sherlock and the remote were completely
forgotten as he revelled in the unfamiliar newness of Greg's mouth and the
strong body pressed against him. He moaned as Greg pulled away to nip at his
lips and place small bites down his jawline.
Greg released Mycroft's hands as he quickly worked on the younger man's suit.
"You…" The tie was off. "Need to be much more naked…" The jacket and waistcoat
were shrugged to the floor. "As soon as possible." Greg fumbled with the
buttons of Mycroft's shirt as Mycroft worked on his belt and trousers.
Mycroft stood in front of Greg in a pair of navy blue silk boxers. They weren't
doing much to hide his raging erection, but he felt oddly self-conscious about
stripping completely naked.
Greg stepped back. Mycroft was tall and slender – built like his brother, but
fairer-haired and with a light covering of freckles dusting his skin. Greg
murmured his approval. While Sherlock was the best amenity ever, Mycroft was
much more his type. He drew closer once more, pulling Mycroft towards him with
a hand on his lower back.
"Well, Mr Holmes…"
Mycroft raised an eyebrow inquisitively at the slightly shorter man.
Greg continued, "I certainly didn't expect to have the pleasure of your company
this afternoon. Are you sure this is something you want?"
"Quite."
Sherlock moaned in protest. He was still impaled on the chair, which continued
its relentless assault on his prostate.
Greg turned around and glared at him. "If you can't be quiet, I'll tape that
pretty mouth of yours shut. It'll hurt like hell when I pull it off. Your
choice."
Sherlock fell silent and slumped against the chair, resigned, for now, to the
torture of watching his brother get all the attention.
"I'm afraid I have a bit of a confession to make, Mr Lestrade."
"Greg."
"Greg. I asked Sherlock to misbehave, hoping you would involve me. I didn't for
a minute expect…" He motioned to his mostly-naked body, a little self-
consciously.
Greg pushed him back against the wall, a smile on his lips. "Do you want me to
punish you, or would you rather I just fuck you senseless?"
A small involuntary moan escaped Mycroft's lips at the thought. "Oh…"
Greg's fingers teased the waistband of Mycroft's boxers, dipping beneath the
smooth silk to wrap them around Mycroft's hard length. "I'm having so much fun
punishing your brother. I think I'd rather fuck you senseless."
"I'd like that." Feeling more confident, Mycroft slid his fingers around Greg's
cock and pulled him back in for another kiss.
Greg's kiss was rougher this time, and Mycroft melted into it.
"Do you want to tell me what you want, or shall I just take it?" Greg's voice
was a whisper as he playfully bit at Mycroft's ear.
"Please… take." Mycroft was so turned on by the idea of ceding all control that
he could barely breathe.
"Mm. That's what I thought." Greg pulled Mycroft's pants down as he nudged him
towards the bed. "Centre of the bed, hands and knees."
Greg turned to Sherlock. "Alright, slut. The only time I want to see your mouth
open is if I'm about to come down your throat. Got it?"
Sherlock nodded, a thin sheen of sweat glistening over his naked form. His
erection strained against the cock ring, and the toy impaled deep in his arse
continued its merciless assault. His ankles and wrists were still securely
bound to the chair, making any attempts at self-gratification impossible.
Greg retrieved a bottle of lube and spread a large fluffy towel over the
expensive duvet. Without a word, Mycroft repositioned himself on the towel.
Greg climbed onto the bed next to him and playfully pulled Mycroft down on top
of him. Mycroft gasped at the contact with Greg's tanned body, and a lock of
dark ginger hair fell rebelliously across his forehead. Greg ran his fingers
through Mycroft's hair affectionately. "You're always so controlled, aren't
you?"
Mycroft smiled ruefully and glanced in Sherlock's direction. "One of us has to
be."
"Perhaps you could make an exception?"
"I'll do my best." A genuine smile spread over Mycroft's face.
Greg grabbed Mycroft's arse and pulled him close, grinding their erections
together. Mycroft let out a loud moan and offered up the long expanse of his
neck for Greg's mouth. Without warning, Greg flipped Mycroft onto his back and
pinned him to the bed. Nibbling his way along Mycroft's neck, he slowly moved
down his chest, and Mycroft let out a small yelp as Greg's teeth brushed his
right nipple.
Releasing Mycroft's hands, Greg knelt back on his heels and took in the sight
of Mycroft spread wantonly beneath him. "So fucking gorgeous…"
Mycroft flushed, not used to the scrutiny or the compliment – both of those
were Sherlock's domain.
"Right, get on your hands and knees. I'm going to fuck you halfway into next
week." Greg slicked up his fingers and his cock as Mycroft shifted position.
Sliding one finger into him, he was surprised at how tight Mycroft was.
Sherlock, watching the proceedings with interest, laughed cruelly.
Mycroft shot his brother a fierce look, but it wasn't enough.
Sherlock said, haughtily, "He won't let me fuck him, you know. No one has
fucked him halfway to anywhere for years."
Mycroft slowly closed his eyes in humiliation and exhaled, praying the bed
would swallow him up.
***** Mycroft's Turn *****
Chapter Summary
     Mycroft gets some attention for a change.
Chapter Notes
     Warning: sibling incest
Greg got off the bed, silently furious. He went to the cabinet and removed a
roll of medical tape.
"Of course he won't let you fuck him. You're an arrogant little slut who
doesn't know his place. Your only function is to be a willing mouth and arse
for your brother and anyone else he chooses." Greg ripped off a piece of the
tape and plastered it across Sherlock's mouth, pressing firmly to make sure it
would stay in place.
Greg grabbed the remote off the bed and turned it off with a smile.
Sherlock let out a muffled cry from behind the tape. It was clear Greg had no
intention of letting him get off anytime soon, even though the cock ring was
keeping him painfully hard. Perhaps I can shift against the toy in my arse.
It'll be better than nothing.
Greg looked at him, seeming to read his thoughts. "I don't think so." He knelt
behind the chair and pulled the toy roughly from Sherlock's arse, earning a
muted moan. He checked the cuffs on Sherlock's wrists and ankles. Satisfied
there was nothing Sherlock could do, physically at least, to stimulate himself,
he spoke to Sherlock again.
"Look at me, slut." Sherlock's eyes were still full of defiance. "You're going
to watch me pleasure your brother, and you're not going to be any part of it.
As far as we're concerned, you're not even here. You're furniture. If you're
lucky, I might let you lick my come out of his arse later. That's all you're
fit for, you know – a human towel. You're going to learn some respect, even if
it takes the entire weekend."
Greg turned all of his attention back to Mycroft and got back onto the bed. He
flipped Mycroft over and pinned him to the bed once more. "Your brother's a bit
of a prat, isn't he."
Mycroft smiled, ruefully. "I probably haven't been hard enough on him."
"Oh, I suspect he's incorrigible. I'm far more interested in what I can do to
you…" He forcefully took Mycroft's mouth in a kiss, leaving no doubt as to who
was in charge.
Mycroft felt the tension go out of his muscles as Greg explored his mouth. He
desperately needed this. What Sherlock had said was true – it really had been
ages. Other than his unconventional relationship with Sherlock, he rarely had
sex. It had been a form of self-preservation over the years – Sherlock was
enough of a handful without involving anyone else. Sherlock's employment status
as an 'amenity' kept him off drugs, sexually satisfied, and most importantly,
not bored. Though Sherlock would probably never admit it, Mycroft knew he was
happy and content. God knows he'd be long gone if he wasn't. But now, with Greg
pinning him against the luxurious bed, his desire surged and he yearned to
submit his own body for a change. He tried to free his wrists, hoping Greg
would retaliate with more force. He did. Greg pushed him harder against the
bed, grinding his erection against Mycroft's.
Mycroft moaned at the increased pressure – both on his wrists and his cock.
"You need a good, hard fuck, Mycroft Holmes. That's what you want, isn't it? My
thick cock in your arse?"
An unexpected whimper came from the direction of the chair. It was ignored.
Mycroft could barely manage a "Please…" as he met Greg's brown eyes in a lust-
filled stare.
Greg repositioned his hands firmly on Mycroft's shoulders and started teasing
his left nipple. His tongue trailed delicately around the edge of it, and then
he bit down on it, hard. His tongue flicked at the newly-tender nipple,
focusing all Mycroft's attention on that one spot. He kept at it until Mycroft
was squirming with pleasure, then he released his shoulders and manhandled him
onto his stomach. "Hands and knees."
Sherlock watched with envy as his brother knelt on all fours. Mycroft's thick
cock bobbed above the duvet, as if taunting him. It was Sherlock's favourite
position for getting fucked, and it just added insult to injury.
Mycroft knelt there, quivering, eager for Greg to take him. He looked back in
surprise as a single slick finger breached him.
"Don't worry, you're going to get it nice and rough." Greg's voice softened. "I
just want to make sure I don't hurt you. There are plenty of other ways for me
to do that later, if that's what you'd like."
"You know, I'd still like to apologise for having deceived you, Greg." There
was a trace of a smile in his voice as he knelt there, his arse an inviting
target.
"That was pretty unforgivable." He brought his left hand down on Mycroft's arse
with a sharp 'crack.'
Mycroft reacted to the impact by impaling himself deeper on Greg's slicked-up
finger and moaning.
"Oh, you liked that, did you?"
"Yes, sir."
Greg grinned at the title. "Mm. A little respect will go a long way. Your
brother could learn a lot from you." A quick series of blows rained down on
Mycroft's arse that left him squirming against Greg's finger.
"Thank you, sir."
The sight of his brother being spanked made Sherlock's own recently spanked
arse tingle. He cursed himself for watching them – it just made his already
painfully erect cock even harder. He strained against the wrist cuffs, trying
to reach the tip of his cock with his long fingers. Not even close. He groaned
in frustration behind the medical tape.
Greg dropped his head and slowly licked a broad stripe up Mycroft's tender
spanked arse. Mycroft groaned in surprise and pleasure at the gentle touch.
Without warning, Greg added a second finger to the first and started to stretch
him further.
After an initial gasp at the intrusion, Mycroft started to relax. Soon he was
pushing back, eagerly fucking himself on Greg's fingers. Greg brushed over his
prostate teasingly, and Mycroft completely lost his formal demeanour.
"Ohh… fuck!"
"Want more, eh?"
Mycroft struggled to regain his composure. "God, yes… please, sir."
Greg indulged him; he stroked Mycroft's leaking cock with his left hand as he
massaged his prostate with the other.
Mycroft's brain catapulted between the sensations in his cock and his arse. He
didn't even notice his own embarrassingly needy moaning. When Greg released his
cock, Mycroft realised he was making enough noise for the both of them. He
forced himself into silence, panting. "Sorry, sir."
"I don't know why. I like hearing the noises I can fuck out of you. I'm sure
Sherlock does too."
Greg added a third finger, and Mycroft openly groaned at the delicious stretch.
It didn't hurt, it felt wonderful. I'd forgotten what it's like to be taken.
Greg's breath caught in his throat as he watched Mycroft writhe and impale
himself on his hand. "Fuck, you're hot. I can't wait to shove my cock in your
arse. I'm going to make you scream, and you're going to beg for more."
Greg's fingers already had Mycroft begging. "Please… now. Fuck me now."
Jealousy and lust surged through Sherlock at Mycroft's words. It's not fair.
Why the hell does he get to fuck Mycroft? It should be me. I'm the one who's
wanted him all these years.
Greg leaned close to Mycroft and whispered, "You'd better be sure about that,
because once I start pounding this tight arse of yours, I won't be able to
stop."
Mycroft's brain could only come up with one response. "Yes. Rough…"
Greg pulled his fingers out of Mycroft's arse and slicked up his straining
cock. "Oh, yes."
Mycroft felt the head of Greg's cock at his entrance and started to push back
onto it. Strong hands gripped his hips and suddenly Greg was thrusting into
him, hard and all at once. His brain lit up in an explosion of colour as it
tried to process the overwhelming sensations. The sudden obscene stretch, the
force of Greg's cock pushing inside him, the feel of Greg's body slamming
against his own – his entire body sang.
Sherlock tried to remain aloof as his brother threw his head back and roared
with pleasure. It's a good thing he had this place soundproofed. The next
thought crept into his mind unbidden. If I'd kept my mouth shut, that would be
me. It stung, and he wrenched against his bonds in frustration. The cuffs were
too soft to dig into his skin, denying him the pain he wanted. He cursed
incoherently behind the tape.
Greg and Mycroft were too wrapped up in layers of sensation to know or care
about Sherlock's tantrum. Greg pulled out a little and slammed back into
Mycroft. The tight, hot friction of it was exquisite. Mycroft's wanton reaction
just fed Greg's own lust – his head was thrown back and his normally impeccable
hair lay in wild sweaty curls across his forehead. Seeing him come undone like
this…
"Harder, Greg… ngghh…" Mycroft's words lapsed into incoherence as he pushed
back to meet Greg's punishing thrusts. I needed this. God, how I needed this.
Greg dug his fingers into Mycroft's hips as he pounded into him, hard enough to
earn a caught breath in between Mycroft's constant moans. "You like pain as
much as your brother, don't you?"
Mycroft didn't answer, not wanting to admit it, and too absorbed in the fucking
to care.
Greg slapped his arse hard as he continued driving into him. "Don't you dare
hold back on me. Say it."
"Yes…" He trailed off as he struggled to find words through the haze of
pleasure in his mind. "I like… the pain."
"You missed it, didn't you? You're quite right not to let your little slut of a
brother give it to you – you need it from someone who understands you."
Mycroft tilted his head in confusion, no longer sure whether Greg was talking
about pain or sex.
Greg smiled, knowing. "Both, Mycroft Holmes. Don't worry, I'll give you what
you need." He bent over and sunk his teeth into Mycroft's shoulder as he gave a
particularly vicious thrust, and Mycroft let out a throaty yell at the
overwhelming pleasure/pain.
Mycroft felt the resulting electricity travel down his spine and his whole body
tense as the sensation thrust him over the edge. Suddenly, a strong hand
grasped the base of his cock, pushing his orgasm painfully back into the
distance.
"Please… please let me come…"
"Not yet, gorgeous. I'm not done with you. Besides, I have something special in
mind." It only took a few more hard strokes before Greg was coming deep inside
Mycroft's arse. He let the waves of pleasure overwhelm him for a few minutes,
basking in it. Then he pulled out of Mycroft, his cock shiny with his own
semen.
"Stay there – hands and knees – don't worry, I'll see to you soon enough." Greg
crawled off the bed and gave Mycroft a deep, passionate kiss. "You're fucking
amazing, you know that?"
He walked over to Sherlock, who was still completely hard and utterly
indignant. He stared daggers at Greg.
Greg grabbed the edge of the tape and pulled it off Sherlock's mouth in one
quick move. Sherlock yelped with pain as the tape came off. He looked like he
was about to say something, but wisely kept it to himself.
"Right, slut, clean me off." Greg pulled Sherlock's head down and Sherlock
opened his mouth, eagerly taking his soft cock inside. He lapped at it,
cleaning Greg's semen and remnants of lubricant from it. Greg pulled his head
back. "Right, that's enough. I don't want you enjoying that too much."
Greg unclipped the restraints on Sherlock's wrists and ankles. "Now, clean your
brother up. He's full of my come. Put that mouth of yours to good use for a
change."
Sherlock couldn't help it as a triumphant smile swept over his face. Finally.
Not being ignored.
Greg didn't miss the gloating expression – he'd make Sherlock pay for that
later – but at the moment, he didn't care. It would be worth it to see the
little slut with his face buried in his brother's arse.
Greg looked over at Mycroft, somehow looking elegantly debauched, kneeling on
the bed. "Lie on your right side for me."
Mycroft silently complied, but his unsatisfied lust was evident in the hungry
look he gave Greg.
Greg grabbed Sherlock by the hair and pushed him onto the bed. "I want you to
get every last drop of my come out of his arse."
Sherlock knelt behind his brother, spread his arse cheeks with both hands, and
started tonguing his entrance.
Greg watched him for about thirty seconds, a look of amazement on his face,
before he spoke. "Did you not hear what I said? I want you to clean him out,
not give him the world's most delicate rim job."
Greg pushed Sherlock's face hard against Mycroft's arse, driving his long
tongue deep inside his brother. Lube and sweat smeared across Sherlock's
cheekbones as Greg firmly held his head in place. "I want your tongue all the
way inside that nice tight hole of his. And afterwards you're going to thank
him for the privilege. He'll tell me if you're not trying hard enough."
Mycroft groaned as Sherlock's tongue breached him, opening him back up and
seeking out Greg's release. His eyes fluttered closed at the sensation, and it
was all he could do not to tug at his aching cock. So close.
"Mm. Not yet. I'm not done with you."
Mycroft's eyes shot open at the sound of Greg's voice.
Greg stood next to the bed, a mischievous look on his face. "Let's see how long
you can last, shall we?"
Mycroft wasn't sure how much longer he could last. Sherlock's tongue in his
arse was already sending delicious sensations up his spine.
Greg crawled onto the bed and looked Mycroft in the eyes. "Don't you dare come
until I tell you." Without another word, he swallowed Mycroft's cock down to
the root.
Mycroft nearly passed out from the sensation.
His body screamed with pleasure as the two extraordinarily talented mouths
worked on pushing him to the edge. It was all he could do to stop himself from
coming deep in Greg's throat. Have to wait. Told me to wait.Sherlock's
insistent tongue probed deeper, and Greg was doing delicious things to the head
of his cock. Fuck…
His thoughts turned to white noise as the pleasure, impossibly, increased. This
is it, can't hold on… Greg's hand on his balls, tugging gently, brought him
back to Earth, pushing his orgasm back, just out of reach. He felt Greg's mouth
slip off his cock.
"Not yet. Soon."
Then it was back again, the hot wetness of it sending him out of his mind.
Greg watched the expressions on Mycroft's face. They were all over the place,
moving from blissful to pained to something near transcendence. It was time. He
pulled off Mycroft's cock and grabbed Sherlock by the hair, pulling him over
Mycroft. Sherlock scrambled quickly into position in front of his brother.
Mycroft's body throbbed at the sudden loss of contact, and his brain struggled
to catch up. And then Greg's face was there, inches from his own – their eyes
locked, and Greg whispering into his mouth. "Come for me, Mycroft. Come all
over your brother's face." Greg's mouth was hot and desperate on his, and he
wasn't sure if it was Greg's words or his kiss that pushed him over the edge,
but he was falling and his release crashed over him like waves.
Greg watched as Mycroft came in thick spurts – all over Sherlock's face and
open mouth. Satisfied Sherlock was doing his job, Greg went back to kissing
Mycroft – gently this time – caressing his face and neck as his body trembled
through the aftershocks of the powerful orgasm.
When Mycroft finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. "So good… thank
you." He smiled at Greg with genuine warmth.
Greg smiled back. "It was my pleasure, Mycroft Holmes."
***** Atonement Satisfied *****
Chapter Summary
     Greg decides Sherlock has paid for his insolence.
Sherlock looked up at them, his striking features covered in thick strings of
ejaculate, his hard cock still imprisoned by the cock ring. He had the sense
not to speak.
Greg looked at him and smirked. "We're getting a shower. Kneel outside the
shower until we're finished. After you dry us off, you can clean yourself up.
Until then, you can only clean what you can reach with your tongue." He picked
up a snap hook from the dresser and clipped Sherlock's wrist cuffs behind his
back. "I wouldn't want you getting yourself off or anything."
Greg and Mycroft climbed off the bed, leaving Sherlock to follow them.
As he stood next to Greg in steaming shower, Mycroft looked at Sherlock,
kneeling quietly in the centre of the room. He was motionless, except for his
tongue, which licked his face clean as far as it could reach. "I haven't seen
him this calm in months."
Greg smiled. "Sometimes you just have to treat him like the filthy little slut
he is."
"And me?" Mycroft was smiling. "What would you recommend there?"
Greg pinned him against the wall of the shower playfully and kissed him deeply
before answering. "I think I need to plough that gorgeous arse of yours on a
more regular basis. You need someone to keep you in line as well." He nipped at
Mycroft's lower lip.
"I think I'd like that." I think I need that.He was suddenly pensive, and he
tried not to let it show. But it's not like I can expect anything after this
weekend…
Greg felt Mycroft's mood change, and he could hear it in his voice when Mycroft
spoke.
"You know, Greg, I don't usually... I don't want to put you in an awkward
position…" He trailed off, unsure of what to say.
"Your brother already told me that you don't normally do this, remember? And in
case you're wondering, I don't sleep with all the handsome, incestuous
innkeepers I meet, either." He kept his voice light, but he didn't want Mycroft
to think he was making a joke out of it. He tried to read the expression on
Mycroft's face, but it was inscrutable. "Look, I'm going to come off as an
arrogant sod for even asking this, but I need to know: are you regretting that
this happened or regretting that it will end after this weekend?"
"It's not like anyone gets down to the coast very often. I don't expect…"
Mycroft paused, then seemed to pull himself together and stood a bit taller.
"It will be my pleasure to spend the rest of the weekend with you, Gregory. I
can assure you I have no regrets that this happened. Quite the opposite." I
just wish it could happen again.
"Good. Because I see no reason why it has to stop after this weekend, if we
don't want it to. I'm just saying…"
"Oh…" The look of surprise on Mycroft's face changed into a wide smile. "Like I
said, I think I'd like that."
Greg pushed Mycroft back against the wall of the shower and took his mouth in
another hard kiss.
Sherlock smiled to himself. He'd never admit it to Mycroft, but he liked seeing
his brother happy. He watched as they showered – kissing, just enjoying each
other's company. They were both in a post-orgasmic haze, taking their time. It
was maddening. His cock ached for stimulation – any stimulation – pain or
pleasure at this point. He didn't care. His brother's semen was drying on his
face and starting to itch. I could join them in the shower.Even as he thought
it, he knew it wasn't an option. He desperately wanted to be able to play –
with either of them, preferably both of them – and that would just get him
locked in the cupboard for the afternoon. Possibly the entire weekend. He had
to stay here - kneeling, on display, like a pet – and wait for them to finish
their shower.
A pet.He'd never thought of it like that. He was aware his mind was wandering,
but it didn't seem like he was going to need it anytime soon, and he allowed
it. I could fetch their slippers. Bring them the newspaper. On my hands and
knees. Wearing my collar. They could take me out for walks, on my leash. Put me
in my cage. Punish me for being bad.The pet analogy had merit. It broke down
when he got to the sex though, and he shook his head to rid himself of the
image. Even he had limits.
He snapped out of his reverie when he heard the water being turned off. He
stood and walked to the shower so Greg could unlink his cuffs without leaving
the plush cotton bathmat. With the use of his arms restored, he went to fetch
towels, blatantly ignoring the screaming protests from his cock.
He dried them – first Greg, then Mycroft – thoroughly and respectfully. At no
point (and he was quite proud of himself), did he 'accidentally' let the towel
rub against his aching prick, or use his hand to brush the dried semen from his
face. When he finished, he brought them warm dressing gowns, hung up the damp
towels, and knelt back in the centre of the floor, hands behind his back and
his head bowed.
Mycroft looked at Greg, and raised an eyebrow, impressed. Greg smiled. The two
of them left the bathroom and retired to the sitting room. Sherlock remained,
kneeling, in the centre of the bathroom. Mycroft was thrilled – his brother
could be a complete prat, but at least he was proving he had some manners, and
was trainable.
They made him wait. Greg made idle chit-chat about the weather on the coast.
Mycroft poured them both a glass of scotch. They left the shoji screen open –
Sherlock could hear them but not see them.
Sherlock started to wonder if he could get away with touching himself. Just to
relieve the ache – not enough to get himself off, just a quick stroke – that
was all he wanted. He slowly started to move his hand from behind his back.
There was a pause in the conversation, and Greg's voice, louder than before,
came through the door. "Do it, and you'll be in that cage for the rest of the
weekend."
Fucking hell. Is he psychic or something?
Greg looked at Mycroft and grinned. His voice low so Sherlock wouldn't hear, he
said, "Subs are all the same. I know how long it takes for them to get
rebellious when nobody's looking."
He raised his voice again. "Okay, Sherlock, come out here. It's time for you to
give us a show."
Sherlock quietly entered the room bearing a towel, unfolded it on the floor in
front of them, and knelt on it.
Greg looked at him, still covered in Mycroft's dried semen, his raging hard-on
untouched. "I'm impressed – you've shown much more restraint since your
punishment. I'm going to let you come, but not until I say so. Undo the cock
ring."
Sherlock unsnapped the leather band and gasped at the rush of sensation. He
forced his hands back to his sides.
"Tell me why you deserve this, Sherlock."
"I don't, sir. I'm a filthy little cock slut who just wants to be used."
"I'll bet you do. Get yourself off. Slowly. Don't come until I say."
As Sherlock gingerly wrapped his hand around his cock, he nearly lost control.
His brain contributed as much to his arousal as his touch. He was on display
for Mycroft. He'd made Mycroft proud of him. And Greg – he was different from
the other Doms who'd stayed. He wantedto please Greg. He wasn't just another
guest he could mentally ridicule as he sucked them off.
He pulled his hand slowly up the length of his cock. His head was filled with
images of Mycroft and Greg, taking him, using him in every way imaginable.
Taking his mouth and arse at the same time. Both of them fucking his arse at
the same time. Oh. God.He gripped the base of his cock tightly, desperately
trying to stave off the orgasm that thought had almost triggered.
Greg watched Sherlock and smiled. Kneeling there, his eyes closed and his head
thrown back, mouth open in deep panting breaths, he was like some orgiastic
Dionysian statue carved out of marble. "Don't stop."
"I have to… I can't… I'll come."
"Don't stop. Don't make me tell you again."
Sherlock tried to clear his mind as his hand slid down to the base of his cock,
every inch of its journey flooding his brain with sensation, his oversensitive
nerves screaming for more.
Clearing his mind wasn't working. Perhaps filling it would. 3.14159265358979…
His hand moved slowly back up his cock.
Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen...
Someone grabbed his hair and his eyes flew open. Greg was right above him,
staring at him. "Stop the little head games. I didn't tell you to try not to
get yourself off."
"You told me not to come."
"I told you to get yourself off, and to wait to come until I told you. You'll
follow all my orders, not just the ones you feel like."
Mycroft was smiling, he already knew the answer. Sherlock was still working out
the question.
"But I'm so close, any more and I'll come."
"You're supposed to be smart – figure it out." Greg wrapped his hand around
Sherlock's and started roughly jerking him off with his own fist.
Sherlock let out a guttural scream as he started to come, and Greg grasped the
base of his cock, chasing the orgasm away again. "Not until you figure it out.
I'll give you a hint. What if I never let you come?"
Oh god, please, no…
Something in his brain silently clicked into place.
Ohhh. Beg! He wants me to beg for release. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
"Please, sir. Please let me come. Please. I'm begging you."
Greg smiled. "About fucking time you figured it out. Go ahead, come for us."
Sherlock groaned as his hand flew back to his cock. All it took was a couple
quick strokes and a flick of his thumb over the fat head, and his orgasm was
ripped from him as he screamed in pleasure and relief. His release spattered
across his stomach and chest, and his whole body throbbed as he rode out the
aftershocks. He knelt there weakly, sweat-slick strands of hair clinging to his
forehead.
Greg helped him to his feet and handed him a towel. "Clean yourself up a bit.
You can shower later, but you should rest a little first. Get a dressing gown
and join us."
As Sherlock made his way rather unsteadily to the bathroom, Greg sat back down
next to Mycroft with a smile. "Do you think I was too hard on him?"
Mycroft laughed. "Never."
Greg leaned over and kissed him, the act surprisingly intimate after what
they'd just shared. It was gentle, each exploring the other without the sexual
urgency of before. But when Greg pulled back, Mycroft started to tense up.
"I'm sorry, Gregory, I should get us something to eat."
"I'd rather you stay here. Why don't you take the weekend off?"
"I… um… I can't. It's not right…"
Greg almost smiled at Mycroft's uncharacteristic lack of composure. "I'm your
guest this weekend, right?"
"Yes…"
"You ensure your guests have a pleasant visit…"
"I pride myself on it."
"Well, I think my visit would be even more pleasant if you took the weekend off
and spent it with me."
Greg didn't want to 'order' him to do anything – this had to be Mycroft's
choice, not his. But already, he was struck by how much he craved Mycroft's
company. His job didn't leave much time for a social life, and his infrequent
sex life consisted mostly of dom/sub play among a small circle of similarly-
minded friends. Opportunities to spend time with a fascinating man like Mycroft
were few and far between.
Mycroft's expression was curious. "What do you propose?"
"Show me around Torquay. Let me take you out to dinner. Perhaps we could share
some of the lovely 'amenities' you offer here."
As if on cue, the 'amenity' stepped into the living room, cleaned off and
wearing one of the plush dressing gowns.
Greg's gaze didn't leave Mycroft and his voice softened further – he wanted
Mycroft to know he was serious about this. "Look, I'd like you to relax this
weekend. Don't worry about everyone else's needs for a change. Let me take care
of yours."
Mycroft gave him a long stare, as if debating the wisdom of getting involved –
any more than he already had – with a guest. He broke the silence with a smile.
"Thank you, Gregory. I'd like that." This time, he was the one to lean in and
initiate a kiss.
Sherlock raised one eyebrow in silent surprise. Sex was one thing – something
he could certainly understand – but Mycroft never allowed himself this sort of
emotional vulnerability. He turned and stepped quietly into the bedroom to give
his brother some privacy.
Sherlock's mind went back to Greg. This one was definitely different. Usually,
he could manipulate Doms into doing whatever he wanted - all it took was one
look at his pretty arse and the tag on his collar, and he was topping them.
Most of them didn't even realise it. He was the one on his knees or getting his
arse whipped, but those were exactly the things he wanted. But this one knew
what he was doing, and, more disturbingly, he found himself wanting to actually
submit to him – submit to him as he did to Mycroft, without reservation. He
gave a wry smile. Mycroft isn't the only one who doesn't allow emotional
vulnerability. Besides, if he hurts Mycroft, I'll kill him.All of Mycroft's
steely personal barriers were there for a reason. The same reason he only
usually fucks me.
His thoughts were cut off as Mycroft and Greg entered the bedroom.
Greg looked out of the large windows at the dusky sky. "I s'pose we should find
some food. There's got to be a chippy 'round here somewhere, right?"
Sherlock could barely conceal a smirk. He couldn't remember the last time
Mycroft had gotten fish and chips for dinner – at least not outside of a proper
restaurant – and certainly not wrapped in newspaper and doused in vinegar.
Greg took in the slightly horrified look on Mycroft's face and completely
misinterpreted it.
"Um, that wasn't what I meant by taking you out to dinner. I was thinking we
could eat here tonight. Of course I'll take you out somewhere proper tomorrow."
Mycroft clearly didn't know what to say.
Sherlock, however, couldn't keep his mouth shut. "I believe my brother's
expression conveyed horror at his lack of familiarity with the local chippy,
not the thought that you might want to take him to one."
Mycroft shook his head and rubbed his temples with one, elegant hand.
"Sherlock, do shut up. Fish and chips would be lovely, Gregory. I'll make the
arrangements."
Greg playfully pinned Mycroft to the wall. He leaned in close and whispered.
"Have you already forgotten?"
Mycroft looked confused. "What?"
"You're taking the weekend off. Or do I have to forcibly remind you?" He nipped
at Mycroft's ear. "I'm positive Sherlock can handle it. I think there are
better ways you could spend your valuable time."
Mycroft gave him a positively devilish grin. "Such as?"
"Well, showing me which of these delicious implements you'd like me to use on
you, for a start." He motioned toward the cabinet containing every type of
bondage device and sex toy imaginable.
Mycroft glanced out from behind Greg's body. "Sherlock, three fish and chips.
Take your time."
"And a beer."
Mycroft smirked. "I do have beer, you know."
Sherlock made himself scarce, obviously having clothes somewhere in the house.
Greg idly wondered if he dressed in three-piece suits like his brother.
Somehow, he didn't think so.
***** Sense Memory *****
Chapter Summary
     Mycroft and Greg spend some time alone. Mycroft's past bleeds into
     the present.
"So, Mycroft Holmes… always thinking about your work…" He let go of one of
Mycroft's wrists to undo the belt on Mycroft's dressing gown. Mycroft was half-
hard, and getting harder by the second. "Perhaps a little bit of punishment
will help you remember your priorities." Greg gave Mycroft's arse a playful
slap. "Hm?"
The pain, light as it was, made Mycroft's heart race. It had been a very long
time since he'd done any sort of pain play, and he missed it.
Greg watched Mycroft's reaction to the slap on his arse. He gave him another
slap to be sure. Yes, definitely. Fast, shallow breaths, dilated pupils. He
wasn't just reacting to the rough sex earlier, he really is into pain.
Greg grabbed one of Mycroft's wrists and led him to the cabinet of sex toys.
Mycroft's dressing gown was half open, and his arousal was obvious.
"Since it was a minor infraction, I'll let you choose. How do you want me to
hurt you, Mr Holmes?"
Mycroft's mouth went dry. "Whatever you want, sir."
"I want you to choose." He wanted to see what Mycroft would pick. Sometimes the
choice said interesting things about people.
Mycroft looked at the wide variety of toys – all his. Each one of them had a
story. He'd experienced all of them – a good Dom doesn't inflict pain without
knowing the toy's effect, both mental and physical, on the recipient. He had a
particular affinity for riding crops. They were his first introduction to pain.
The stables at Holmes Manor had provided the perfect implement to satisfy his
early curiosity – it hadn't taken much convincing to get one of the younger
stable hands to use one on him.
He examined the implements for about a minute before turning to Greg. "I'd like
you to spank me, Gregory. I want to feel your hand on me." He half expected
Greg to refuse, but Greg just smiled.
Interesting. That's about as intimate as you can get. I wonder how long it's
been since anyone spanked that lovely arse? God, I'm lucky. Greg pulled him
towards the chair by the window. Greg sat on the edge of the upholstered chair
and pulled Mycroft over his knees. Pushing Mycroft's dressing gown to the side,
he rubbed his hand slowly against the unmarked expanse of skin. "Do you have a
safeword?"
"Only 'stop.'"
"I'm not going to push you to your limits, Mycroft. Like I said before,
there'll be plenty of time for that later if you want it. I just want you to
feel the hot sting of my hand on your bare arse – see it glow a nice shade of
red like your brother's. Are you ready?"
Mycroft was glad Sherlock wasn't here for this. As much as he wanted this, the
pain would bring back memories, and he wasn't sure exactly how he'd react. He
didn't want Sherlock to see his vulnerability. "Gregory, I have to warn you, my
past history with pain play…" He trailed off, unsure of how to put it.
Greg looked at him with concern. "We don't have to do this."
"No, I want to. I just felt you should know – I might have unexpected…
emotional reactions to this. It's a long story. Please, I do want this."
"Promise me you won't push yourself too far. This is not the time to prove a
point, either to yourself or to me."
"I promise. I'm ready."
Mycroft flinched as Greg's first blow landed on his arse. The pain was sharp
but quickly spread across his skin like a warm, glowing buzz. The pain brought
the memories rushing back too, but he forced them into the background. Another
blow, another sting, and once again, pain sublimated into pleasure and warmth.
But the sense memory of it just kept forcing his past to the present, no matter
how much he tried to banish it to the back of his mind. After eight blows, it
threatened to overwhelm him.
Greg noticed Mycroft's body tense and stopped. "You okay?"
Mycroft shifted uncomfortably on Greg's knees. "Um… no."
Greg immediately pulled him upright and held him tightly. "It's okay. I've got
you."
Mycroft relaxed – almost slumped – into Greg's embrace. "I'm sorry… I thought I
could…"
"Don't be sorry. C'mere." He led him gently to the bed and they both crawled
onto it. Greg curled himself around Mycroft's back and held him, placing kisses
on his neck and murmuring softly. "You're going to be okay. I've got you.
You're safe." Slowly – very slowly – he felt the tension leave Mycroft's body.
"I'm sorry, Greg."
"Don't be. Really, it's okay."
"The pain just brought back too much… I shouldn't have involved you. It's been
so long and I thought I could handle it now."
"Don't apologise, and don't feel like you have to explain. Just lie here,
okay?"
"Okay." Mycroft relaxed into Greg's strong embrace, glad not to have to explain
his embarrassing reaction.
They lay there for a long time. Greg finally broke the silence. "How are you
feeling?"
Mycroft pried himself away from Greg and rolled over so he was facing him.
Greg's features were soft in the half-light of the room. Not for the first time
that day, he felt himself intensely drawn to the older man. If I'd known this
would happen, would I have allowed him to book the weekend? Probably not.His
life was a study in isolation, with the exception of his brother. Feeling out
of control like this was slightly terrifying. Absolutely terrifying. And yet,
letting Greg have control, even for a little while, felt so good.
"Better, thank you. I appreciate your understanding, Greg, but perhaps I should
leave." It's less complicated if I leave. Easier.
Greg's face fell. "Do you want to?"
Mycroft shifted uneasily on the bed. "Um… well… not really, actually."
Greg allowed himself a bit of hope. "So. Um… how do the sleeping arrangements
usually work? Does Sherlock usually stay in the room…?"
Odd change of subject."It depends on the wishes of the guest."
"Well, I'd like for you to stay. Whether Sherlock stays, I'll leave up to the
two of you, but I'd like you to be here with me. I know that's unconventional,
and I'll understand if you don't want to."
"Greg, you don't have to do this just because…" because I completely lost my
composure…
"Don't assume that had any part in my request. It didn't."
Greg raised his eyebrows a fraction of an inch in a silent question.
Mycroft's brain waged a silent battle against itself. What's stopping you,
other than fear?He let out a long breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
"Yes, Gregory. I'd like that."
Greg's face relaxed into a smile. I'd like that too."Just so we're clear, I'm
not, um… expecting anything. I'd just like to spend more time with you. Near
you. Okay?"
Mycroft smiled for the first time in what seemed like ages. "Mm. I'd like that.
I'm sorry about earlier, I should explain…"
Greg silenced him with a kiss. "You don't have to explain anything. We can talk
later if you want – or not. Let's just have some food and take things from
there, okay?"
Mycroft nodded. "I'd prefer if Sherlock didn't find out about this."
"I wouldn't dream of it. C'mon – I could use a little of that lovely scotch you
have. Care to join me?"
By the time Sherlock returned with the fish and chips, they were lounging on
the sofa, glasses of Lagavulin in hand. Mycroft was in the middle of telling
Greg about the local history of smuggling when Sherlock opened the door with a
large bag, looking triumphant. It smelled of warm paper and vinegar.
"God, that takes me back. I haven't had good fish and chips in years. Thanks,
Sherlock."
Sherlock handed out the individually wrapped packages – the inner layer of wax
paper was a concession to the health codes, but the outside was still wrapped
in newsprint. Inside, hot battered cod and vinegar soaked chips released a
delicious scent into the air.
Mycroft looked at the newsprint-wrapped package with something approaching
trepidation. "Perhaps I should fetch some plates."
Greg looked at him. "Trust me. We don't need plates. Go on, open it. It won't
bite. Just rip through the top and use it like a bowl. "
Sherlock had already torn into his and was busy cradling the makeshift paper
container in one hand while shovelling chips into his mouth with the other.
"Mm. C'mon Mycroft. Live like the rest of the world for once."
"Here." Greg reached out to take Mycroft's fish and chips. He ripped into the
top and handed them back to Mycroft. "Living like savages is underrated."
Mycroft started eating and was surprised to find that it was delicious, in a
slightly greasy, unlikely sort of way.
Sherlock left the room and returned a few minutes later with three pints of
beer. He handed one to Mycroft with a smile. "You have to at least try it.
Consider it a part of the experience."
"I have drunk beer before, Sherlock."
"Not with fish and chips."
Greg smirked at the bickering siblings. It was actually quite endearing, and it
seemed to take Mycroft's mind off what had happened earlier. Clearly something
ended badly. It was pretty obvious they'd be steering clear of any pain play
for the rest of the weekend.
***** Preparation *****
Chapter Summary
     Sherlock's preparations lead to a change in plans.
Dinner turned into companionable chatting, and Greg was pleasantly surprised to
find Sherlock equally as interesting as his brother. Any worries he'd had about
the awkward nature of social interactions after using someone as an amenity
were quickly eradicated. He was a little surprised when Mycroft brought up the
sleeping arrangements.
"I'll be staying here tonight, Sherlock."
Greg glanced over at Sherlock and saw small but distinct changes in his facial
expression.Jealousy? Disappointment? Fear? (Fear? Why on earth…?) This is going
to be a lot more complicated than I'd realised.He didn't have time to think
about the implications.
"I'll leave the choice of your sleeping arrangements up to you, Sherlock. You
may join us or not, as you wish."
Sherlock gave Greg an inscrutable look and then glanced back at Mycroft. "I'll
stay, thanks."
Mycroft left to retrieve his pyjamas from his room.
Once he was alone with Greg, Sherlock hissed in a low whisper, "I say this as
his brother, not his employee: be very careful how you tread. He's more fragile
than he appears, and if you hurt him, I promise I will hurt you."
I know, and believe me, I don't doubt it."Okay. I get it." And I'm starting to
understand where your emotions are coming from.Sherlock was fiercely protective
of his brother, and Greg suddenly felt like he was being chaperoned. "I promise
you, I'm not taking this lightly. This isn't something I do…"
Sherlock cut him off. "Good."
The conversation came to an abrupt halt as Mycroft walked through the door in
crisp, Egyptian-cotton pyjamas. The sudden silence hung in the air, and Mycroft
gave Sherlock a look.
Sherlock met Mycroft's gaze for a few long seconds, then his eyes dropped in
submission.
Greg could have sworn they were communicating telepathically.
"I thought it might be nice to go to Anstey's Cove tomorrow and have a picnic.
It's secluded, and Sherlock makes such a lovely table. And I can show you some
of the caves I was telling you about."
Sherlock on all fours as a table. That's not the only thing that position would
be good for. Despite the emotional upheaval of the evening, he felt his cock
twitch at the thought.
"Gregory, would you like a drink before bed? Or perhaps Sherlock can provide
something equally relaxing…"
"Both sound lovely, but only if you're having some. I'd hate to be the only
one…"
Mycroft glanced at his statuesque brother – his dressing gown half off his pale
shoulder, exposing a lightly-muscled chest. "I'd love to join you, thank you.
Sherlock, some more scotch, please." He turned back to Greg. "How would you
like him?"
The possibilities ran riot through Greg's mind, but one got stuck in his head
and stayed there. "I'd like that lovely arse of his. And then, I'd like to
watch you dominate him. Whether or not you let him come is your decision."
Mycroft licked his dry lips. There was no question as to how he'd take his
brother – roughly and on all fours. It was Sherlock's favourite position, and
he deserved it after his not-entirely-justified punishment earlier. But the
thought of Greg watching them – and for that matter, of being able to watch
Greg take his brother – was doing marvellous things for his own erection. The
lingering embarrassment was gone, replaced by a hungry, rushing need.
Sherlock gave Mycroft and Greg their glasses of scotch, shucked his dressing
gown, and knelt on all fours on the floor.
Greg was startled for a moment. How does he know which position…? He realised
what was going on as Mycroft placed his drink on Sherlock's rigid back.Table.
Right. He placed his own drink next to Mycroft's.
Mycroft caught Greg staring. "He's lovely, isn't he…"
Greg nodded in mute agreement. In all his years as a Dom, he'd never used a
human table – and even if he had, he doubted they'd have looked like a marble
statue – a deliciously obscene marble statue, at that.
Mycroft's smile grew devilish. "That's the only problem with human furniture
though. It's so tempting to torture them." He reached down and lightly stroked
the thick, heavy cock that dangled between Sherlock's legs.
Greg watched, impressed. Sherlock briefly twitched at Mycroft's initial touch,
but otherwise didn't move. There was a look of steady concentration on his face
as his brother fondled him.
"You try. He loves a good challenge."
Oh, I'll give him a challenge.Greg slid off the sofa and lay on his back on the
floor. He positioned himself so his head was directly beneath Sherlock's
erection. His tongue snaked out and delicately lapped a glistening drop of pre-
ejaculate from the head of his cock. Sherlock's body stayed rigid, but he let
out a small moan. After tasting the salty fluid, he started massaging
Sherlock's fraenulum with slow strokes of his tongue. I don't know what that
does to him, but it would have me writhing around like a cheap whore.
Despite Sherlock's concentration, his body betrayed him. While he was able to
prevent large movements that would spill the drinks, he started trembling all
over from the intense stimulation on his cock. When he felt his brother's wet
tongue pressing at his puckered hole, he cried out and his body bucked
violently.
Mycroft was ready, both hands swiftly removing the crystal glasses from
Sherlock's back before they crashed to the floor. "Oh, little brother – not a
very good showing for our guest. You clearly need more practice." Mycroft
handed Greg his glass. "You can do that later, though. Please prepare yourself
for Gregory." Mycroft looked at Greg. "Would you like to watch?"
Greg nodded. Fuck, yes.
"You like taking him a bit rough, yes?"
Greg bit his bottom lip. Yes. You could say that.The memory of forcing his
thick cock into Sherlock's tight arse that afternoon made his head spin. He
realised Mycroft was still waiting for an answer. Still chewing on his lip, he
nodded again.
"You'll prepare yourself in here, in front of us. Not too much, mind. Greg
wants you to feel it when he ploughs that pretty arse of yours."
Sherlock left the room and came back with a towel, lube, and two silicone
dildos. The largest one was still smaller than Greg's impressive girth.
Clearly, Sherlock wanted it a little rough as well.
"He's still cleaned out from earlier. I usually give him his enemas – he's not
nearly thorough enough, and I do enjoy making him take them. But I let him
stretch himself out – I must admit I love watching the little slut fuck himself
on cheap toys."
Greg sucked in a breath at Mycroft's words. Hearing that language come out of
that refined mouth – fucking hell. He palmed his straining erection and tried
not to think about fucking Mycroft. With any luck, there would be more of that
later.
Sherlock smiled to himself as he lay on the towel on his stomach. Mycroft's
language didn't usually get filthy until much later. It was going to be a good
night. He was looking forward to having both of them take him on his knees,
even if it wasn't at the same time. That's what Mycroft will do. Given the
chance, he always does. He likes that position as much as I do.
Sherlock pulled one leg to the side, putting his tight hole within easy reach
of his hand. He squeezed a generous amount of lube onto his fingers, and
without any further preparation, he roughly shoved in two at once. He gasped as
they breached his hole.
Greg raised an eyebrow at Mycroft.
Mycroft just shook his head, his voice filled with mock resignation. "Such a
little pain whore, even by his own hand…"
Sherlock moaned openly as he added another finger and started to fuck himself
vigorously.
"Enough of that, little brother. I told you to prepare yourself, not pleasure
yourself."
Sherlock grudgingly removed his fingers and slicked up the larger of the two
toys. I see no reason to prolong this. He held the slicked-up toy firmly as he
braced himself and pushed against it.
Greg watched in fascination as Sherlock's arse slowly opened and the toy
disappeared inside him.
Once the toy was buried to the hilt, Sherlock paused to let his body adjust.
Mycroft gave a low chuckle. "Oh, so now you're a selective pain slut? I don't
think so, Sherlock." Quickly kneeling over his brother, he grabbed the base of
the toy, pulled it almost all the way out, and shoved it roughly back in.
Sherlock groaned as Mycroft fucked him with the dildo at a punishing speed.
As suddenly as he'd started, Mycroft pulled the toy out and left his brother
panting heavily on the floor. "I think you're ready, brother-mine – get on your
knees."
Sherlock scrambled to his knees, his arse shiny with lube and still slightly
open from the fucking.
Mycroft, somehow managing to look dignified despite the raging hard-on beneath
his cotton pyjamas, nodded at Greg.
Greg felt like he'd forgotten how to speak. "Um, I could just watch, Mycroft.
God. The two of you with that toy is one of the hottest things I've ever seen."
Just seeing them – the raw sexual energy of it – made him want to fuck until he
forgot his name. Sink his teeth into someone's shoulder. Mycroft's shoulder.
Mycroft just smiled and nodded towards Sherlock, politely. "Please…"
"No." Greg was off the sofa and straddling Mycroft's legs, pushing him back
against the sofa with strong, tanned arms. His breath was ragged, and he was
having a hell of a time talking. "I know Sherlock gets all the attention, but
fuck, Mycroft, you are Sex."
Mycroft barely had time to register his surprise before Greg's mouth was on his
– hot and needy and desperate. He felt Greg's hardness pushing against his
stomach, and what was left of his composure evaporated as he pulled at Greg's
dressing gown, feeling an immediate need for more contact – anything – just
more.
Greg obliged by raking his fingernails forcefully down Mycroft's chest, pushing
him back harder into the sofa and leaving angry red marks on his skin. Mycroft
arched his back at the delicious pain and groaned around Greg's hungry kisses,
all thoughts of self-control gone.
Greg finally pulled back and stared at Mycroft. "You're going to fuck your
brother. Hard. And I'm going to watch you, because the two of you together is
like nothing I've ever seen. And I'm going to fuck his mouth while you do it.
If either of you have a problem with this, I want to know about it. Now."
Mycroft shook his head, too turned on to speak.
Greg's gaze was still fixed on Mycroft as he spoke. "Sherlock. Problem?"
"God, no."
"Good."
Greg climbed off Mycroft's lap and pulled him to his feet. With one quick
motion, he grabbed the lapel of Mycroft's pyjamas and yanked it open. Buttons
flew in all directions, ricocheting off the wall. Mycroft didn't know whether
to be turned on or horrified by the sartorial crime. Greg solved the problem
for him, saying, "We'll make Sherlock sew them back on later. Naked." He
grinned, and his eyebrows darted up briefly. "It'll be fun." Greg pulled down
Mycroft's pyjama bottoms and grabbed his now-naked arse, giving it a firm
squeeze before nipping at Mycroft's lower lip. His facial expression had
changed back to one of unmitigated lust. "Bloody hell, Mycroft. You have no
idea what you do to me."
Mycroft was starting to get some idea, and it was making him a little weak.
***** Complications *****
Chapter Summary
     Sex with more than one person is never easy. More than two is damned
     near impossible.
Greg shrugged off his dressing gown as he walked over to Sherlock. He was
kneeling on all fours, licking his lips and looking hungry. He grabbed
Sherlock's hair and pulled his head back. "Okay, you little slut, can you come
from fucking alone, or do you need a hand on that pretty cock of yours?"
Sherlock huffed. "I can come just by thinking about it."
"Good. Because all I want Mycroft to worry about is fucking that tight arse of
yours until you scream." He looked thoughtful for a second, then spoke again,
his voice oozing sarcasm. "Oh no, wait. Your mouth will be filled with my cock.
I guess we'll both just pound you until we're done. Don't worry, you can always
thinkyour way to orgasm later." Greg pulled his straining erection away from
his body and forced it in Sherlock's mouth before he could come up with a
response.
Mycroft moaned as he watched Greg's thick cock disappear into his brother's
mouth, the rich sense memory of it forming in his head. He's so good with his
mouth. He was struck by the incongruity of the thought – it consisted equally
of lust and of pride in his brother's abilities. Sexual desire and brotherly
affection. He placed the head of his cock against his brother's slick hole.
That about sums it up, really. He glanced at Greg, who was watching him with
rapt attention, his cock almost (but not entirely) forgotten in Sherlock's
mouth. Grabbing Sherlock's hips, he slammed into his brother in one, hard
thrust.
The sheer force of it pushed Greg's cock deep into Sherlock's throat, and he
tried not to gag.
He certainly had all of Greg's attention on him now.Sherlock concentrated on
relaxing his throat, though Mycroft's assault on his arse threatened to make
any sort of coherent thought impossible. Greg pulled back a little, and he used
the opportunity to impress Greg with his tongue. Being able to take a cock down
your throat was one thing – the finesse of actually fucking someone with your
tongue while you sucked them off – that was another entirely. He was good at
this. God knows he'd practised enough on Mycroft. He could get his brother off
just with his tongue when Mycroft would let him – which wasn't often. Mycroft
had a thing for fucking his throat, and he suspected Greg was going to as well,
so he had to prove how good he was while he had the chance.
Greg had his fists in Sherlock's hair and was about to take his pleasure into
his own hands – fucking someone's throat was certainly one good way to get off
– but Sherlock's tongue, swirling around his cock, promised something more
sublime. "Oh… you are good at that. Look at you. So desperate to show me how
talented you are. God, you're such a little slut. You enjoy this, don't you?"
Sherlock managed to nod his head in agreement. No point in denying it.
"This is a rare treat, isn't it, little brother? It's not often you get to have
both of your holes filled like this." He rammed his cock into his brother's
arse, completely derailing Sherlock's precision assault on Greg's cock.
So much for subtlety. He glanced up at Greg. His head was tipped back and he
was breathing hard. Lightweight. Don't you dare come – I'm not done with you
yet. He pulled his head off Greg's cock, counting on the element of surprise to
free himself of Greg's fists. Dark-brown eyes whipped down to stare at him. Now
he's paying attention. He got out, "Both of you, remember?" right before Greg's
cock took up semi-permanent residence in his mouth.
Greg smiled and looked up at Mycroft. "Jesus. He's helpful, too. His mouth felt
so good I was getting lost in it, but I think we should oblige him." They
started pounding into Sherlock at the same time, the force of it buckling his
lithe body each time they pushed in.
"That's it… take it, brother-mine. Take it all." Mycroft's gaze shifted
hungrily over Sherlock's body, absorbing every detail and storing it for later.
"You love it, don't you – being filled with so much cock like this?"
Sherlock saw no point in trying to answer. It was obviously a rhetorical
question. Besides, his mouth was full.
Greg and Mycroft started to find a rhythm now, each dual thrust filling
Sherlock beyond belief. His brain struggled to keep up with the overwhelming
sensory input, but somehow he was managing. He'd trained his mind to retain
control while he was getting fucked, and he'd gotten good at it over the years.
The only person he ever let go with was Mycroft.
They were alternating their thrusts now, and his body swayed back and forth in
time to their rhythm – a hot wet passage between the two of them. He felt
Mycroft's hand brace harder against him as Greg pulled Mycroft in for a kiss.
They're kissing.His jealousy spiked – Mycroft was his.He thrust his hips back
violently against his brother, breaking their kiss, not caring if it brought
punishment. Punishment meant attention. Attention from Mycroft.
***** Reprieve *****
Chapter Summary
     Mycroft deals with Sherlock, and Greg deals with Mycroft.
"Sherlock!" Mycroft's hard slap on his arse reverberated through Sherlock's
body.
Greg pulled out of his mouth and crouched in front of him. "What's your damage?
Jealous? Not getting enough attention?" Sherlock gave him a contemptuous sneer.
Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's hair and pulled his brother to his feet. "How dare
you." His voice, though quiet, seethed with anger.
Oh.This wasn't the sort of attention he'd wanted. I didn't think he'd be this
angry. I can get away with more when it's just us.
Mycroft's gaze cut through him like a knife. "Tell me, what stunning conclusion
did you reach that precipitated this? That because I'm with someone else I'm
going to leave you?"
Sherlock dropped his eyes, unable to answer. Yes.
Mycroft pulled his hair back again, forcing eye contact. "Answer me." There was
a trace of softness in his voice that hadn't been there a second ago, but he
was still furious.
Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper. "Yes." He knew better than to say
anything more. You're mine, Mycroft. (I can't lose you. You're all I have.) But
he could think it, and be thankful his brother couldn't hear his thoughts.
But a brother that intelligent might as well be telepathic.
"There's no ownership here, Sherlock. Not on either side. We're both here
because we choose to be. Throwing a ridiculous tantrum in the middle of some
amazing sex – of which, I must point out, you were also the beneficiary – is
not the best way to show your affection. Don't be so bloody insecure." There's
a reason I'm still here.
Mycroft turned to Greg, still standing quietly off to the side. "I'm so sorry,
Gregory. Would you like us to leave?"
Greg actually laughed. "Not bloody likely! I just want Sherlock to apologise,
and then we can carry on where we left off, as far as I'm concerned."
Sherlock turned to Greg, grateful for the chance to salvage the evening. "I'm
sorry, Greg. My outburst was uncalled for."
"Not me, you prat. Your brother. I want you to apologise to him."
Oh. Right. "I'm sorry, Mycroft. And as much as it kills me to admit it, you're
right, you know. I am being completely insecure. But I am truly sorry. Please,
forgive me."
Mycroft's heart ached. The whole situation with his brother was always so
delicate, so prone to disaster. It wasn't just Sherlock's fault – he needed
this as much as Sherlock did, and it drove them both to acts of stupidity. It
just sometimes seemed like Sherlock's were more stupid and more frequent.
Whatever this (exciting) thing with Gregory turned out to be, he wasn't going
to abandon Sherlock and run off to London. Clearly, he needed to make that more
apparent to Sherlock, but there would be time for that later.
"I forgive you, Sherlock. But actions have consequences, you must be punished."
Sherlock sighed with relief and smiled. "Thank you, Mycroft." He'd been
forgiven. Punishment was good. Punishment was atonement.
Mycroft thought for a minute, weighing his options.
"You have a choice, Sherlock. Ten hard strokes with the ventilated paddle, or
nothing but washing-up for the rest of the weekend."
Sherlock's stomach flipped at the mention of the paddle: the one with the holes
in it – no cushion of air to soften the blow. It would hurt – really, really
hurt. But the alternative was worse: banished to the kitchen – no sex, no
attention. Besides, it wasn't often he got to test his limits with pain. He was
curious to see how well he handled it. There was no question in his mind as to
which he'd choose.
"The paddle."
"Very well."
Mycroft turned to Greg. "I can punish him later. There's no reason this should
interrupt your evening."
"I would like to finish that kiss."
Mycroft leaned in and kissed Greg.
After getting pleasantly lost in it for a while, Mycroft pulled back.
"Sherlock. Wrist and ankle cuffs. Set up the sawhorse and get out the paddle.
Then kneel on the floor and await your punishment."
"Yes, Mycroft." He left to set up the equipment, dread and anticipation
fighting it out in his brain. Anticipation was winning.
Mycroft gave Greg a slightly shy look. "Where were we?"
Greg walked Mycroft backward until his legs hit the sofa and pushed him down
onto it. He straddled Mycroft's lap, buried his fingers in Mycroft's hair, and
drew him in for a long kiss. He worked his other hand between their bodies and
found Mycroft's cock – half-hard again from the kiss, and slowly started to
stroke him.
Mycroft let his mind go slack. The unpleasantness with Sherlock had been dealt
with. He could concentrate on – no, enjoy – this. He marvelled at the softness
of Greg's lips and the gentleness of his touch. It filled his body with a warm
glow, not just of arousal, but of security and comfort.
Greg nipped at Mycroft's lips, enjoying the breathy sighs this drew from him.
Then he moved to his ear, his tongue teasing the outer edge – Mycroft squirmed
languidly in response. God, he's so sensual.Greg's teeth tugging gently on his
earlobe resulted in a low groan and Mycroft hips arched against his. Good to
know. He explored Mycroft's neck, teasing and tasting, mapping the spots that
caused the sharp intakes of breath and the low, drawn-out moans.
Mycroft wasn't used to this – the long, slow sweetness of exploration. He
suddenly felt like he should reciprocate – the thought cutting through the
sensual haze – but when he moved his hands to Greg's body, Greg gently pinned
them to the sofa.
"Let me explore."
Mycroft nodded mutely in response.
Greg made his way down Mycroft's chest and torso, his hands and mouth playing
with the soft ginger curls and teasing his erect nipples. No pain.He didn't
want to pull Mycroft from this state. Mycroft's head was thrown back, his mouth
open and a look of relaxed bliss softening his features. Greg smiled. It's nice
to see him let go.
Sherlock put the cuffs on in the bedroom and quietly set up the sawhorse. He
didn't want to disturb Mycroft. He knelt without a sound and watched them. The
spark of jealousy from earlier was still there – just pushed down beneath
layers of analysis and self-control. Lestrade is certainly different. I've
never seen Mycroft open up to anyone else like this. (No one except me.)The
thought stung a little, but he pushed it back. Mycroft isn't leaving. (I'm not
going to let him.)He knew it was true – he wouldn't give up his brother without
a fight. This line of thought wasn't helping. Will I be able share him with
Lestrade? (Interesting. You've never been able to share before.) But if I
could…There was no quick response to that. Perhaps.
Sherlock's thoughts turned to Lestrade. He certainly knows what he's doing as a
Dom, and if Mycroft's currently blissed-out state is any indication, that's not
all he's good at.He hadn't run screaming at the revelation about their
relationship. A pleasant surprise really – societal taboos are so boring. He'd
also remained calm when he found out their relationship was not just sexual,
but emotional. Very emotional. Practically co-dependent.Sherlock allowed
himself a smile at that. He was under no illusions as to the complete lack of
normalcy in their relationship. Lestrade didn't seem to be treating this as a
fling. Mycroft definitely isn't.He didn't even pretend to comprehend that.
Emotional bonding with complete strangers was definitely not his area. I wonder
what Greg's reaction will be to Mycroft's past with Jonathan. Even Mycroft's
emotional walls aren't that high – not if he gets serious about this.Besides,
at some point Mycroft was going to want to indulge in pain play, he was sure of
it, and then there would be no hiding it.
Greg manoeuvred Mycroft onto his back so he was reclined along the length of
the sofa. His mouth continued its exploration, and his hands roamed everywhere
except Mycroft's erection. He was saving that for later.
Mycroft made soft sounds of protest at the new position. Not enough
contact."Come back…"
"Not leaving." He reached a hand up and placed it on Mycroft's side, the firm
contact reassuring Mycroft as Greg's mouth explored the sensitive skin of his
inner thighs.
Mycroft gasped at the touch of Greg's tongue, so intimate despite the
relatively mundane location.
Greg moved up further, licking and then sucking on Mycroft's balls. When he
took one into his hot, wet mouth, Mycroft made an incoherent noise that most
definitely wasn't in the dictionary. Greg finally placed his hand on Mycroft's
cock, and the twin sensations had him writhing with pleasure. He pulled his
mouth off with a wet 'pop' and licked a long stripe between his hairless balls.
Shaved? Waxed? Interesting. Definitely good."I want your cock in my mouth,
Mycroft Holmes. Do I have your consent?" He couldn't hide the cheeky tone in
his voice - he loved negotiating with someone when they desperately wanted him
to get on with it.
"Oh good God, yes. Please."
Sherlock watched, as if keeping score at a tennis match. Sense of humour. Good.
Mycroft gasped as he felt Greg's mouth on him. This wasn't like the last time –
all desperate need and groping for an orgasm that Greg kept denying. It was a
steady build-up of desire and sensation. It was delicious and subtle, and
Greg's tongue was driving him out of his mind. Christ."Not going to last long…
nghhh… if you keep that up."
Greg pulled his mouth off long enough to answer. "You don't have to. Come for
me. I want to taste you."
'I want to taste you.' Fuck. Mycroft's head flew back and he let out a guttural
cry as the orgasm rushed through him. Greg's mouth was back on him, savouring
every drop as Mycroft came in hot spurts down his throat. Mycroft's body was
still thrumming when he felt Greg's tongue cleaning him off.
Greg crawled back up to him with a cheeky grin on his face. "Wanna taste?"
Mycroft pulled him in for a greedy kiss, not caring if it wasn't polite. He did
offer. The taste of himself, mixed with the new and yet already familiar taste
of Greg, made him smile. When he eventually pulled away, he looked into Greg's
dark eyes with something approaching wonder. "Thank you."
The underlying energy of it left no doubt – Mycroft wasn't just referring to
the blow-job. Greg wondered – not for the first time, and not unhappily – what
he was getting himself into.
***** Punishment *****
Chapter Summary
     Sherlock receives his punishment.
Chapter Notes
     Warning: This chapter contains a fairly graphic consensual paddling
     scene.
They pried themselves off the sofa and found their dressing gowns. Greg was
still aroused, but making Mycroft come had been extremely satisfying, and he
didn't care if he was hard. He was eager to get Sherlock's punishment out of
the way so he could get on with the 'curling up in bed with Mycroft' portion of
the evening.
Sherlock, as directed, was cuffed and kneeling next to the padded sawhorse.
Mycroft shook his head briefly to clear his mind of the endorphin haze. He was
thankful Sherlock was behaving. He did look contrite, and he had certainly
stayed quiet. That still doesn't get him out of punishment, though."Assume the
position, Sherlock."
Sherlock bent over the sawhorse, pushing his half-hard cock to the side so it
wouldn't be trapped beneath his stomach.
Mycroft clipped the wrist and ankle cuffs in place. "This is going to hurt,
Sherlock. It's punishment. I don't expect even you to get off on it. You're
getting ten strokes. You may call safeword if you have to, but I believe you
can do this. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mycroft." He had no intention of backing out.
"Gregory, will you assist me?"
"Of course."
"Are you ready?"
"Yes, Mycroft."
Mycroft nodded at Greg, who picked up the ventilated wooden paddle.
Greg took a deep breath. He didn't envy Sherlock this at all. He'd been beaten
with one of these, and it was in no way erotic. It fucking hurt.
Sherlock was bent double over the sawhorse, his finely-toned arse once again
pale – all traces of the earlier spanking gone. I'm afraid this one is going to
hurt a lot longer, Sherlock.Greg drew back the paddle and let it fly. It landed
with a sharp 'crack' on Sherlock's arse. Greg held it there for a moment –
pulling it back too quickly caused suction at the ventilation holes – the skin
would get caught in the holes and cause blisters.
Sherlock cried out at the sudden, burning pain. He'd known it would hurt, but
bloody hell… He gasped and sucked in a deep breath. I can do this.
Greg paused to let Sherlock catch his breath, but then he wondered if it would
be better just to give them all at once.
The second stroke rained fire onto Sherlock's other cheek. He managed not to
cry out this time – he knew how much it was going to hurt – but the pain made
his eyes water. He raised his head from his inverted position. Mycroft.He
wanted to see Mycroft – wanted to know he was there. His brother's long, pale
feet were right in front of him. Mycroft. He dropped his head back down, and
then he felt his brother's hand rest lightly on the back of his neck. Mycroft.
I can do this, Mycroft.
Greg gave the next three blows in quick succession. They were going to hurt,
and he didn't want to draw them out.
Sherlock couldn't keep silent this time, his loud cry turning to gasping,
heaving breaths as Greg's final blow landed. Mycroft's fingers were in his
hair, and his brother's voice whispered in his ear, "Very good, little brother.
You're halfway there." Sherlock leaned into the touch, craving Mycroft's
attention and reassurance – thankful for any sensation that distracted him from
the searing pain. Mycroft kissed his head and then he was gone.
Mycroft knew all too well how painful and brutal this paddle could be. He'd
bought one when he was with Jonathan – both of them were too young and cocky to
ask for advice on how to use it, and Mycroft had ended up with horrible
blisters after its first use. He hadn't been able to sit for days. As he held
it, he almost lost his nerve, memories of his time with Jonathan clouding the
present. In some ways, I should thank him, I suppose…He looked at his brother,
his arse a painful-looking shade of crimson, and cleared his mind. "Are you
ready, Sherlock?"
"Yes." Sherlock hoped his brother wouldn't hear how close he was to tears. He
felt Greg's hand on his shoulder. The contact felt good.
Mycroft took a deep breath and gave the blows in quick succession, pausing only
long enough to prevent blisters.
Sherlock tried to stay silent, but it wasn't possible. Each blow brought a cry
of pain, and sobbing breaths. He wasn't really aware that it was over. The pain
dulled a little, but it didn't go away. He was sobbing quietly when Mycroft
unhooked his cuffs and drew him into his arms.
"Shh. It's over, little brother. You did so well. I'm so proud of you." He
kissed Sherlock's forehead and smoothed his sweaty curls away from his face,
murmuring endearments into his brother's hair.
Greg placed a dressing gown around Sherlock's shoulders and steadied him,
making sure not to accidentally brush his tender arse.
Sherlock's breath was still ragged in his throat, but he relaxed into Mycroft's
strong embrace as his brother's voice soothed him. When he opened his eyes,
Mycroft was right there, gazing at him.
"How are you, love?"
Sherlock managed a weak smile. "Sore. But I did it, My."
Mycroft smiled at his brother's satisfaction. "You did, and you took it so
well. I'm proud of you. Come on, let's get you onto the bed. Gregory, there's
an ice pack in the freezer, could you get it, please?"
Mycroft half-carried Sherlock to the bed and gently set him on the feather
duvet on his stomach. Greg handed him the flexible ice pack, covered with a
soft towel. "I'm going to put an ice-pack on you. Deep breath…"
Sherlock moaned with relief when the towel-wrapped ice pack touched his burning
arse. Mycroft covered him with the dressing gown.
Mycroft motioned to Greg. "Would you mind getting some warm towels, and some
hot, damp flannels, please?"
"'Course." Greg disappeared into the toilet.
Mycroft crawled up onto the bed beside his brother. Sherlock shifted to look at
him, a fragile expression on his features. Cradling his face with his hands,
Mycroft kissed his forehead, and then gently kissed his lips. "I love you,
Sherlock. I'm not going anywhere. I never will."
Sherlock curled against Mycroft's chest. "I love you too, My. I'm sorry I got
jealous."
"Don't apologise, love. You already did, and I forgave you. Neither of us was
expecting this." It seemed rude to say it – 'neither of us was expecting
Greg.'"I should have talked with you before things got so complicated. I got a
bit caught up in everything. I'm sorry."
Sherlock smiled against his chest. "You're always so impulsive... I think I can
forgive you this once."
"Thank you, Sherlock." He kissed the top of his head and held him tighter,
silently thankful that he hadn't ruined things between them.
Greg appeared with hot flannels and a stack of fluffy white towels.
Mycroft took one of the flannels and gently cleaned Sherlock's face and neck.
"Feels good…"
"More?"
"Mm."
Motioning for Greg to help him, Mycroft started to wipe down Sherlock's
exhausted body with the warm cloths.
"Lay on your side, love."
Sherlock gingerly pulled up one leg so he wouldn't have to balance on his side.
The ice pack fell off, but his arse was already feeling a lot better. Mycroft
worked on his chest while Greg worked on his back, their touch grounding him
and bringing him back. They dried him off, and then Greg's strong hands were
soothing the sore muscles in his legs. He watched Greg as he gently massaged
his calf muscles. He's surprisingly gentle for a Dom, but then, the good ones
can be.
Greg felt Sherlock's stare, and looked up to see a surprisingly shy smile. All
traces of the jealous sneer from earlier were gone. Greg smiled back. "How's
your arse doing?"
Sherlock gingerly touched it and winced a little. "Better than it was, I
think."
Greg looked at him with respect. "You took it well. Those things hurt like
fuck."
Sherlock gave him a look of surprise. "You're a switch?"
"No, but I won't use a toy I haven't experienced from the other side."
"I thought Mycroft was the only one with that rule."
This time, Mycroft was the one getting the look of respect from Greg.
Mycroft's usual unflappable demeanour suddenly got a lot more… well… flappable.
"Um, food. You should eat something, Sherlock. I'm going to get us some
biscuits. I'll be back in a moment." He hurried out of the room, the door to
the suite closing seconds later.
Sherlock failed to conceal a smirk. "I think he was blushing."
Greg giggled. "I think you're right."
Sherlock's face went serious. "Look, Greg, I'm sorry for earlier. I was
jealous, but I had no right to take it out on you."
"S'okay. I should have been more aware of the, um… dynamics."
"Incest."
"Relationship."
Sherlock smiled. "Mm, yes. Relationship. It's just been the two of us for
years, now. It's complicated."
"What isn't, really?"
Sherlock nodded. "Thank you."
Greg gave him a confused look. "For?"
"For accepting this for what it is. For not running screaming. For lots of
things." I think Mycroft needs this.He didn't want to say it aloud.
Greg just smiled. "Anytime."
Sherlock got up off the bed, curious to see if his arse was glowing. It
certainly felt like it was glowing. He pulled the dressing gown to the side and
looked over his shoulder in the mirror. He winced at the sight – it was
crimson, and parts of it were probably going to bruise.
"How's it feel now?"
"Surprisingly, better than it looks." He sat, tentatively, on the bed. It hurt,
but not as badly as he'd expected.
The door to the suite opened, and Mycroft entered bearing a tray of tea and
biscuits – Jammie Dodgers (of course), digestives, chocolate fingers, and
Penguins.
Mycroft smiled at him. "It's good to see you up. How do you feel?"
"Not bad, considering. I think I'll avoid bicycles for a while, though."
Mycroft passed him a plate. "The tea still needs a few minutes, but have some
biscuits."
"Thanks." He took a Jammie Dodger and bit into it, the sweetness of it spilling
over his tongue. So good. Suddenly, he was ravenous. He helped himself to a
Penguin and two digestives.
Mycroft gave him a bemused look. "If I'd known you were hungry, I would have
brought real food."
"No, no. This is fine. Really." The sugar, the carbohydrates. It was exactly
what he needed.
Mycroft shrugged at Greg. "Usually I can't get him to eat anything…"
Tea was made and drunk, and biscuits were eaten. Sherlock proudly showed
Mycroft his sore arse. Mycroft was even persuaded to sleep without his pyjamas.
And then, as they were preparing for bed, an expression of devilish glee
crossed Mycroft's features. "You know, Sherlock, I think we need to look into
getting larger beds. I can't possibly see how all three of us will fit."
It was clear he was up to something, so Sherlock just smiled. "And?"
"I think you'll have to be the pillow."
***** Pillow Talk *****
Chapter Summary
     Mycroft and Greg try to use Sherlock as a human pillow.
Sherlock just looked at him. "The pillow."
"Yes. I don't see how we can possibly all fit in the bed. Besides, you'll make
a lovely pillow."
"Oh, I don't know, Mycroft. Surely you'd be more appropriate to the task?" He
eyed Mycroft's diet-honed midsection with a wry grin.
"Mm. Very amusing, Sherlock. However, it seems that the word 'amenity' is not
in my job description. But I do believe you'll find it's in yours."
Sherlock cracked a slight smile. They both knew he'd be happy to comply, but it
wasn't the same without the banter.
Greg was still getting his brain around the 'human pillow' concept. It sounds
far more interesting than the choices of 'hard', 'medium', and 'soft' you get
on that 'pillow menu' at pricey hotels. He'd certainly never seen 'human' on
that menu.Shame, that.
Greg failed to repress a laugh. "So, do we get the front or the back?"
Mycroft removed the down pillows from the bed. "That's entirely your choice,
Gregory. Perhaps you'd like to try for yourself and decide which you prefer?"
"You're bloody right I would." His grin lit up the room. "Okay, Sherlock, arse
up first."
Sherlock didn't even bother to feign irritation. It honestly sounded like fun.
Climbing up, he spread his toned body across the top of the bed. His feet
barely poked over the edge. He had to hand it to Mycroft – buying that
ridiculously large mattress did turn out to be a brilliant idea. He rested his
head on his folded arms and looked at them with a wicked smirk. "Well, are you
just going to look?"
"God, Sherlock. I don't know how you ended up with an arse like that on a body
like yours, but it's a gift." Greg lay on his back and adjusted himself so his
head was on Sherlock's still-sore arse. "Hmm." He shifted onto his side. "It's
certainly nice, but I think it's a little too high for a pillow. Turn over." He
propped himself up so Sherlock could flip onto his back.
Sherlock winced a little as his arse touched the bed. That was definitely going
to be sore tomorrow. He lay on his back as unselfconsciously as possible.
Despite his usual bluster, there was something quite intimidating about having
another man's head inches from your cock – at least, when it was in a non-
sexual capacity. What if I move during the night, and it flops onto his head?He
imagined Greg's reaction, and his intimidation vanished, replaced by silent
mirth. This was going to be fun. Besides, his hipbones couldn't possibly make a
comfortable pillow.
Greg shifted closer to the centre of the bed so he could rest his head on
Sherlock's belly. "Ooh, lovely. Good height, too. Mycroft, c'mere and try
this."
Mycroft crawled onto the bed with a grin. Something – propriety, a sudden
shyness, some genetically British reserve, perhaps– had him awkwardly
positioning his head on Sherlock's chest. Even with Sherlock's lean
proportions, it was obviously too high for a pillow.
Greg laughed. "Don't be silly. C'mere." He pulled Mycroft closer and kissed
him.
Mycroft suddenly forgot all about propriety, and, for that matter, the fact
that he was using his brother's stomach as a pillow.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and shifted to make himself as comfortable as
possible. Clearly, these two were settling in for a while. He wondered if he
was going to get any sleep, but he was still coasting on too much sugar to
care.
When Greg and Mycroft's kiss deteriorated into contented nuzzlings, Sherlock
silently thanked the gods of middle age that the two of them weren't ready for
another round. To his smug satisfaction, and soon to his dismay, they turned
their attentions to him.
Mycroft reached up and poked him in the gut. "I think you could use a few more
of those biscuits, little brother."
"Mm. Ironic, isn't it? If only you didn't keep eating them all."
Mycroft rolled his eyes at Greg. "Oh, do grow up, Sherlock."
"You started it."
Greg eyed Sherlock with interest. "Maybe we could shift him 'round a bit. You
know, distribute him better."
Before Sherlock could react, Greg grasped his legs and was manoeuvring them,
trying to redistribute Sherlock's complete lack of body fat to his stomach.
Mycroft started helping, trying to gauge if it was making a difference by
gently pinching at his brother's belly. At least, that's what Greg thought he
was doing.
He was wrong.
After so many years with his brother, Mycroft could tell you everything about
any square inch of Sherlock's body.
Including exactly where he was ticklish.
When Mycroft's teasing fingers first touched Sherlock's stomach, the result was
electric. Sherlock doubled in half, nearly cracking Greg in the head with his
knees.
"What the hell?" Greg was immediately thankful he'd had his hands on Sherlock's
legs. His confusion turned to understanding as Mycroft pinned his brother to
the bed, and tickled his stomach again.
"Mycroft, stop!" Sherlock half-laughed, half-wheezed at him.
"Is that your safeword, or do you just want me to stop doing this?" He attacked
him with a new round of vicious tickling. Mycroft was looking at his brother
with an expression of utter glee.
"Fuck… you. Evil. Bastard." Sherlock could barely speak, he was laughing so
hard.
Mycroft looked at Greg, who was watching the complete age regression with
amusement. "Get the soles of his feet. He loves that."
"No!"
Greg just grinned, having taken part in enough police work and punitive
tickling to know what he was doing. He swiftly used his body to pin Sherlock's
legs to the bed, leaving both hands free for slow, teasing circles on the soles
of his long feet.
When the laughing turned to gasping, and the gasping started to sound
suspiciously like hyperventilating, they let him up.
"You're both utter bastards." It wasn't much of an insult. It was difficult to
sound intimidating while giggling like an idiot.
Mycroft handed him some water from the bedside table. It had somehow survived
the ordeal of Sherlock's flailing limbs unscathed.
"Two against one really isn't fair." He drank the water greedily, still
smiling. It had been years since he and Mycroft had tickled each other like
that, but usually he at least stood a chance. "I'll get you when you're least
expecting it, you know."
But he had no idea how soon that would be.
***** Revenge *****
Chapter Summary
     Sherlock gets some inadvertent revenge for the tickling incident.
Chapter Notes
     Thank you for your patience with my slow updates, and thank you to
     everyone who asked me to update this. :)
     And of course, thanks to Deklava for the beta.
Greg had a tight hold on his collar as he knelt on all fours, Mycroft slamming
into him from behind.
"That's what you need, isn't it?"
It was Mycroft. No… Greg. It was hard to tell, but it didn't matter.
Greg released his collar and gripped his hair, forcing the engorged head of his
cock past his lips.
"Suck me off, and make it good."
That was definitely Greg.
He wondered if the physics of sex could be modelled. How much did the thrust
from Mycroft impact the depth of Greg's cock in his throat? How much did his
body absorb the thrust? Surely, it wasn't a lossless system. Then he wondered
why he was worrying about physics as he was getting spectacularly fucked from
both sides.
Then, both Mycroft and Greg had a hand on his cock, and he wasn't worrying
about anything. He felt the orgasm wash over him as Greg and Mycroft
evaporated.
Wait, what?
He woke up, slightly horrified. His hand was covered in semen, but worse still,
so were Greg and Mycroft. He wasn't sure how he'd managed to wank in his sleep,
without waking them up, but he had. But apparently, coming all over their faces
as they slept on his stomach was a little more than their peaceful slumber
could tolerate.
Mycroft's face twitched as if reacting to a fly landing on it. He
subconsciously reached up to brush it away, and brushed his hand through the
hot spunk on his forehead.
A small, irrational part of Sherlock's brain thought, 'perhaps if I lie still
and don't giggle, he won't notice.'
Greg stirred as Mycroft started moving, and also brushed at a mass of warm
fluid, just above his eye.
Sherlock sucked in his lips, and bit them - hard. Just stay still. Maybe
there's still a chance…
"Bloody hell, what the…?"
"Oh, dear God."
Well, they were both awake now. No chance of them going back to sleep, then.
They both wiped their faces with the backs of their hands and turned on their
sides to look at him.
"Oh, Sherlock. Really? You honestly thought this would be a good way of
exacting your revenge for the tickling?"
"No, wait! It wasn't deliberate! I was dreaming, and it just happened, I
swear."
Mycroft held his hand out to Sherlock. "Lick it off."
It was still vaguely warm, and Sherlock was grateful for that.
"Do you believe him, Mycroft?" Greg asked.
"I'm not sure it matters if I do. He just came all over our faces as we slept.
Lick Greg clean too, Sherlock, and then clean yourself up."
"I swear Mycroft, I had no idea. I was having this dream about the two of you
fucking me, and I must have been stroking myself in my sleep. I didn't realise
until I woke up… I'm sorry."
Mycroft knew his brother all too well. "And what was your initial reaction?"
Sherlock paused, but knew better than to not respond to a direct question from
his brother. "Actually, I thought it was hysterical. But," he added, quickly,
"I swear it was completely unintentional."
"Well, clearly you've had your fun, little brother. Gregory, what do you say we
have a little fun of our own? Or, if you'd prefer, we can go back to sleep and
punish him in the morning. It's your choice, of course. Either way, I can
hardly allow you to leave our little establishment with the notion that our
pillows ejaculate on your face. Or at least that they do so without properly
apologising."
Greg snickered. Mycroft could make reading the phone book sound posh. And
funny.
Sherlock had already clambered off the bed and was kneeling on the floor, head
bowed and hands behind his back, looking suitably contrite.
"You're not fooling me, Sherlock."
"What?"
"Even if it was inadvertent - something I'm still not sure I believe - you're
already on your knees begging to be punished."
"It's not fair - if I wasn't, I'd be in trouble for that…" The whine in his
voice practically guaranteed punishment of some sort. At least he hoped it
would.
"Silence."
Greg glanced over at the penitent figure on the floor. "Oh, I don't know. I'm
awake - we might as well have our way with him now. There'll always be more in
the morning, I'm sure. Besides, it looks like our little pillow is getting
aroused again. We wouldn't want it to happen again, now would we?"
"No, definitely not." Mycroft got off the bed and went to the cabinet,
selecting a medium sized spreader bar and a set of wrist and ankle cuffs.
"You're more than welcome to fuck him if you'd like, Gregory, but I'd also like
to make sure there's nothing left for him to shoot, no matter what he dreams
about for the rest of the night."
"Oh God. No, Mycroft, please."
"You're lucky I'll be letting you sleep at all. I considered tying you up the
corner with that vibrating prostate massager for the rest of the night. Now
which sounds like the better option?"
"The milking," he said, sullenly.
Greg raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I'm looking forward to this. I've never actually
seen it done."
"Oh, I'd be happy to teach you. And I'm sure Sherlock will be a willing
subject." He smiled at Sherlock with devilish glee. "Won't you, Sherlock?"
"Yes, sir."
"Oh, cheer up, dear brother. It's not like it hurts." He turned to Greg. "Quite
the opposite really, but it does get fairly intense for the recipient." He
stood in front of Sherlock. "Sit on your arse, I want to cuff your ankles."
Sherlock did as he was asked, and the sturdy black cuffs were cinched tight.
"Now, give me your hands."
When he was cuffed, Mycroft placed his hands beneath Sherlock's armpits and
lifted him to his feet. He turned to Greg. "How uncomfortable do you want him
to be?"
"Fairly comfortable. I think it probably was an accident, although he probably
wishes he'd come up with the idea himself."
"Hm. My thoughts on the matter, too. Very well." He tossed one of the bed
pillows on the floor. "Sherlock, on your knees, arse in the air. You may rest
your head on the pillow. I'm going to cuff your wrists together, but at your
head, not behind your back. You can thank Gregory for that."
"Thank you, sir. Thank you." He meant it, too. The other position was hell on
his back.
"As for your legs, they're entirely too close together." Mycroft knelt down
behind his brother and shoved his legs apart, attaching the spreader bar to the
ankle cuffs. Mycroft looked up from the cuffs to see Sherlock's gorgeous arse
spread wide in front of him. "Oh, isn't that a lovely sight, Gregory?" Mycroft
leaned in and licked a long stripe over Sherlock's hole with the flat part of
his tongue.
Sherlock let out a yelp.
"Do I need to gag you?"
"No, sir."
"Mm. Shame. Still, I bet you'll make some lovely sounds as we do this." He
handed Gregory a snap hook. "Could you attach this to his wrists, please? I'd
hate to have him thrashing around."
Greg was still staring at Sherlock's exposed arse in appreciation. "Oh, right.
Yes. Of course."
Mycroft stood. "I just thought of something. I'll be back in a moment."
He returned a few minutes later with a small bowl, about the size of a cereal
bowl. Greg looked at him, puzzled, and Mycroft just smiled. "You'll see."
Sherlock was still in his refractory period from his last orgasm, but his cock
was definitely interested in the proceedings.
"That's the beauty of this Gregory. It doesn't matter whether he's ready for
another orgasm or not. He doesn't have any choice in the matter. It's a
delicious sort of torture. Now, would you like to take his arse first?"
Greg looked at Sherlock's arse - still red and sore-looking from the beating of
the previous evening. His twitching arsehole, so nicely on display, was
inviting, but he wanted to be alert and on edge for this, not dulled by post-
orgasmic bliss. "Thanks, but I'll take his mouth afterwards, if that's okay. I
want to make sure I'm with-it enough to learn properly."
"Excellent." He placed the bowl on the ground underneath Sherlock's semi-hard
penis. He turned to Greg with an explanation, "I wouldn't want to waste any.
We'll have him drink it for us, later, as punishment."
Sherlock groaned, and Mycroft slapped him on the arse.
"Enough from you. The only thing I want to hear is a running commentary on what
it feels like, so Gregory can get a better understanding of the technique. Got
it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Right. Latex gloves and lubricant. The gloves are mostly to prevent any damage
from fingernails, but in this case, there's an element of humiliation involved.
Besides, I do love the sound of a latex glove being snapped on." He grinned
wickedly as the sound cut through the air.
Greg tried not to smirk.
"Now, plenty of lube, although this one probably wouldn't mind it if we didn't,
but it does make things go much easier. Normally, you'd work up to using both
fingers, but I really don't think that's necessary." He slowly and deliberately
shoved two fingers deep inside his brother's arse.
Sherlock squirmed at the intrusion, and tried not to groan at the stretch and
burn. "Just because I cantake two without preparation, doesn't mean it's easy,
Mycroft."
Mycroft twisted them viciously. "I said, 'running commentary only'. Perhaps you
need a third." He pulled them back out and pushed a third finger in, and
Sherlock let out a yowl.
"Oh, do show some fortitude, Sherlock. Besides, if you'd keep your mouth shut…"
Silence.
"Much better, little brother." Mycroft pulled his fingers back out and returned
to using two. "Now, Gregory. It's really fairly simple - crook your fingers
downward as you pull out, and rub them along either edge of the prostate. The
centre is much more sensitive - we'll save that for later - but this is how I
usually start.
Sherlock started making a low, keening noise as Mycroft caressed the sides of
his prostate.
"Tell Gregory how it feels, Sherlock."
"Sort of like I need to urinate, but then… oh God, Mycroft!"
Mycroft turned to Greg and smiled. "But then, not as much, apparently."
"It's so sensitive…"
"I could work his cock with my hand, of course, but this is far less
satisfying. He'll feel some of the release of orgasm as I do it, but it'll
leave him drained without all the work of us having to fuck him."
"Oh, I don't know - it wouldn't exactly be a burden."
"No, but it is three in the morning."
"Point taken."
"Once you build up some pressure on the sides, he'll probably start to get a
bit more vocal. Once he sounds like he can't really take it - thenyou start in
on the centre of it. Sometimes it leaks out of him the entire time, and other
times it'll come out in a rush, like an orgasm. It's more fun when it just
leaks out - he'll never really get the intense feeling of release from it. Want
to have a go?" He looked at Greg cheerfully and gave Sherlock's prostate a firm
squeeze between his two fingers before pulling them out.
Sherlock made a strangled sort of noise that sounded like it was pleasure.
Mycroft snapped off the gloves and glanced down between his brother's legs.
"Ah, see? It looks like we're having some success already." Ejaculate was
oozing out of his semi-hard penis into the waiting bowl. "Gloves?"
Greg was apparently a very quick study. He braced his other hand on Sherlock's
lower back as his fingers sought out the nub of his prostate. "I've done this
while finger-fucking someone, but it never occurred to me to do justthis. It
seems like it could be a wonderful form of punishment. Have you ever made him
beg like this?" he asked, conversationally.
"Oh, yes. Especially when there's nothing left to milk. It gets so sensitive
it's hard to tell if it's pleasure or pain."
"It's both," Sherlock uttered between gritted teeth, as Greg started applying
more pressure.
"Oh, it looks like you're a natural," Mycroft said as he eyed the fluid
gathering in the bowl. "Don't forget Sherlock - running commentary."
"Ngghh."
"Focus, Sherlock."
"Feels… like the rush of… sperm during… orgasm but… without the… uncoiling…
release." Getting the sentence out had been difficult, and he was quite proud
of himself for staying coherent, if a bit slow.
"Very good, Sherlock. He's still able to speak, Gregory. I think you should
increase the pressure."
Greg smirked. "I think you're right." He held his hand tightly against
Sherlock's lower back, and pulled his fingers firmly over the centre of
Sherlock's exquisitely sensitive prostate.
"Gahhh…"
Not for the first time, Mycroft was glad he'd had the place soundproofed. "Oh,
very nice." Mycroft squinted in approval at the amount of ejaculate in the bowl
beneath his brother. He brought it up by his brother's head. "Perhaps you'd
like some now, Sherlock? While it's still warm?"
The image went straight to Greg's gut. Being forced - no, politely asked - to
lick your own ejaculate out of a bowl. And, it would appear, greedily doing so.
Fuck.He went back to his task with renewed vigour.
"Hurry up, Sherlock. We can't have you wasting any."
Sherlock could barely concentrate on his mouth with the sensations Greg was
causing in his arse. He lapped at the bowl mindlessly, trying desperately to
clean it as quickly as possible so Greg could milk him more. It felt…
wonderful… in an awful, unsatisfying sort of way. He really wished they'd just
let him get off, but this was punishment, after all.
Mycroft replaced the bowl, and Greg continued. By the time Sherlock was begging
him to stop, there was another rather significant quantity of semen in the
bowl.
"I think that might be enough, what do you think, Gregory?"
"He looks like he's about to scream."
"Mm," Mycroft murmured, appreciatively. "Indeed he does. Lovely job."
Greg smiled, and binned the gloves. "Thank you."
Sherlock once again licked the bowl clean, and Mycroft wandered over to the
cabinet.
"We did such a nice job of opening him up, I think we should make sure he stays
that way. I think a nice large plug will do the trick. It'll keep him ready, in
case you need to relieve a morning erection."
"Mm. I don't know. Perhaps I'd rather use you for that."
Mycroft felt the bottom fall out of his stomach as his mind told him to fall to
his knees and beg for it. Fuck propriety.He did. "God, please. Anything you
want, Gregory."
Greg smiled. "I'd still put the plug in there though. I'm sure he'll come in
handy."
Mycroft rose to his feet somewhat unsteadily and selected a large plug. He
lubed it up and thrust it into Sherlock's arse. He wasn't particularly gentle,
and Sherlock almost cried out as it brushed across his abused prostate.
He turned to Greg, leaving Sherlock with his arse in the air. "Now, how would
you like us to take care of that?" He glanced at Greg's lovely erection.
"Oh, I don't know. After what he did, I think he should take care of both of
us. Don't you think?"
Mycroft smiled. "I certainly wouldn't complain."
Greg reached down and lifted Sherlock so he rested on his forearms. His wrists
were still neatly cuffed on the pillow in front of him. Greg smiled down at
him. "Comfy?"
Sherlock nodded.
"Good. Because I wouldn't want to you be uncomfortable when we start pounding
that pretty throat of yours."
Sherlock smiled. "Thank you, sir."
Greg looked at Mycroft. "After you…"
"Actually, I'll be happy to let him lube me up a bit, but then I'd like to
watch you fuck his throat, if that's alright."
Greg laughed, "Oh, I think I'm fine with that."
Sherlock was silently grateful he wouldn't be sucking both of them to
completion, although a sore jaw wasn't the worst fate he could imagine.
Mycroft had to kneel in order to get his cock at the right height.
"Here, I'll hold his head for you."
Sherlock was about to protest that he could manage quite well on his own, thank
you very much, when a strong hand, fisted in his hair, reminded him of why he
loved being a sub. He moaned and opened his mouth to let the thick head of
Mycroft's erection past his lips.
Mycroft fucked his gloriously wet, hot mouth for a few strokes and then pulled
back out of Sherlock's mouth. "Make it wetter, Sherlock. Drool on it."
I don't 'drool', he wanted to say, but he couldn't deny the humiliation of it
was making his mouth water even as he fought the idea. Mycroft knew what he was
doing.
Mycroft stood back up and Greg took his place, kneeling in front of Sherlock.
Sherlock smiled and said, "You're supposed to say 'Suck me off and make it
good.'"
Greg raised his eyebrows. "Am I, now?"
"Well, you did in my dream."
"Well then: suck me off, and make it good."
Sherlock proceeded to do exactly that.
Mycroft, towering over both of them, was stroking himself expertly. As his
orgasm started to coalesce in the near distance, he tapped Greg on the shoulder
and moved in closer. A quick glance at Sherlock asked the question.
Greg got a huge smile on his face. "Oh, definitely."
Mycroft bent lower and gave a small moan as he came, his thick globs of
ejaculate covering Sherlock's face and hair.
Sherlock's eyes went wide, but he knew better than to stop what he was doing or
pull back.
Greg pulled out of Sherlock's mouth and rubbed his cock across Sherlock's face,
dragging it through Mycroft's semen and smearing it across his lips. It was a
glorious mess. He plunged back into Sherlock's mouth with Mycroft's taste on
his cock. Right before he came, he pulled out of Sherlock's mouth and held his
cock against Sherlock's face, watching it pulse its hot liquid across his
cheekbones.
Mycroft knelt down in front of his brother and licked a wet stripe across
Sherlock's cheek before kissing him. Sherlock moaned, fairly sure he could
distinguish the taste of both of them on his tongue as Mycroft passionately
took his mouth.
Greg unhooked Sherlock's ankle cuffs from the spreader bar while Mycroft
disconnected the wrist cuffs and helped his brother to his feet. Using a clean
towel, he gently wiped the mess from Sherlock's face and then cleaned up Greg.
He took care of himself last.
"Shower or sleep?" Mycroft asked.
Greg glanced out the window. "It might be starting to get light out. I'd say
sleep while we can. The shower will just wake us up."
"Mm. Sherlock, do you think you can be trusted this time?"
"I do believe I can."
"Good. After you then…"
***** Working Backwards *****
Chapter Summary
     Sherlock gives Mycroft and Greg some time alone. (Or, awkward
     'morning-after' is awkward. And then it's not.)
Chapter Notes
     Thanks to deklava and moonblossom for the beta work!
     Warnings: implied sibling incest
Mycroft awoke to warm breath on the back of his neck and Sherlock's soft skin
beneath his head. It took him a while to reconcile the two. He hadn't woken up
with anyone other than Sherlock in a very, very long time. And he wasn't
particularly eager to recall the previous occasion.
He chased the memory out of his head as soon as it slipped in and forced
himself to breathe. This is not then.
Sherlock stirred and unfolded his arms from beneath his head like a praying
mantis and stretched like a cat in the hot sun. He reached over and ran his
fingers through Mycroft's surprisingly untamed hair. "Morning, My," he
whispered.
Mycroft gave Sherlock's shoulder a squeeze and smiled at him. Greg's hand was
resting lightly on his lower back, and he didn't want to wake him up by moving.
Greg, who'd been here since yesterday. A day. Really? Just a day?This was going
to take a bit of processing. How can things change this much in a day?
"You alright?" Sherlock whispered.
"I… I think so. I'm not used to not knowing, honestly." It was somewhat
terrifying to admit, especially to Sherlock. I'm supposed to hold everything
together here. Good God. What am I doing?
"We'll get through this, My. This might change things, but it doesn't change
us." Then, he added with a worried look on his face, "Does it?"
"Of course not, Sherlock," he murmured reassuringly.Nothing could change
that.Greg was not, and never would be, someone to replace his brother. For
better or worse, it was going to be a lot more complicated than that.
Greg shifted closer to Mycroft in his sleep, and his head slid from Sherlock's
stomach onto the fine cotton sheets.
Sherlock carefully extracted himself from his pillow duties and crawled off the
bed.
"It's a good thing he's a heavy sleeper," Mycroft whispered, just before
Sherlock bent down and kissed him.
"I'll be in my room. I assume you'd like some time alone with him?"
He gave Sherlock a grateful smile. Whatever happened when Greg woke up, the
dynamics with two people were going to be easier to navigate than the dynamics
with three. "Thank you, brother-mine."
As Sherlock walked away from the bed, Mycroft noticed the large plug still in
his arse, and the memories of the previous night hit him like a tonne of
bricks.
He played back the entire evening in his head like a film, rewinding at times
for the really good bits. Overall, there had been a lot of really good bits.
The part where he'd lost it during the pain play, and then when Sherlock had
gotten jealous - those, he could have done without. But considering he'd just
broken every rule in his own book by sleeping with a paying guest, things could
have gone a lot worse. You're not just sleeping with him, you git. You're
besotted.He politely told his brain it could fuck off, and nestled back towards
Greg's sleeping form.
He drifted back into a contented doze, and was awakened, sometime later, to a
soft kiss at the base of his neck.
"Morning."
"Mm. Good morning, Greg," he replied. "And a lovely one, at that." The sun
lazily picked out the patterns of the windowpanes on the thick carpet of the
room.
"Our pillow buggered off, I see."
"He woke up a while ago. He thought we might like some time alone." Suddenly
unsure of Greg's meaning, he quickly added, "I can call for him if you'd like."
A strong arm snaked possessively around his waist. "Mm, don't," Greg said,
pressing another kiss to Mycroft's neck. "He had it right. I'd love some time
alone with you. I assume that since you haven't buggered off to do hotel-
running type things, you feel the same way?"
"Quite."
Greg rolled Mycroft over onto his back and said, "So I don't need to pack up
and leave this morning for violating something in that lengthy contract you had
me sign?"
"I think we'd be quite happy for you to violate both of us; preferably in all
sorts of interesting ways," Mycroft said, rolling over onto his side to face
Greg. He moved his hand onto Greg's stomach, and then teasingly moved it lower.
"If you're so inclined, of course." His hand rubbed across Greg's erection and
he added, "You seem… inclined."
Greg pushed him onto his back and straddled his thighs. "Oh, you'd better
believe I'm inclined," he said as he pinned Mycroft's wrists to the bed.
Mycroft's reaction, for all his breeding and poise, came out as a fevered
groan. The sheer thrillof being pinned down like this made his head spin.
Greg kissed him, gently. Too gently. Even as the grip around his wrists
tightened, Greg teased him with the sort of kiss young lovers might exchange
with their parents watching.
Mycroft craned his elegant neck in an attempt to kiss Greg harder. With tongue,
for God's sake.
Greg pulled back, smiled, and ran the tip of his tongue teasingly over his own
upper lip. "What d'ya say?"
"Please…" he begged, his hips pushing up into Greg.
"Mm. I would've expected better manners from someone like you. Still, you did
ask nicely." He bent over to kiss Mycroft again, and this time, the kiss was
anything but chaste.
Mycroft happily gave himself over to it as he got the kiss he'd wanted, and
then some.
Greg pulled back to look at Mycroft; perhaps 'stare openly' would be a more
appropriate phrase.
"What?" Mycroft asked, defensively.
"Nothin'. It's just that this is a good look for you," he nodded his head
towards Mycroft's tousled hair - his hands were too busy pinning Mycroft's
wrists to the bed. "It makes you look, I dunno, less posh. Besides, with some
colour in your cheeks and those delicious lips… letting go agrees with you,
Mycroft Holmes; you should do it more often."
"I've never been properly motivated, before now."
Greg went back to kissing him senseless, apparently intent on showing him how
motivational he could be. They rutted against each other almost unconsciously
as they both got lost in the kisses.
Mycroft finally flinched away when Greg started to lick and suck a bruise into
his neck.
"I… I shouldn't. Other guests. It looks bad. Lower on my neck?"
"What if I bought up all the nights at the hotel until it healed? I've got the
holiday saved up. I'm not sure I can just have a taste of you and leave. I want
to savour you. Learn you." He gave Mycroft's neck a gentle bite. "And then
possibly devour you."
Mycroft actually whimpered at the last statement. He was notused to this sort
of attention. He was certainly not used to feeling, well, anythingabout a
guest. And definitely not the warm, squishy feelings he was having towards Greg
(to say nothing of the overtly submissive ones he was trying to ignore).
"W-what about Sherlock?" Mycroft stammered, trying to hang on to some semblance
of control. "Surely you're here for him."
"Mm. Lovely boy, outstanding amenity, lots of fun. But, now that I'm here…"
Greg's voice became more tentative, "he's more of a, well, secondary interest?
If that's allowed…" he trailed off and raised his eyebrows in a question.
"I don't usually… I've never…" Mycroft couldn't seem to get the right words
out. He didn't want Greg to think he did this with everyone. Anyone.
"Neither do I. Coming here is the first time I've ever done anything like this.
Besides, you don't come off as a complete slut," he said with a cheeky grin.
"Your brother on the other hand…"
"Yes, well. Quite. He does enjoy his job," Mycroft said with a grin. "Without
him, this place would just be another B&B. Well, one with kinky toys, but
still."
"So, can I stay for the week? Please? But only if you want me to."
"God. Um, yes. I'd like that. As long as you understand that Sherlock has to
be… he and I… it's complicated."
"Understood," he said gently. "Is it alright if I fuck you senseless without
him being here?" The tone was less flippant than the words implied.
Mycroft gave a short laugh. "Oh, yes. I think that will be just fine." Then, he
added quietly, "We already discussed a few things while you were asleep. It's
alright."
Mycroft wondered, not for the first time, what he was getting himself into. He
suspected Greg was wondering the same thing.
They were both silent for a few long moments, and then Greg seemed to make a
decision.
"God, you're delicious," Greg said as he leaned down to kiss him again. His
mouth didn't stay there long; it started a long slow path towards his chest,
briefly stopping to tongue the bruise he'd started on earlier and finish the
job.
Mycroft writhed in delight; his neck was exquisitely sensitive, but it was so
rarely… used. Greg still had his arms pinned next to his waist on the bed, and
seemed to have no intentions of letting him up, which was just fine with him.
When Greg gently bit his nipple, Mycroft's hips involuntarily rose off the bed
and pressed his body closer to Greg's.
"Oh… yes," he moaned. "That's good."
Greg released one of his hands, and dragged his fingernails down Mycroft's
chest.
His body arched up to meet them and he bit his lip to silence an even louder,
more embarrassing moan.
"Oh no you don't. I want to hear every little sound I'm going to fuck out of
you. I don't want you holding back on me." He did the thing with his
fingernails again, and this time Mycroft let his body respond - it was a moan
so deep it was almost felt more than heard.
"You like that, then? A bit rough?" Greg bent down and bit gently at the spot
near the top of his hip. "Tell me what you want. I want to hear it from that
posh mouth of yours."
It was slightly mortifying, having to tell someone what you wanted them to do
to you. He suspected that was sort of the point. "I like you holding me down,
and I want you to fuck me. Hard."
"Mm," Greg smiled and almost laughed. "You want me to plough that gorgeous arse
of yours, eh? Don't worry, I'll get there. I have some other things on my list
I'd like to do first though."
He pinched Mycroft's nipple, hard, and used the element of surprise and pain to
flip Mycroft onto his stomach. Years of training in the force had its benefits.
He pinned him to the bed with his body.
Mycroft hadn't seen it coming, and he growled a low, "Yes…" at this new element
of dominance. After a second or two, he pushed back, testing Greg's resolve to
keep him there.
"Oh, you're not going anywhere, gorgeous." He pulled one of Mycroft's arms
behind his back and used his weight to hold it in place.
Mycroft could feel Greg's erection prodding him; clearly they were both
enjoying this. Greg started slowly rutting against him as he whispered in his
ear, "You need this, Mycroft. You need someone to submit to every now and then.
Someone to have their way with you." His teeth ran across the sensitive skin at
the base of his skull, and then bit down, as if testing the waters.
Mycroft let out a quick cry of pain, but then returned to the now almost-
constant moans and muttered profanities he'd never dream of using under normal
circumstances. He forgot the question.
Greg ran his fingers through Mycroft's fine hair, and then clenched it between
his fist and pulled Mycroft's head back. "You need this, don't you?" he said,
almost menacingly.
"Hnggghh. Yes… please." Mycroft's groin throbbed and his erection pressed
almost painfully against the sheets.
"That's what I thought."
And then Greg's hand was gone from his hair and he shifted further down his
body. It was so quick, Mycroft didn't even have time to wonder what was next,
and then Greg's strong hands were spreading his cheeks and Greg's tongue was
buried in his arse.
Mycroft's highly evolved brain went completely offline.
"Fuck!"
It was all he could manage.
Greg was too busy stretching Mycroft's arse with his tongue to respond.
"Oh, God… Greg." Mycroft couldn't even think of anything intelligible. Greg's
hot, wet tongue thrusting into him, pushing and twisting in his tight hole, was
almost more than he could take. Sherlock had rimmed him before - yesterday, in
fact, at Greg's behest, but it had been nothing like this. The combination of
superior skill and sheer enthusiasm… fuck.
When Greg eventually came up for air, he playfully bit one of Mycroft's arse
cheeks and asked, "You liked that?"
Mycroft sputtered an enthusiastic, mind-blown, "God, yes."
"Good," he laughed, and did it all over again.
Mycroft pushed back, desperate for as much of Greg's tongue as he could get,
and Greg seemed more than happy to oblige. His face was already pressed
completely against him, and his hands pulled on Mycroft's hips for more
leverage.
The slick tongue probing his hole felt incredible, and the overwhelming
sensations made it hard for him to breathe. His mouth chanted a panting litany
of 'yes, yes, yes.'
After what seemed like an eternity of bliss, Greg finally pulled away, and
Mycroft involuntarily whined at the sudden emptiness.
"Don't worry, it's not for long," Greg said as he lubed up his fingers. The
thorough rimming had already loosened him up, but he wanted Mycroft completely
ready for the pounding he was going to get soon.
"Yes…" Mycroft gasped, as two of Greg's thick fingers slid into his arse with
almost impossible ease.
Greg started with gentle, teasing strokes, but soon he was targeting Mycroft's
prostate and discovered that Mycroft had a much coarser vocabulary than he
usually used in public.
By the time Greg was twisting three fingers slowly into Mycroft's wet entrance,
he was begging incoherently.
With his other hand, Greg fisted Mycroft's hair again and pulled back on it
sharply. "Ask me…" he started, but stopped in mid-sentence, finishing with an
awed, "oh, fuck." As soon as he'd pulled on his hair, Mycroft's arse had opened
up even further and his fingers had slid in up to the next knuckle.
He did it again, to see if it had been a coincidence. If Mycroft's groans were
an indicator, he loved the hair-pulling anyway, but this… he'd not expected
this. It wasn't a fluke; his hole relaxed even further.
"God, Mycroft," he muttered, not sure of what else to say. He repositioned his
body so he was pinning as much of Mycroft to the bed as he possibly could. He
might have issues with serious pain play, but he has a submissive streak a mile
wide. He added a little more lube and the slow tease of his three fingers
turned into a more vigorous fucking that had Mycroft arching off the bed,
desperate to get more of Greg's hand in his arse.
Greg pushed him back onto the bed forcefully and continued to pound him. It was
hard to keep his voice level; he wanted to just take him, preferably ten
minutes ago.
"You said you wanted me to fuck you, Mycroft. Hard."
Mycroft nodded, quickly.
"Do you still want that?"
"Oh, God yes. Please."
"Thank fuck," he said, slicking up his cock.
He slid off Mycroft's legs and knelt behind him, pulling him back towards him
at the same time. He lined up against him carefully, but once he felt how loose
he still was, he shoved inside him, hard and deep.
They both let out throaty moans at the deep penetration. Greg fisted Mycroft's
hair again for leverage, and started pounding into him.
Mycroft gasped for breath as his head was pulled backwards. It felt so
delicious to submit like this. Greg wasn't treating him with kid gloves, and
his body was responding in ways he hadn't even expected. He knew his mind
wanted to submit to Greg, but he hadn't fully known how much his body wanted it
as well.
Greg was bent over him, his sweat-soaked skin sliding over Mycroft's back.
"You needed this," he hissed into Mycroft's ear - the words weren't a question.
He let go of Mycroft's hair and gripped his shoulder almost painfully to get
better leverage. "Fuck your hand for me."
Mycroft braced his weight on one arm as he wrapped his fingers around his
aching prick. A particularly forceful thrust from Greg pushed his cock through
his slick fist and he gasped.
Greg's continued his punishing thrusts, angling them to hit Mycroft's sweet
spot.
"You like that. You like me controlling your pleasure, don't you?"
Mycroft nodded.
He felt Greg's hand close around his throat in a light squeeze; a sharp
contrast to the fierce sensations in his arse, but its effect was just as
powerful.
"Yes," he moaned, amazed that Greg had enough control not to completely choke
him as he pounded him so thoroughly.
Greg kept up the light pressure as he continued his assault on Mycroft's arse.
His breathing wasn't impeded any more than it had been with his head pulled
back, but the pressure on his carotid artery started to have an effect: his
hearing started to get tinny and his vision started to dim. Mild euphoria set
in as his body started to go slack. Greg immediately released his hold and the
blood rushed back to his brain, returning him to the present. He fucked his
fist more vigorously and begged for more.
"Do it again. Please." Intellectually, he knew it was dangerous, but he didn't
care. It felt so good. "So close…"
Greg's hand closed around his neck again, this time less gently than before.
Mycroft felt the beginnings of his orgasm almost immediately. He wasn't sure if
it was a biological response or a psychological one, but he didn't care. His
breath scraped through his throat as his body convulsed and hot sperm coated
his hand.
Greg released him and braced both hands back on Mycroft's hips, chasing his own
release. The sight of Mycroft Holmes completely undone beneath him, along with
the contractions of Mycroft's orgasm, had him there almost immediately. He let
out a growl as he pushed in hard, one final time, and shot his load deep inside
him.
They both stayed there for a couple seconds and then collapsed, sated and
exhausted, onto the bed in a heap. Greg rolled off of Mycroft and they both
moved onto their backs, still breathing heavily.
"Fuck," Greg uttered.
Mycroft let out a small laugh. "Mm. Fuck."
They just lay there in silence for a while and enjoyed it. Neither of them
bothered with even the pretence of cleaning up.
Greg slid his hand onto Mycroft's hip and sighed contentedly. "This weekend
hasn't been at all what I expected."
"Mm," Mycroft responded, still bathed in the afterglow as much as Greg was,
"that makes two of us."
Greg eventually slid off the bed with a groan and wandered into the bathroom to
brush his teeth and get washed off.
"Join me in the shower?" he asked over his shoulder, and Mycroft smiled back at
him.
"I'd love to."
They both stayed in the hot steamy water for longer than was strictly
necessary.
Mycroft leaned against the slate wall of the large, glass shower as Greg rinsed
the shampoo out of his hair. Greg had his eyes closed; he could openly stare
for a few seconds. Before Greg had opened his eyes, Mycroft went back to his
nonchalant glancing around.
"I saw that," Greg said teasingly as he opened his eyes.
"Saw what?" he said, trying to sound as innocent as possible. It wasn't
working.
"You were staring. Not that I mind," he added, quickly.
Mycroft gave him a sheepish look and changed the subject. "So, what do you want
to do today?" he asked, as he rinsed his own hair.
"Actually, well, I'd just like to sightsee, if that's alright."
"Of course," Mycroft replied, after the barest hesitation.
"With you, you idiot… and Sherlock. I'd, um… well, I'd like to get to know both
of you better," he said, sounding awkward. "I sort of feel like we're doing
this backwards."
Mycroft let out a bit of a nervous laugh. "Yes, I know what you mean: 'Will he
still be interested when he finds out that I'm a posh git? Or why I have a
relationship with my brother?'"
"Stop it," Greg said gently. "I'd like to spend the day with you both. More
than one day, hopefully." He pulled Mycroft closer and gave him a soft kiss.
"Please?"
Mycroft's nervous self-consciousness eased at Greg's words and tone of voice.
"I'd like that. Thank you. I… well… this might take me a while to process. It's
not you. It's just not something I've done in a very, very long time."
Greg kissed him again. "I know; I haven't either. It's probably going to be
more than a bit odd at times."
Mycroft nodded.
"Come on, let's finish our shower and find Sherlock. I could murder a cup of
tea. Do you know of somewhere we could get breakfast?"
Mycroft laughed, "Yes, here. I'm actually a decent cook."
"I don't want to make more work for you."
"I'm happy to do it; trust me. Later, we'll show you around the town or go out
for a drive or something."
They finished up, and Mycroft put on his dressing gown and headed downstairs to
find Sherlock and work on breakfast.
***** A Grand Day Out *****
Chapter Summary
     A picnic at the beach gets interesting.
Chapter Notes
     Warnings: sibling incest
     Beta: deklava and moonblossom
It was surprisingly difficult to make small-talk with someone after the instant
intimacy of sex. It was harder still when your older brother had taken a sudden
interest in that person, and you couldn't just pass off the whole thing as an
entertaining diversion. Or, in his case, work.
To be fair, small-talk wasn't something with which Sherlock generally concerned
himself. And while he liked Greg, he wasn't particularly smitten with him. But
Mycroft was, and that made it very much his concern; not because he was jealous
(although he was, a bit), but because Mycroft was, in some ways, his
responsibility.
And so, the three of them sat at the end of the antique wooden breakfast table,
discussed their plans for the day, and pointedly avoided any mention of the
previous evening.
Sherlock mostly kept quiet and observed. The fact that neither Greg nor Mycroft
noticed this was testament to their attraction and how much it rendered them
oblivious to the world around them. He didn't expect Greg to notice, but
Mycroft was another matter.
His brother had come by his room after his morning with Greg, showered and
alert, but clearly post-coital. The room was soundproof, but it didn't take any
skills in deductive reasoning to figure it out. And there was the shockingly
dark purple mark on his neck, after all.
He smiled at Mycroft, even as his heart broke a little. Professional detachment
was one thing. Personal detachment was another, and something he'd never been
able to master. But he'd given his consent when he left earlier that morning,
and he certainly didn't hold it against Mycroft.
"Gregory has asked if he can stay the week."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and said nothing.
"What do you think?"
"I think your interest in him sounds mutual," Sherlock responded with a smirk.
"You certainly don't need my permission."
"I'm not asking for it, Sherlock, but you do get a say in this."
"I'm alright with it. It's nice to see you enjoying yourself in a more
submissive role."
Colour rose in Mycroft's cheeks, but it was true and they both knew it.
Sherlock was simply more direct in his observations.
"What do you think of him as a person?"
"I'm not as besotted as you are, but I like him a great deal. Further
interactions will bear out whether or not he deserves you." He smiled wryly and
added, "And I mean that in the best of ways, My."
"Well, he'd like to 'interact further' with both of us today, in a non-sexual
manner." Mycroft bit at his lower lip before continuing. "I feel strongly about
this, Sherlock, but like I said this morning, this doesn't replace what we
have. Nothing will. If I ever have to choose between you and someone else,
there is no question in my mind; it will be you." His worried features softened
a bit when Sherlock smiled at him, and he continued, "That said, I spoke with
Gregory this morning about your sexual and emotional presence in my life being
a non-negotiable aspect of any relationship. Not," he added quickly, "that I'm
saying this is turning into a relationship. He's just fully aware of what he's
getting into."
Sherlock nodded; he was both surprised and impressed. Despite Greg's assurances
the previous evening, he'd still expected him to run screaming when the
realisation actually hit him that he and Mycroft were both sexually and
emotionally involved.
"And this 'further interaction' you mentioned; what exactly do you have planned
for the day, My?"
"Well, I thought we could show him around the town and then go for a picnic at
Ansteys Cove. A private picnic. A picnic with options, should the need arise."
Sherlock smiled, "I'll bring the extra bag then." He ran his hand over one of
his luscious arse cheeks and added, "And I assume I should leave the plug in
place?"
"Mm," Mycroft agreed, and kissed him. "Even if this 'further interaction' is
completely non-sexual, you know I won't deny your needs for an entire day.
Well, at least not without just cause," he grinned. He'd slapped Sherlock
playfully on the arse and they'd both gotten dressed and ready for breakfast.
Mycroft had cooked up a fairly impressive spread, which bore no resemblance to
the 'Full English Breakfast' fry-ups of old, and now they were discussing
Greg's job.
"I work with New Scotland Yard in London. Detective Inspector."
Sherlock sat up straighter in his chair. "Do you oversee a lot of murder
investigations?"
"Yeah, more than I'd like. Sometimes I think about retiring to the countryside,
where there's not quite as much mindless violence. Takes it out of you, it
does. I suppose that's why people end up on holiday in Devon."
"Have you ever been down here before?" Mycroft asked, politely.
"Not to Torquay. I went to the Regatta at Dartmouth once. Had a friend who went
to the Naval College."
"Mm, yes. Lovely little town."
Sherlock was a little disappointed that the topic hadn't lingered on murder
investigations. He excused himself from the table and went to make the
sandwiches for the picnic.
The weather was good, and they walked down to the centre of town. The
sightseers wandered aimlessly as they browsed the shops and enjoyed the view at
the harbour. The locals were equally easy to spot, intent on their errands as
they carried bags of shopping.
Mycroft pointed out the local police station and casually noted, "Sherlock
helps with some of their cases."
Greg stopped, mid-stride, and turned to Sherlock. "You what?"
"Well, as Mycroft said," he started, a little sarcastically, "I help with some
of their cases. Cold cases, mostly. The ones they can't figure out."
Mycroft shot him a warning glance. Be nice.
"That's… unusual, isn't it? I mean, I've certainly never heard of anything like
that."
Sherlock shrugged. "We came to a mutually agreeable arrangement. I don't make
them look like idiots in the press, and they keep me intellectually occupied in
my spare time. Just because I'm a fuck-toy doesn't mean I'm a cretin."
A passing tourist almost tripped as she heard the phrase 'fuck-toy,' and
Sherlock smirked.
"Sherlock," Mycroft hissed, "you know better." He turned to Greg and continued,
"We're not locals, of course - we weren't born here - so we try and keep a low
profile. We'd prefer that the rather unique nature of our enterprise not become
public knowledge. Of course," he mused, "it wouldn't be any better if we were
locals. I don't see that sort of thing going over at all well here. Still,
we've had good luck so far."
Sherlock snorted, trying to contain his laughter.
"Well," Mycroft continued, "we did have a few problems when we first got here.
Sherlock attempted to convince the police that a recent drowning had been a
murder, and they weren't particularly interested in his opinion. He harassed
the murderer so much that he turned himself in, begging to be protected from
Sherlock's incessant hounding. They started giving him cases after that."
"Wish we had one of you in London. I've got stacks of cold cases we'll probably
never close."
"I'd come up and help," Sherlock eyed Greg's body and gave him a slight leer
before continuing, "but it's not my primary calling. I believe you were
introduced to that, yesterday."
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock, behave. Don't forget:
'without just cause'," he added, with a hint of warning in his tone.
Sherlock's challenging attitude evaporated and he glanced at the ground.
"Sorry, Greg."
Greg looked confused and glanced between Sherlock and Mycroft.
"Sometimes my little brother has to be reminded that not every occasion is
sexually charged, and that his behaviour can be inappropriate."
"Ah, right," Greg said, cheerfully. "Well, no offence taken; the occasional
leer can be quite nice sometimes."
They walked back up the hill towards the house. By the time they got back,
they'd worked up a light sweat; the day was almost relentlessly sunny.
"Would you like something cool to drink before we set out, Gregory?"
"Mm. Just water, thanks."
"You'll want sturdy shoes for the cove; boots if you have them."
"What sort of beach is this?"
Mycroft laughed. "A Devon beach. No sand here; nothing you can build
sandcastles with, at least. Plenty of caves and outcroppings though; it used to
be a prime location for smugglers and pirates."
Sherlock filled two decent-sized rucksacks with sandwiches, cheese, apples,
drinks, towels, and a small bottle of lubricant. Just in case.
"Sherlock, would you please fetch the car?"
He nodded and started walking towards the small private car park on the
adjacent road. There was only one spot available in front of the building, and
that was always used for the client's car.
When he returned with the sleek Mercedes sedan, Greg and Mycroft were waiting
outside, engaged in a discussion. He didn't think it was the topic that was
causing their distracted smiles and their sudden inability to meet each other's
gaze. Mycroft was acting like a blushing schoolgirl.
"I'll drive, Sherlock. Gregory can ride up front. It will give him a better
view of the scenery."
And it will give you a better view of Gregory, he thought. He stepped out of
the car and sat in the back with the rucksacks.
They drove out to Ansteys Cove Road, parked at the small car park, and headed
down the steep trail towards the beach.
===============================================================================
The beach, although lovely in its own right (and actually more scenic than the
one from his childhood in Weston-super-Mare), contained nothing Greg associated
with the word 'beach.' It didn't have sand; it had pebbles. The wooden
boardwalk he'd expected was substituted with a concrete bulwark and a couple of
small tables. There was no pier, and only a smattering of people. A few
holiday-makers leaned up against the railings and ate ice cream. They watched
their children run along the beach, picking up interestingly-coloured rocks and
skipping the local slate stones across the odd patch of calm water. Even now,
at the height of summer, it was almost deserted.
As the name suggested, the 'beach' was more of a cove. Tall cliffs, with trees
clinging precariously to their edges, marked each side of the little sanctuary.
Vicious-looking rocky outcroppings poked up from the water at odd angles. At
high tide, they'd be deadly to boats; at low tide, they were probably deadly to
ankles. Greg could see why Mycroft had told him to wear his boots.
The three of them made their way to the right, off the concrete area and down
onto the beach.
"So," Greg asked somewhat tentatively, "is this the prime picnicking spot in
Torquay?"
"I'll admit it doesn't look like the most idyllic spot to set down a blanket,"
Mycroft answered, "but it does have a certain privacy that the headland parks
lack."
"Ah. Now I'm beginning to see the appeal," he said as he picked his way across
slippery, seaweed-covered rocks.
"The tide is on its way out. We should be able to make our way to the next cove
over. It has another small beach and some interesting caves."
Sherlock snorted and tried to cover it with a cough.
Mycroft glared at him before turning to Greg. "Despite Sherlock's reaction,
this isn't on our, um… regular tour of Torquay. He and I have visited the caves
a couple of times, but never with visitors. And I assure you: it is a nice,
quiet place for a picnic - no screaming children, for one."
They were edging their way between the outcroppings and the cliffs now. The
water had receded enough for them to pass, but the rocks were still slippery
and wet beneath their feet.
Greg slipped on some seaweed and stumbled, but he caught his footing at the
last minute and grabbed onto one of the outcroppings. Mycroft was immediately
by his side.
"I'm so sorry, Gregory. If you want to go back, please just say."
"Nah. Makes a nice change from London. The last time I almost broke an ankle,
it was chasing some bastard down an alley. This is far more scenic."
They continued along the rocky coast and eventually emerged in a much smaller
cove. This one was bordered by steep cliffs on all three sides, and there was
no trail back to the car. After their journey through the treacherous rocks,
the small stones of the 'beach' seemed positively welcoming, and Mycroft and
Sherlock set down their rucksacks.
Greg smirked; Mycroft looked completely out of his element. His one concession
to the beach environment seemed to be shorts. Linen shorts. Combined with his
boots, they made him look like a turn-of-the-century archaeologist on an
expedition to Egypt. As anachronistic as Mycroft looked though, Greg still
found himself admiring him.
They set out the tartan wool blanket on the driest, flattest spot of beach they
could find. Sherlock started pulling a seemingly endless array of food from the
packs: sandwiches, grapes, crusty bread, cheese, honey, a Battenberg cake, and
a bottle of white wine. Three acrylic wineglasses followed (Mycroft apologised
for these, but assured him they were far safer than the glass ones). Plates and
utensils joined the feast on the blanket. It was the most civilised picnic Greg
had ever seen.
Even though he'd eaten breakfast only a few hours before, his walk through the
town and the veritable rock-scramble to the cove had left Greg with quite an
appetite.
"Sherlock, love. Would you open the wine?"
It was the first time Greg had heard Mycroft use any sort of endearment with
Sherlock in public; not that an uninhabited cove could really be considered
'public.' He tilted his head and chewed on the inside of his mouth,
thoughtfully.
"What's it like down here? I mean, I'm assuming there's not much of a gay
scene. How do you hide your relationship? Isn't it difficult?"
Much to Greg's surprise, Mycroft laughed.
"It's easier than you'd think. Everyone here assumes people are straight and
not incestuous, so we appear to be close brothers running a successful family
business. As long as I don't go into the butcher's with my hand on Sherlock's
arse, no one even thinks to question it. An unmarried straight couple would
generate far more gossip."
"Oh… yeah. Of course. I never thought about it that way. Do you ever have non-
kinky types try and stay at the B&B?"
"We don't advertise, but on the off chance that we get any unscreened enquires,
we're mysteriously full. It makes us appear to be one of the most successful
lodgings in town; no one can ever get a booking." He looked over at Sherlock
fondly and continued, "It's a fairly quiet existence really, but it suits us."
Sherlock nodded.
"Do you ever get up to London? There are some private S&M clubs there. That's
how I heard about this place, actually - a Dom friend of mine told me about it.
I think you'd both enjoy them - somewhere you can be yourself and still be
around other people."
"Mm. It's not a bad idea, actually. We have a place up there, but we rarely use
it. I'm sure Sherlock would appreciate a slightly longer leash occasionally,"
he said, with a hint of a smile in his brother's direction.
"You should both come up and visit sometime, and I'll show you around. I'm sure
we can even have a picnic somewhere, but I don't know of anywhere with private
caves," he added, nodding towards the dark gash in the rocks behind them. "And
up there, no one would know you're brothers." Then he realised what he'd said.
"Oh, sorry. I didn't mean… fuck." He shook his head, inwardly cursing his lack
of tact.
"It's quite alright, Gregory. Our situation is rather unusual. Gay visitors
bring a lot of money to the area and the locals are finally starting to accept
that, but our relationship would never be condoned. Not even in London."
Greg nodded. It was true.
"Still, we've made quite a good life of it down here. We have each other, and
Sherlock gets his needs fulfilled. We both do, for the most part. I'm just
finding that perhaps there are a few needs I didn't know I had."
Greg glanced over at Sherlock, who appeared to be trying desperately not to
smile. For someone who admitted to being jealous of Mycroft's interest in him,
he also seemed incredibly amused by his brother's sudden lack of control.
"Sherlock, it would be nice if we had a table."
Sherlock started unbuttoning his shirt.
"Gregory, which would you prefer, face up or face down?"
"Face down seems more practical, face up seems like more fun. I'm going with
face up," he replied with a grin. So much for a non-sexual day out.
As if he'd read Greg's mind, Mycroft replied, "It doesn't have to lead to
anything, of course, but Sherlock does love to be helpful when he's not being
an utter brat." A playful smile crossed his face as Sherlock removed his shirt,
but left his shorts and his boots on.
"Oh… I can't say as I'd mind. Not in the least," Greg stammered. Now his sexual
hunger was back, as well as a growling in his stomach.
"Well, in that case: Sherlock, please remove your shorts as well. You may leave
your pants on for now, in case any kayaking tourists should happen by. I'm sure
we can explain your, um, 'table-ness' as sunbathing."
Sherlock lay down on the wool blanket, lacing his hands behind his head as a
pillow.
Greg laughed. "I'm not sure anyone is going to believe that he sunbathes, not
with that gorgeous, marble skin of his."
"All the more reason for him to get some sun now," Mycroft replied.
In what Greg considered to be a stunning show of restraint, Mycroft placed as
much of their picnic as possible on Sherlock's chest and stomach, without so
much as a glance at Sherlock's half-hard cock beneath his tight cotton
underpants. They certainly weren't leaving much to Greg's imagination, and he
found it hard to think about lunch.
When Mycroft asked him what sort of sandwich he'd like, his mind went down
entirely the wrong alley and visions of who'd get to be in the middle suddenly
filled his head. When he realised what Mycroft was talking about (and that he
was waiting patiently for an answer), he managed to stammer a reply. "Um…
cheese. Sorry."
"I'm not sure he was thinking about food, Mycroft," Sherlock added, cheekily.
Greg blushed.
"Don't be rude, Sherlock. You don't always have to state the obvious."
Greg ran his hand over his face, slightly mortified.
Mycroft pulled him over and kissed him. "I'm sorry, I couldn't resist. I know
we're both flattered that you're thinking about something other than this
lovely… spread," Mycroft said, motioning either to the array of food or
Sherlock's lovely body. Greg wasn't sure which. Judging by the lascivious smile
on Mycroft's face, he probably meant both.
Mycroft passed Greg a cheese sandwich and a glass of wine. He raised his glass
in a toast towards Greg. "To pleasant surprises."
"To pleasant surprises," Greg and Sherlock replied. Greg and Mycroft both took
a sip, but Sherlock didn't have a glass and was in no position to drink.
Mycroft took another sip of the wine. He bent down towards his brother, and
Sherlock opened his mouth expectantly. Mycroft let the wine flow from his mouth
into Sherlock's, and then kissed him. It was one of the most beautiful,
intimate things Greg had ever seen, and his breath caught in his throat.
Christ. Don't let anything you do fuck that up, he thought.
Mycroft and Sherlock were too caught up in their own world to even notice that
he'd been watching, and probably wouldn't have cared anyway.
Mycroft eventually broke off the kiss and sat back up. "Sorry…" he started.
"No. Don't ever apologise for what you have," he said gently. "Besides, most
people go their entire lives without witnessing something as…" he struggled for
words, "as touching as that."
Greg tried to mentally reconcile Sherlock's bratty tendencies with his tender
affection for Mycroft. He was certain the latter wasn't an act, but he didn't
think the former was, either. Mycroft had confirmed that Sherlock's sexual
needs were higher than 'normal'; perhaps his bratty behaviour was just a way to
ensure those needs were met - or to give guests a reason to discipline him. The
brothers' relationship certainly went far deeper than he'd originally
conceived.
Mycroft offered Greg some grapes and fed a few to Sherlock as he passed Greg a
cheese sandwich on a crusty roll. A thick layer of butter separated the cheese
from the bread. Inspired, Greg ran his finger along the edge of the sandwich
and captured some of the butter on the tip of his finger. He offered it to
Sherlock, who craned his neck to reach it and took Greg's finger into his
mouth. He sucked the butter from it and then continued to tease it with his
tongue.
Mycroft chuckled. "Brilliant idea, Gregory; I think we'll be feeding him his
lunch." He broke off a piece of cheese from his own sandwich and fed it to
Sherlock, who moaned when the sharp tang of the local cheddar hit his tongue.
Greg took a bite of his own sandwich and groaned. "God, that's good," he said,
his voice half muffled as he chewed. He ran his finger along the edge once
again, and this time he smeared the butter on Sherlock's pink nipple.
Sherlock looked up in surprise but couldn't move without disturbing the rest of
their lunch on his chest.
Greg moved the Battenberg cake out of the way and bent his head to lick the
butter off of Sherlock's nipple. "Mm. Delicious," he said, giving it a small
bite.
Mycroft smiled approvingly and took a bite of his sandwich. Then he tore a
piece of the bread off and fed it to Sherlock, who eagerly devoured it. He
handed Greg a plastic squeeze bottle filled with honey. "Would you like some
honey for your bread? Or perhaps you can think of a better use for it," he
added with a grin.
"You're damned right I can," Greg replied, downing the last gulp of his wine
before he started squeezing lines of honey around the delicately placed objects
on Sherlock's chest. "I think we need to start testing his resolve, don't you?"
"Cake first?"
"Bloody hell, Mycroft," Sherlock piped up. "What is it with you and cake?"
Mycroft shoved a bit of sandwich in his mouth. "None of that, you little brat,"
he said affectionately.
"Actually, I quite fancy a bit of cake," Greg replied. "I'm sure he can wait a
few minutes. It'll be good for him."
Using a blunt knife, Mycroft cut a piece from the marzipan-covered, rectangular
block of cake. As the knife edge touched Sherlock's stomach, he traced delicate
lines with it across his brother's skin. The blade caused no damage - not even
marks - but Sherlock broke out in gooseflesh at the sensation and moaned.
"Christ, I've never seen anyone respond like that. He gets off just as much
with a light tease as he does with a heavy beating." A sudden realisation hit
him as he savoured the cake. "Fuck me. All that equipment in the bedroom;
that's not just for the clients, is it? You use it to keep him entertained when
it's just the two of you."
Mycroft smiled. "It would be a shame to let it go to waste, don't you think?"
"I can't argue with that. Now I see why you enjoy having the hotel empty at
times."
As they finished their cake and fed small pieces to Sherlock, Mycroft asked,
"Did you get enough to eat? Food, at least?"
"Mm, plenty, thanks. I'd like to see how well he does with the rest of my
appetite, if you don't mind," he said as he cupped his hand over Sherlock's
burgeoning erection and rubbed it slowly. "He certainly seems interested. What
do you think, Sherlock? Perhaps you didn't get quite enough to eat earlier?"
His own cock started throbbing in his shorts at the idea of shoving his cock
down Sherlock's exquisite throat. "Perhaps I'll have to force-feed you later."
Mycroft hummed his approval at that, and Sherlock openly moaned.
"Yeah, I thought so."
"He really can be a complete tart, Gregory, but in the most delicious of ways."
Greg's mouth was already occupied, licking the sun-warmed honey from Sherlock's
bare chest.
When he raised his head to lick his lips and savour the honey, he asked, "How
do you keep him so deliciously smooth, Mycroft? His balls too, I noticed."
"I've become quite proficient with hot wax. We can't have it done locally, for
obvious reasons. Besides, he finds the pain and the endorphin rush sexually
stimulating. I make him shave his genitals daily, of course."
Greg wasn't sure if that was a statement that merited an 'of course' but he
wasn't about to mention it.
Mycroft continued, "That is, unless he's been particularly good. Then I tie him
down and do it for him. Same with the enemas."
"Oh," Greg replied, attempting to sound nonchalant as he nearly choked on the
honey, "I'd been meaning to ask you about that." He glanced down at Sherlock
who was holding his breath and trembling, trying desperately not to explode
with laughter. The sight put Greg over the edge, and he started to laugh,
unable to deny the bizarre quality of the conversation anymore.
That triggered Sherlock, who disintegrated into rounds of giggles. Mycroft gave
them both slightly withering looks and said, "What? It's true."
Greg tried to restrain his laughter and replied, "No, I really had been meaning
to ask you that, it's just that, well, this whole conversation is so surreal.
It's not a bad thing, it's actually wonderful. I'm sorry…" he said, struggling
to suck in a deep breath and regain some sort of control. He managed, sort of.
"I really am sorry, Mycroft. I wasn't trying to be rude." The very last thing
he wanted to do was offend him. "I just never thought I'd have this particular
conversation with a stunning man on a secluded beach while I licked honey off
his brother's chest. You have to admit, those seem like long odds."
Mycroft cracked a smile. "Yes, I suppose it is a little unusual."
"This should be obvious," Sherlock remarked dryly, "but he's not laughing at
you, Mycroft. Besides," he added sarcastically, "I'd like him to get on with
what he was doing, if it's quite alright with you."
"Cheeky sod," Greg muttered as he tweaked one of Sherlock's nipples. Mycroft
needed to reassert his control over the situation and 'disciplining' his
brother would provide it. Sherlock, ironically, was being gracious enough to
provide him with the perfect opportunity. It was fairly transparent on
Sherlock's part, and all the more touching because of it.
Mycroft tore one of the crusty rolls in half. "That's quite enough out of you,
Sherlock," he said as he stuffed the bread into his brother's mouth.
Sherlock's eyes widened with surprise, but there was no further protest.
Greg smiled at Mycroft and started to lick the honey off of Sherlock again.
Sherlock squirmed as Greg's tongue swept slow, wet stripes across his lightly
muscled stomach.
Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's wrists and worked them out from underneath his head.
"I think you need to be restrained, brother-mine." He grasped them tightly and
pinned them firmly above his head, so Sherlock's body was stretched taut. He
got a bread-muffled groan in reply.
"Oh yeah, that's better," Greg said. He switched to light, teasing strokes that
danced over Sherlock's tight marble skin. Most of the honey was gone now, and
Mycroft had removed what was left of the food.
Greg sat back on his heels and surveyed the delicious sight before him:
Sherlock stretched over the blanket like a feast of an entirely different sort,
and his delicious brother holding him there. When did I get so lucky?A quick
glance at Sherlock's pants left nothing to the imagination, and he turned to
Mycroft. "I think he looks hungry, don't you? Perhaps we didn't give him enough
to eat."
"Hm, it's true. He doesn't seem to be making much progress with that bread
roll. Did you have something else in mind?" he asked with a sly smile.
Greg glanced around at the small cove and the band of rocks they'd crossed
earlier. "Tide's still going out?"
Mycroft nodded. "We should have a while yet."
"Good." He gestured towards several large gashes in the cliff behind them. "So
you said these are caves, right?"
"Some of them; others are just outcroppings."
"Any chance you brought rope?"
Mycroft beamed at him. "It's never a picnic without rope, Gregory." He released
his brother's wrists and dug around in the rucksack until he found a length of
sturdy nylon rope and handed it to Greg.
"Perfect." He gazed down at Sherlock with a slight leer. "As much as I love a
little exhibitionism, I think we should let Sherlock have his lunch with a
little more privacy, don't you? We wouldn't want anyone disturbing it; he might
lose his appetite." He pulled the soaking wet bread roll from Sherlock's mouth
and chucked it towards the water. Seagulls appeared, as if out of nowhere, and
made off with bits of the soggy bread. "Everyone gets lunch today," Greg said
with a grin, as he pulled Sherlock to his feet.
"Thank you for letting me keep my boots on, My," Sherlock said as they made
their way over to the largest cave.
"Well, the last time we were here, you slipped and almost cracked your head
open. It seemed like a wise move."
Greg was silently glad for their remote location and the apparent privacy it
afforded. Three men - two dressed and one almost naked except for his boots -
heading for a cave… it would probably be a bit hard to explain to the locals,
and he didn't think his badge from the Yard would get him out of this one.
The largest cave wasn't more than fifteen feet deep and about ten feet wide.
The rocks on the floor were worn smooth from years of erosion, and they were
still damp from the recent high tide. Greg glanced around and found a spot that
was relatively hidden from view, in case any kayaking tourists should happen to
paddle by.
Sherlock ran his tongue slowly across his lips. "I'm hungry," he said, in a
voice like dark chocolate.
"You're always hungry, you little tease," Greg retorted. "Now, get on your
knees; we'll make sure you get what you deserve."
Sherlock knelt on the rock and let out a small yelp as the cold, wet stone
touched his skin. He placed his arms behind his back and waited for Greg to
bind them.
Greg took his crossed wrists and bound them together tightly with the rope.
More lashings between his wrists would tighten the bonds, and the rope would
bite into the tender skin of Sherlock's wrists. Greg looked at Mycroft for his
permission; they would leave marks, and Sherlock was wearing a short-sleeved
shirt. Mycroft nodded and unconsciously licked his own lips.
"Too tight, Sherlock?" Greg asked before they continued. His circulation looked
good, and the rope wouldn't mark him much.
"No."
Greg had expected a witty retort, but perhaps Sherlock was more worried that
they would cut the picnic short and make him go home without his lunch. He
rubbed Sherlock's arse cheek through the thin cotton knit. The outline of the
butt plug was just visible and Greg pushed on it, eliciting a small whine.
Greg walked around in front of him and ran his hand along Sherlock's erect
length, still covered by his pants.
"Getting a little snug, are they?" he asked, playfully.
Sherlock nodded.
"It's a shame to let a perfectly good erection go to waste. If you're good
enough, perhaps we'll let you get yourself off after this."
Sherlock started tugging at the waistband of Greg’s shorts with his teeth.
"Oh, so now you're more enthusiastic with a little incentive, eh? I hope that
doesn't mean you would have held back without it. What do you think Mycroft?
Would he have held back?" He gave Mycroft a wink that Sherlock couldn't see.
"I'm afraid it's possible, Gregory," Mycroft agreed.
Greg took hold of Sherlock's hair and pulled his head back with a sharp tug.
"This had better be the best fucking blowjob I've ever had, or I'll bend you
over that rock and fuck your arse until you're raw. And then I'll let Mycroft
have a go. Do you have a problem with that?"
"No," Sherlock answered.
Greg rubbed his hand across Sherlock's cock again. He'd only gotten harder. He
had no intention of carrying through with his threat, and Sherlock either knew
that or was getting off on the idea.
Greg pulled down his shorts and pants and they bunched up around his boots. He
was achingly hard, and it felt good to be free of them. "Sorry Mycroft, I
should have asked. Are you going to fuck his mouth after I'm done, or do you
plan on having his arse at the same time?"
"Oh," Mycroft mused, "now that's a delicious option I hadn't considered."
"Lovely. Well, I'll let you start. Once he's impaled on your cock, I'll see
what I can do to keep him quiet with mine."
Mycroft removed a small bottle of lube from his shorts before he undid them and
let them fall to his ankles.
If someone didshow up, one naked man with his hands tied behind his back would
be easier to explain than one naked man and two others scrambling for their
clothes that had been placed on a distant rock. Not that either was an
explanation any of them wanted to try and fabricate.
Mycroft shoved Sherlock's legs apart and knelt between them, then he pulled
down Sherlock's pants.
"Oh, Sherlock," he said as he felt the large wet spot on the front of them,
"can you even go a single day without ruining a pair? At least these wash; the
silk ones were a nightmare."
"It's usually your fault," Sherlock muttered under his breath.
Mycroft gave his cock a few teasing pulls in retaliation and Sherlock arched
his back and groaned.
"Okay, lean over. I need to take this out. Gregory, could you steady him for
me?" Greg braced his shoulders as Mycroft removed the plug and returned
Sherlock to his kneeling position.
"What do you think Gregory, does he deserve extra lube?"
"Yeah, I think so," Greg said with a grin. "He did make a lovely table."
Sherlock glanced up at Greg through his long dark lashes, smiled, and mouthed,
"Thanks."
Mycroft slicked himself up and slowly pushed two fingers into Sherlock's arse.
"Oh, beautiful," he said. "No resistance at all. I really should keep you
plugged like this all the time." He lined his cock up against Sherlock's
entrance, wiped his slick fingers off on Sherlock's thigh, and then pushed.
"God, you're still so tight," he muttered as he pushed all the way inside his
brother. Sherlock let out a moan at least two octaves lower than his normal
range.
Greg smiled. "I can wait a few more minutes if you want to give him a good
pounding and open him up a bit. I wouldn't want him getting distracted with my
cock in his mouth."
"Are you sure?"
"Oh yeah. I'd like to watch, for one."
Mycroft just smiled and pulled back, completely out of Sherlock's arse.
"No!" Sherlock wailed.
"Don't worry, you'll be stuffed full again soon enough. I thought Gregory might
enjoy seeing how easily your arse swallows up my cock. You're always so hungry
for it, you little slut."
Hearing Mycroft use that sort of language made Greg even harder. Besides,
Mycroft was right, he didwant to see that. Very much so.
"Here, Gregory, hold him open for me. I want you to get a good view."
Greg leaned forward and spread Sherlock's arse cheeks wide as Mycroft
positioned himself once more. His fluttering hole was still partially open, and
Sherlock was pushing back, eager to be filled. Greg watched, rapt, as the thick
head of Mycroft's cock, gleaming slick with lube, slowly pushed inside.
"See how easily he takes it? And yet he's still so tight." Mycroft pushed into
him, fractions of an inch at a time, teasing him.
"God Mycroft, please," Sherlock begged as he strained to push himself onto his
brother's cock, but Mycroft held him firmly and continued at his glacial pace.
He turned to Greg with a wicked smile and said, "He's never been good with
delayed gratification."
Greg's mouth watered as he watched Mycroft slowly bury his thick cock deep
inside Sherlock's arse.
When Mycroft was finally inside him, balls-deep, he pulled out suddenly and
slammed it back home.
"Yes…" Sherlock roared, his voice echoing around the cave.
Mycroft clamped his hand over Sherlock's mouth while he continued pounding him.
"Restraint… little brother," he hissed between thrusts.
Greg had never seen anything so fiercely erotic, and he couldn't hold back any
longer. He sighed as he grasped his own leaking cock.
Mycroft heard Greg and glanced over. After one more punishing thrust deep
inside Sherlock, he grabbed his brother's hair and pulled him backwards.
"I think Gregory is more than ready to feed you your lunch. You're going to
take every inch of him in your mouth while I fuck your arse, and he'd better
not feel even a hint of teeth. I'll be fucking you nice and slow, so you have
no excuse. After you get both of us off, we'll decide if we're going to let you
come or not. Got it?" He punctuated the question with another yank on
Sherlock's hair.
"Yes."
"Good. Gregory?"
Greg moved back so that he stood in front of Sherlock with his cock at mouth
height. With Mycroft kneeling behind his brother, it was almost like one of the
sandwiches he'd been thinking about earlier in the afternoon.
Sherlock was still bound, so Greg helpfully pulled his straining cock away from
his stomach and placed the tip of it at Sherlock's lips. He was curious to see
if Sherlock would eagerly wrap his mouth around him, or if he'd need to be more
forceful about things and shove his cock-head past those gorgeous lips. Either
option was fine with him.
He didn't have any more time to think about it, because Sherlock's mouth was
already on him, hot and tight and wet, and feeling like heaven. He groaned with
relief - it suddenly felt like he'd been waiting for this all day. Sherlock's
tongue danced around the head of his cock and every time Mycroft thrust into
his arse, Sherlock would take him deeper into his mouth.
He saw Mycroft wrap his arm around Sherlock's chest to brace him. Mycroft
wouldn't be able to give his brother the long, slow slides of earlier, but he
was able to thrust up into him as Greg fucked his throat.
"How does it feel, Sherlock?", Mycroft whispered. "Do you like being filled up
like this? Like a cheap whore, renting yourself out on a public beach?"
Sherlock managed to groan, even with Greg's cock filling his mouth.
Greg grabbed the back of Sherlock's head and started to fuck his face more
vigorously. If Sherlock kept this up, he wasn't going to last long. He glanced
down, and that was his mistake. Sherlock, of course, looked gorgeous, even
sucking cock. But then he saw Mycroft, pressed firmly up against his brother,
whispering filthy things in his ear as he thrust up into him.
That.
That was what did him in.
His orgasm tore through him, almost without warning, and he groaned Mycroft's
name as he came in thick spurts down Sherlock's throat.
He stood there for a few seconds, riding out the orgasm, and then slowly pulled
out. He wiped away the drool and semen from the corner of Sherlock's mouth and
then let Sherlock lick his fingers clean.
"Here," Greg said. "Let me help." He pulled Sherlock forward so he was braced
up against his body. Between that, and using Sherlock's bound arms as leverage,
Mycroft was able to return to the long pounding strokes he'd been giving
Sherlock earlier.
Sherlock gasped at each thrust, obviously trying not to make noise. It wasn't
long before Mycroft threw his head back, eyes shut and mouth open in a
soundless cry of pleasure.
He sat back on his heels and caught his breath as Greg swiftly untied Sherlock.
"Your wrists alright?"
"Mm, fine. Just a little rope burn; I've had worse."
Mycroft looked at them both and gave them a lazy smile. Sherlock was the only
one who hadn't come, and the only one who was particularly alert.
"Come on. We should get dressed and get out of here before someone does show
up. That is," he added, "unless you two plan letting me get myself off…"
"Oh, I dunno. I'd quite like to see that. What about you, Mycroft?"
Mycroft just smiled.
"Well then, I guess it's your turn. It seems like you'd be good at putting on a
show for us."
"It's not going to last long, at this rate," Sherlock breathed, his spit-
slicked hand already around his cock and moving fast. It didn't take long, but
the look on his face as he came was exquisite, and his hot sperm coated his
hand and his stomach.
"Very nice," Greg murmured. "Now, clean yourself up. You need the protein."
Sherlock licked the thick fluid from his fingers, making far more of a
production of it than was strictly necessary, but neither Greg nor Mycroft
complained.
"Alright," Mycroft said, his voice still heavy from the sex, "now we really
should get going. Sherlock - do you want the plug in or out? It's your choice."
"In," Sherlock said with a wicked grin. "I like the way it feels when I walk."
His brother shook his head and smiled. "Bend over, then." Sherlock bent at the
waist and Mycroft gently pushed the plug back inside him.
"There's a small tidal pool back here. We should probably clean up a bit before
we head back onto the beach. And Sherlock, I apologise; I clearly erred by not
bringing your clothing with us. I just hope nobody sees you in your pants.
Perhaps we should wet them down completely and say you went for a swim."
"I'll take my chances. I don't relish the idea of wearing wet pants all the way
home."
"You don't have to wear them home at all."
"Oh, right," he said, as his face lit up with a smile. He dunked them in the
pool and put them on. "Bloody hell, that's cold water, but now at least I have
a viable excuse. You two dressed yet?"
They were, and the three of them headed back to their picnic spot. The beach
was still empty, but they could hear excited voices heading around the rocks
from the main beach. Sherlock ran over to his clothes, stripped off his wet
pants, and hastily redressed. He shoved the wet underpants in one of the
rucksacks.
"Sherlock," Mycroft scolded, but his smile betrayed his tone of voice.
They were dressed and the rucksacks were packed up with the remains of the
picnic by the time the children reached the cove. Mycroft looked like an
archaeologist again, and Greg couldn't even tell that Sherlock wasn't wearing
any pants.
"Did you grab the lube from the cave?" Sherlock hissed, while trying to smile
innocuously at the children.
"As if I would forget," Mycroft said with a grin, and they headed back towards
the main beach.
***** An Introduction to Pain *****
Chapter Summary
     Mycroft and Sherlock tell Greg about their past.
Chapter Notes
     Thanks to non_canonical for britpicking for me.
     Note:This is where the backstory begins. It explores Sherlock and
     Mycroft's relationship since childhood. The story doesn't contain
     outright porn again until Chapter 22, but if you skip directly there
     it will be rather confusing.
     Warnings:Domestic Violence.
Five years earlier...
Mycroft collapsed onto the sofa as the door to the flat slammed shut. He should
have seen this coming. Sherlock had. When he stopped shaking enough to be able
to stand, he went to the kitchen to get a bag of frozen peas for his forehead
and then to the bedroom to pack a suitcase.
===============================================================================
In general terms, his relationship with pain had been a very good one.
When he'd received his first caning in boarding school at the age of twelve,
Mycroft discovered that the experience left him startlingly aroused. His
initial horror gave way to curiosity and scientific enquiry. The school
administrators couldn't understand why such an outstanding student had
developed such a discipline problem.
The next time he was home for school holidays, it hadn't taken much convincing
to get one of the stable boys to use a riding crop on him. The whole experience
had been entirely satisfactory. Better than satisfactory, in fact. He came to a
discreet arrangement that left one of them with well-lined pockets and the
other with a glowing arse.
Satisfaction at school was less easily arranged. He was getting too old for
'disciplinary problems.' Besides, that ruse was wearing thin. He instinctively
knew this wasn't something he should get caught doing, and he didn't trust
anyone not to use the information against him. So, along with the rest of the
pupils, he contented himself with the occasional wank and left it at that. It
made his holiday visits all the more sweet.
A year later when his hormones really kicked in, his whole approach to
discovering his sexuality went much the same way - pragmatically and without
drama. He knew he wasn't interested in girls, and experimentation with boys at
school confirmed his suspicions that he was gay.
He limited his encounters to ones in which he topped. Oral sex at an all-male
boarding school was common enough, and between his physical stature and his
family’s prominence, no one ever questioned his dominance. The truth was, he
didn’t trust anyone enough to participate submissively. These trysts never went
beyond the purely physical: no boyfriends, no messy emotional entanglements, no
awkward breakups. The last thing he needed was an overwrought bedmate in
hysterics about 'feelings'.
He never mentioned the riding crop to his partners. Most of his classmates
dreaded canings and whined about them for days afterwards. To admit to enjoying
them, or any sort of pain, would be tantamount to social suicide. Public-school
prudes were not to be trusted, not even gay ones.
When he was seventeen and home for Christmas, he told Sherlock he was gay.
Sherlock gave him a completely mystified expression and replied, "Well, of
course you are, I figured that out years ago. So am I." Even at ten, his
brother was already alarmingly observant and more precocious than he'd ever
been.
University didn't provide much time or liberty for experimentation with pain,
and he suspected his small-minded classmates wouldn't have favourable opinions
on the subject anyway. The extent of their knowledge about 'alternative
sexuality' seemed to be limited to the 'MP hangs himself while wearing women's
underpants' category of tabloid rubbish. Their knowledge of S&M was bound to be
even more atrocious.
He limited himself to academic readings on the subject. There were surprisingly
few papers in the 'human sexuality' area, but plenty regarding the
neurochemical response to pain. Psychology texts categorised his pleasurable
responses to pain as 'abnormal,' but he didn't much care. It worked for him. He
idly wondered why the psychology 'scholars' weren't talking to the
neurobiologists, who clearly seemed to have a more objective perspective on the
matter.
After a few overly-emotional romantic partners, with whom he never discussed
the subject of pain, he gave up on sex and relationships altogether. His
studies left him little time for socialising anyway, and it didn't seem like
much of a loss.
A mutual friend introduced him to Jonathan during his final year. Jonathan
asked him out for dinner a couple of times, but it never went beyond that.
Mycroft was absorbed in his studies (Philosophy, Politics and Economics) and
still harboured the belief that he could subsist without emotional interaction
for an indefinite period of time.
They'd lost contact after university, but when Jonathan looked him up seven
years later and asked him out for lunch, he readily agreed. His career as a
young politician left him with few opportunities to socialise, and he regretted
not having been more social in university when he'd had the chance.
Lunch had led to dating, which had led to a relationship, which, God help him,
had led to falling madly in love with the junior barrister for Crowhurst &
Carville.
Years of keeping his emotional distance caught up with him all at once, and the
effect was devastating. Mycroft was completely besotted. After just a month of
dating, he asked Jonathan to move into his flat. Jonathan agreed.
That Christmas, he took Jonathan home to meet Mummy and Sherlock. Mummy had
been surprisingly welcoming.
"It's so lovely to see you happy, darling. I was worried you'd never find
anyone."
She always did have a way with a backhanded compliment.
Sherlock, twenty-one now and almost finished at Cambridge, had given Jonathan a
hard stare for what seemed like minutes; in reality, it was probably only
seconds. Then he'd pasted on that superficial smile of his and greeted Jonathan
as warmly as Mummy had.
After dinner, Sherlock dragged him off into a corner.
"I don't like him, My."
He knew better than to question Sherlock's judgement; it was much more useful
to get reasons.
"What about him don't you like?"
"He's rude to the staff. I don't trust him."
"I…" Mycroft thought for a moment and realised Sherlock was right. "I suppose
he was. But he's never been rude to me."
"Not yet," he said with a worried look. "I know you like him, My, but be
careful."
He gave Sherlock a quick hug.
"I will, thank you."
He and Jonathan went back to London and settled into a routine of sorts, both
consumed by their respective jobs. Long days usually turned into long nights,
wading through reams of paper.
Their sex life dwindled as their workload increased, and Mycroft found himself
more relieved than worried about it. Six months into their relationship, and he
still hadn't found the nerve to bring up 'the pain thing.'
It was irrational and stupid. If it had been anything else (or anyone else), he
would have just put it out there and waited for the inevitable backlash. He
really didn't care what people thought. But he cared what Jonathan thought, and
he was worried that Jonathan would leave over this. He even considered visiting
a professional dominatrix, but dismissed the idea out of hand. He refused to
violate Jonathan's trust just to satisfy his own base needs.
In an effort to resurrect their sex life, Mycroft invited Jonathan to come with
him to buy lubricant and condoms at a London sex shop.
"I thought you were too busy for sex," Jonathan sniped.
"I'm sorry. I've been caught up with all the work for the elections; I can go
to the shop by myself. I just thought we could enjoy a night out; perhaps we
can get dinner?" It came out sounding more defensive than he'd intended.
Sherlock's comment from Christmas echoed in his head, but he dismissed it. It
was his fault, after all; he hadbeen busy with work.
After a dinner that included at least one too many glasses of wine (possibly
two), he made a decision. At the sex shop, he added a riding crop and a paddle
to their basket.
"You're joking, right?" Jonathan said as his jaw hit the floor.
"Wish that I were. Are you going to run screaming?"
"Are they for you or for me?"
"For me. I'd like you to use them on me."
"Oh." Jonathan stood there looking completely confused, and Mycroft wondered if
a different approach would have been wiser. "Why?" Jonathan asked.
"Because I enjoy it," Mycroft replied calmly. He waited for the other shoe to
drop.
"Alright," Jonathan replied, hesitantly. "I suppose I'll try anything once."
And that was precisely what had happened.
Jonathan had insisted on the paddle with holes, saying that it looked like it
wouldn't be as bad. The shopkeeper had tried to steer them back to Mycroft's
original choice, but they'd ignored him.
Later that night, they tried it. Jonathan wielded the paddle like a cricket
bat, and Mycroft screamed when the suction caused by the holes gave him almost
instant blisters.
"Oh God, Mycroft, are you alright?"
"I'll be fine," he lied through gritted teeth. "Just get me some ice."
He was still trying to find a comfortable position when Jonathan's concern
slowly turned to anger.
"Jesus, Mycroft. What on earth possessed you to do this? It's sick. You're a
fucking pervert."
Mycroft bristled. It's not sick, it's who I am,he thought, but he didn't say
anything. He took a blanket and a pillow, and slept on the sofa.
The next morning, Jonathan was all sweetness and apologies for his outburst of
the night before. Mycroft outwardly smiled and accepted the apologies with
grace, but Sherlock's words were even louder in his mind. For the first time,
he really started to wonder if he'd made a horrible mistake.
He put the riding crop behind his suits in the back of the wardrobe and chucked
the paddle in the rubbish bin. Clearly he'd been wrong to trust anyone else
with his physical needs, and it was beginning to appear that the same was true
of his emotional ones.
But it was easy - too easy - not to rock the boat. He didn't want to be alone,
and regardless of their issues, he still loved Jonathan.
He decided to put more effort into their relationship; he had been letting work
get in the way of things. Jonathan responded in kind: they made time to go out
on dates, their sex life returned, and their arguments were less frequent.
Mycroft's desire for pain was never brought up, and Mycroft never mentioned it
again. It worked, for a while.
Sherlock finished his studies at Cambridge and had moved to London, taking a
flat in a Hammersmith. Mycroft invited him over for a celebratory dinner.
It had not gone well.
Small-talk was not Sherlock's strong suit, but Mycroft was quite proud of the
effort he was making. It wasn't until the main course that things really
started to fall apart.
"Dear God, Mycroft," Jonathan sniped, "this chicken is awful. Could you have
cooked it any longer? It's as dry as a bone."
Sherlock wheeled around and said, "I think it's lovely, and I think you're
being rude."
"It's fine, Sherlock," Mycroft said as he tried to smooth things over. "I did
overcook it a bit."
Sherlock gave him a look but backed off.
The rest of the meal progressed well enough, if somewhat awkwardly. Sherlock
eventually left, and Mycroft started loading plates into the dishwasher. Two
bottles of wine between the three of us. I'm surprised it didn't get any more
heated,he thought.
Mycroft finished in the kitchen and turned around to see Jonathan blocking the
door to the living room.
"Your brother can be a right little prat, can't he?" he said in a menacing
tone.
Mycroft sighed. Should have stopped at the first bottle. "Don't start,
Jonathan. It's been a long night."
"No, I should have made the little prick apologise to me. You let him get away
with entirely too much."
Insulting him was one thing. Insulting Sherlock was another.
"Don't talk about him like that. He's my brother," Mycroft said coldly, digging
his nails into his palms to prevent himself from saying something he'd really
regret.
"I'll talk about him however I want," Jonathan sneered.
Mycroft tried to squeeze past him, but Jonathan's one inch height advantage
suddenly seemed like much more. He grabbed both of Mycroft's arms, lifted him
slightly off the ground, and threw him into the living room.
Mycroft's forehead slammed into the coffee table, and he slumped onto the
floor, dazed.
"Oh, my God. Mycroft, are you alright?"
Mycroft clutched his head and winced. Jonathan reached out to touch his
shoulder, and he pulled back. "Don't touch me," he warned.
"I'm sorry, Mycroft. I didn't mean to…"
"Get out," he uttered through gritted teeth. "I never want to see you again."
===============================================================================
He showed up at Sherlock's door a half an hour later.
Sherlock opened the door, took one look at Mycroft, and said, "I'm sorry, My,
come in."
He took Mycroft's suitcase and ushered him inside, then he pulled him in for a
long hug.
"Sit down; I'll make you some tea."
Mycroft wandered numbly to Sherlock's sofa and collapsed onto it, holding his
throbbing forehead.
"Are you going to file a police report?"
He shook his head. "It was accidental. For the most part."
The impact with the coffee table had not drawn blood, but it was already
blossoming into an ugly bruise. "Do you have any peas? I should have kept them
on for longer."
Sherlock rooted around in the freezer and extracted an ancient, frost-encrusted
package of peas. He ran it under the tap for a bit, wrapped it in a teatowel,
and gave it to Mycroft.
"Thank you. You should really eat more vegetables, Sherlock," he muttered,
distantly.
Sherlock gave a soft laugh. "I should do a lot of things, My." Then his face
turned serious. "I'm going to kill him, for one."
Mycroft looked up, his eyes focusing for the first time since he'd stepped into
the flat. His voice was much clearer. "Nobody's going to kill anyone."
"It won't be traceable."
Mycroft didn't doubt it. "I stand by my previous statement."
Sherlock handed him a cup of tea. "He hurt you, My."
"He's an arse, and he pushed me, but he didn't mean for me to hit my head on
the coffee table. But I told him it was over. I told him to get out."
"And did he?"
Mycroft nodded.
"And then you left?"
"Yes. I suppose I should have stayed. It was my flat."
"No, it's alright. We can have the locks changed."
Mycroft's voice got smaller. "I don't want to go back, Sherlock. I'll get a
hotel."
"No, stay here, I've got the room."
"I can't. I just needed to get out of there. I wanted to see you." He idly
chewed on one of his fingernails and suddenly looked self-conscious. He started
to get up. "I should leave."
"You're chewing on your fingernails, My."
"What?" He looked up vacantly. "Oh, I suppose I am."
"You've never done that in your life. You're the only man I know who gets
regular manicures. You're not… you're not you at the moment, alright? Just
drink your tea and stop trying to think for a bit. Please."
He grabbed a blanket from the chair. "Lean forward, My." He wrapped the blanket
across his brother's shoulders and sat down next to him, covering both of them.
Whatever had been holding Mycroft together chose this moment to fall apart. He
collapsed against Sherlock and started sobbing uncontrollably.
Sherlock ran his hands through Mycroft's hair and made quiet soothing noises.
"I've got you, My. You're safe."
===============================================================================
Sherlock waited until his brother stopped sobbing before he moved to get up.
Mycroft grabbed for his arm. "Don't go. Please."
"I'm coming back," he reassured him. "I was just going to get more tea. Do you
want some? Or something stronger, perhaps?"
"No, tea is fine. Thank you." Mycroft's voice sounded unbelievably frail, and
Sherlock internally debated whether or not he should get up at all. Mycroft
nudged him, so he went off to the kitchen. He came back with two more steaming
cups of tea, with milk and sugar, and some biscuits.
"Sorry, I don't have much food in the house."
"It's fine Sherlock, we just ate. I'm alright."
Sherlock looked at Mycroft's trembling hands and pale skin. Normally he would
have argued the point - his brother was about as far from 'alright' as it was
possible to get - but he quietly gave Mycroft his tea, put the biscuits on the
low table, and sat down next to him. "Drink," he said, as he pushed his body
closer to Mycroft and pulled the blanket back around them.
They sat in silence until the tea and biscuits were gone. Sherlock looked at
Mycroft; his brother's eyes were red and puffy, and he looked exhausted -
physically and emotionally.
"Alright, here's what we're going to do," he stated, in a quiet yet decisive
tone. Mycroft looked at him with raised brows as Sherlock continued, "Tomorrow,
I will phone your offices and tell them you have food poisoning. That will give
us at least a couple of days to get things sorted. I'll go by the flat tomorrow
morning and have the locks changed. Then I'll contact Jonathan and arrange a
time for him to pick up his belongings. If I had my way, I'd leave them on the
street, but I suspect your nature is far more generous than my own."
Mycroft gave him a weak smile.
"You'll tell me what things you need immediately and I'll get them for you
while I'm there. We'll have the rest of the items moved professionally."
"No…" Mycroft started to protest, but Sherlock cut in, gently.
"You said you didn't want to go back, My. I took that to mean you don't want to
live there; was I wrong?"
"No… but this is ridiculous. I can do all of this." His voice faltered a
little, but he continued, "I just need some time."
"Please," Sherlock countered, "let me do this for you, My. You've always taken
care of me. Let me take care of you for a while."
Mycroft let out a long sigh and nodded. "Thank you, Sherlock. Are you sure you
don't mind if I stay tonight? I'll get a hotel room and start looking for
another flat tomorrow."
Sherlock reached his other arm around Mycroft and pulled him into a hug. "For
someone so brilliant, you can be incredibly dense, My. Of course you can stay
here; I want you to. I have an extra room. I will admit it's set up as a
chemistry lab at the moment, but I'll sleep on the sofa until I can make it
habitable."
"What about your job? Surely you can't take time away from work like this?"
Sherlock looked away sheepishly. "It's more like… contract work. They're
letting me do some chemistry research at Barts. No one will mind if I'm gone
for a few days."
"I'll take tomorrow off, Sherlock, but I need to get back to work. I'm not
going to sit around here and mope."
"I don't expect you to. Look, you can do some shopping and cook me another
dinner if you want. Tonight was the first proper meal I've had in weeks, truth
be told. If you want anything other than take-away, I'm afraid you're going to
have to make it."
Mycroft gave him a slightly stronger smile this time and said, "You've been
living on digestives and cereal again, haven't you?"
"Perhaps," he said as he chewed on his bottom lip, looking guilty. "A bit.
Look, it'll be nice having you here. I haven't seen nearly enough of you since
I went off to school."
The further away the conversation got from Jonathan and the flat, the stronger
Mycroft sounded, and Sherlock aimed to keep it that way. The less time Mycroft
was left alone with his thoughts, the better off he'd be.
"Could you help me make up the bed? It goes faster with two. I haven't changed
the sheets, um… recently." Keep him busy and don't leave him alone,Sherlock
thought.
Mycroft nodded and stood, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders.
Sherlock took in his brother's hunched form and thought, At this point,
changing sheets might be asking too much.
He took Mycroft's hand and guided him down the hallway to his bedroom. The
drawers were piled high with books and papers, and a pile of clothes lurked in
the corner, but the bed and an overstuffed armchair were surprisingly clean.
"Sit here," Sherlock instructed, "I'll get the sheets."
Mycroft had a small smile on his face but looked like he was about to fall
apart again at any second. Sherlock stopped in his tracks. "What is it, My?"
His brother's blue eyes brimmed with tears. "It's nice. It smells like you in
here - like your old room at home used to."
Sherlock bit his lip to stop himself from crying and hugged him. Mycroft buried
his face in Sherlock's shoulder.
"I hate this. I hate feeling this weak, Sherlock. I'm sorry."
Sherlock held on to him more tightly and kissed the side of his head. "It'll be
alright, My. I promise."
He bundled Mycroft up in the blanket and had him sit in the chair. "I'll just
be a minute," he assured him.
He returned with fresh sheets and Mycroft's suitcase. He opened it and removed
Mycroft's pyjamas and toiletry bag. He handed them to him and said, "Here, get
ready for bed."
"But the sheets…"
"I'll do those. The toilet's next door."
By the time Mycroft returned wearing his crisp, blue-striped cotton pyjamas,
Sherlock had finished making up the queen bed and was digging through the
suspect pile of washing for his own pyjamas. He didn't generally sleep in them
unless it was cold, but he didn't feel it was appropriate to sleep on the sofa
in a pair of pants, either.
"There you go, all made up," Sherlock said in an overly cheerful voice that he
hoped sounded convincing.
Mycroft gave him a weak smile, and he knew it hadn't been nearly convincing
enough.
"Sorry." Sherlock said. "Look, I'll be on the sofa if you need anything,
alright? Anything at all."
"Wait. Sherlock, I…" Mycroft trailed off.
"What?"
"Will you stay?"
===============================================================================
As soon as the words left Mycroft's mouth, he regretted them. As if I haven't
shown enough weakness already.
"Of course, My." Sherlock stripped off his clothes and put on his own pyjamas.
"Are you sure? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."
"You're fine," he said quietly. "Now get into bed so we can get some rest,
alright?"
He's telling me what to do so I don't have to think about it,Mycroft noted with
a small smile. As mortified as he was by his weakness, he was glad to have
Sherlock to support him and take charge for a while. He couldn't imagine facing
this alone.
Sherlock climbed into bed beside his brother. "I knew having a ridiculously
large bed would come in handy one day," he said. "Try and get some sleep."
Mycroft wasn't sure of the etiquette for this situation. Was it acceptable to
hug your own brother when sharing a bed? It seemed like it would be awkward. He
reached out and gave his brother's shoulder a quick squeeze. "Thank you."
"Anytime," Sherlock replied, and lazily flipped over so he was lying on his
stomach with one arm under his pillow.
Mycroft lay on his back, and flinched when Sherlock draped his other arm across
his stomach.
"S'that alright? I usually take up half the bed, and you're warm."
He didn't mind in the least; he just wasn't expecting it. Apparently Sherlock
didn't have the same concerns about propriety. "No, it's nice." He covered
Sherlock's hand with his own, and for the first time all evening, he started to
truly relax.
In the dark silence of the room, he listened to Sherlock's slow breathing.
Where had things gone so wrong with Jonathan? Why had he ever trusted him? He
could trust Sherlock though, even if no one else was worthy of it.
===============================================================================
Sherlock awoke blearily to the disconcerting notion that someone else was in
his room. His bed.
That hadn't happened since university.
He looked over and saw Mycroft, still sleeping peacefully in the same position
as the night before.
This was a definite improvement on the incidents in university. Many of those
had resulted in hurled invectives, and frequently, hurled books. He'd
ultimately decided that sex in his own room wasn't worth the damage to his
library. He'd simply remedied the situation by having sex in other people's
rooms. Usually, they were his lovers' rooms, but sometimes he got creative.
Most people just assumed that his icy disdain for the general population would
naturally lead to a lack of sexual partners. They were wrong. People want what
they can't have, or at least what they think they can't have. Being icy and
remote had netted him a surprising number of satisfying one-night stands. He
did the standing-up, mind. There was no point in letting anyone get emotionally
attached. The ones who managed to do so after only one night of sex needed
their heads examined anyway.
So, finding Mycroft in his bed was something of a pleasant surprise; his
brother wouldn't be hurling any books. Then he remembered what had brought
Mycroft here, and he wanted to kill Jonathan.
His brother stirred, and he banished his homicidal thoughts for the time being.
"Morning, My," was all he said. Asking him how he felt seemed insulting; no
point in rehashing the obvious.
Mycroft gave him a genuine, unguarded smile, and then his face clouded over as
the circumstances surrounding his visit flooded his mind. He attempted another
smile, but this one was strained. "Morning, Sherlock."
Sherlock reached over and hugged his brother. "Come on, let's get some
breakfast."
"You don't eat."
"But you do. Anyway, I eat sometimes. I just don't happen to have anything
edible here, unless you count biscuits. There's a coffee place down the road
that serves food."
He glanced at the bruise on Mycroft's forehead; it seemed to have gotten much
worse overnight and was now varying shades of yellow and brown and about two
inches wide. "I just realised," he said carefully, "that you might not want to
go out like that. I'd be happy to go and get food and bring it back if you'd
like. Of course," he added quickly, "it's up to you."
Mycroft gingerly touched his forehead and winced. "No, it's alright. I need to
move past this, Sherlock; I can't let it define me. There's no shame in it,
after all. Besides, most people will just assume I got mugged; I hardly look
the type for a pub brawl."
Sherlock smiled. It wasn't Mycroft's usual biting wit, but he realised his
brother was making an effort for his sake.
"Some hot food does sound like a good idea," Mycroft added. "I'm really not in
the mood for cereal."
"I'm not sure I have enough milk for it anyway. I think I almost finished it
with the tea last night."
As Mycroft took off his pyjamas for the shower, Sherlock noticed the finger-
shaped bruises on each arm. Mycroft saw him staring.
"He didn't push you, did he," Sherlock said - a statement, not a question. "He
lifted you up and threw you."
Mycroft breathed out, deflated. "Hitting my head was still an accident,
Sherlock. I'm not going to file charges."
"Will you at least let me get a couple of pictures, in case you change your
mind?"
Mycroft wearily nodded his assent, and Sherlock documented his injuries.
"What did you fight about?"
"You have to ask?"
"Not really. He was upset that I challenged his insult, right?"
Mycroft nodded.
Sherlock filed the information away for later. He suspected he might run into
Jonathan when he visited the flat, but he couldn't be sure.
A half an hour later, they sat at a small table in the cafe, drinking tea and
eating breakfast 'sandwiches.'
"I could have cooked us something, you know."
"The eggs in my fridge aren't to be trusted. Oh, and that reminds me, I've been
doing some chemistry experiments. If you're going to cook something, you might
want to consider buying new measuring cups. I really need to buy some proper
lab glassware."
Mycroft shook his head. "You have money, you know."
"I know… it just didn't seem like a worthy expense when there were some
perfectly good Pyrex measuring cups in the kitchen cupboard."
"I despair of you, Sherlock," Mycroft said, but Sherlock noted with
satisfaction that there was a small smile on his face.
They ate in silence for a while. Sherlock had no desire to worsen Mycroft's
mood with the logistics of the day ahead, but they'd have to discuss it at some
point. He just needed to approach this head-on; there was no way to soften it.
"Alright. So… today."
"Yes?"
"I need the phone number of your employer, a list of all the items you wish me
to retrieve from your flat, and your key."
"That won't be necessary, Sherlock. I'm going in to work today."
"If I'm not mistaken, you'll need clothing from your flat in order to do that."
He'd seen what was in Mycroft's suitcase. There were no suits.
Mycroft went pale and pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger. When
he finally spoke, his voice was pained. "I'll manage, Sherlock. I need to go
back to the flat sometime."
His brother's other hand trembled, and Sherlock covered it with his own.
"No, you don't," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "You never have to go back
there. Stay with me for a few days. Being stoic about this isn't going to help
in the long run, you know. Look at me."
Mycroft took his hand away from his face and looked up. He was close to tears.
"We're going to do what we discussed yesterday. I'll take care of the details
at your flat, and you take care of the shopping."
"Do I have any choice in this whatsoever?" Mycroft asked, weakly.
"No, not really."
"Alright," Mycroft said. "Just for a day or two until I find another flat.
Thank you."
As they walked back, Mycroft seemed to regain some of his self-assurance. "I
think your kitchen is going to take some work. Do you have a shopping list?
Food preferences? I seem to recall a fondness for soft boiled eggs and toast
'soldiers'."
"I was five, Mycroft. Leave it to you to remember that," he said, giving
Mycroft an affectionate grin. "Whatever you want to get will be fine. Those
breakfast sandwiches left a lot to be desired, though. I'm sure anything you
make will be infinitely superior."
"Toast soldiers it is, then," he retorted, with just a trace of sarcasm.
As soon as his brother was gone, he phoned Mycroft's office to say that he was
ill. Then he left, empty suitcase in hand, for his brother's flat.
Once he got to the building, he checked to see that he was alone and stepped
inside its ancient, creaking lift. He used his lock-picking set to change the
lift to 'fire' mode, which immobilised it on the ground floor. Just in case.
Then, he walked the three flights of stairs to Mycroft's flat.
He let himself in. The sound of the shower meant Jonathan had come back. He
walked cautiously down the hall, but the door to the toilet was closed. He sat
against the wall directly opposite the door and waited patiently.
Jonathan, wearing nothing but a towel, opened the door to vent the steam out of
the small room.
"Fucking hell!" he shouted as he jumped back in surprise. "What are you doing
here?"
"Actually, I think it's more appropriate for me to ask youthat question. I
believe my brother told you he never wanted to see you again."
"It's my flat, too."
"Really? I don't recall that you ever paid rent."
"I needed to get ready for work."
"Ah yes," he drawled, "your work. What sort of a stance does your firm take on
their barristers physically abusing their domestic partners? I'm curious."
"You fucking prick," Jonathan shouted and lunged for him.
Sherlock dodged to the side and quietly said, "I suggest you leave me alone,
unless you'd also like assault charges filed against you."
"It was an accident and you know it; he fell against the table. I never touched
him."
"The hand-shaped bruises on his upper arms would suggest otherwise. The ones
they documented when I took him to the hospital for his concussion."
All the blood drained from Jonathan's face, and his look of outrage turned to
fear.
"I suggest you listen to me very carefully, Jonathan."
He nodded.
"First, you will never set foot in this flat again. I phoned a locksmith on my
way here; once they've changed the locks, consider the rest of your possessions
forfeit. I estimate you have approximately two hours to remove anything you
deem important. I think you'll find that's more than generous, considering how
grossly you violated my brother's trust."
"But what about…" Jonathan interrupted.
"Let me finish," Sherlock said icily. "Second, if you ever contact my brother
again or if you mention this incident to anyone else, copies of the domestic
abuse charges will find their way to your firm and to the tabloids. My brother,
who is far more kind-hearted than I am, is not inclined to file charges with
the police at this time. But I assure you, if you don't stay away from him,
that will change. Do you understand?"
"There's no way I can get my things out of here in two hours!" he raged.
Sherlock moved to within an inch of Jonathan's face and practically spat his
reply. "You devastate my brother and all you can think about is your bloody
possessions? If I had my way, the police would be hauling you out of here in
handcuffs, and your family name would be dragged through the mud in the ensuing
trial. Consider yourself lucky I'm giving you that long to get your precious
things. You clearly care more for them than you ever did for Mycroft."
"But I've got my books, my clothes… everything here."
"Consider it an interesting exercise in prioritising."
Jonathan backed away, defensively.
Sherlock followed so he was right up against Jonathan's face. "I'm not
finished. You will apologise - to me, since Mycroft never wants to see or hear
from you again."
"I… I'm sorry," he sputtered.
"That's it?" Sherlock asked, incredulously.
"I'm sorry I treated your brother poorly."
Sherlock huffed his derision. "Very well. One hour, fifty-five minutes. I
suggest you skip your shave this morning."
Jonathan looked like he wanted to punch Sherlock in the face, but he pushed
past him and headed for the phone, still wrapped in his towel.
Sherlock stood and watched, arms folded, with a smug grin on his face.
"I need a moving van. It's an emergency… Yes, I said emergency. They need to be
here within the hour… Fine, I'll pay four times your rate… What do you mean,
you don't have anything?" Jonathan threw the phone at the sofa, where it
bounced and fell onto the floor.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow as Jonathan retrieved the phone. He was surprised
the relationship had lasted as long as it had.
This time, he called a minicab company. "I need the largest MPV you have, as
soon as possible." He rattled off the address.
Sherlock, bored now, retrieved the items Mycroft had requested from the flat.
He included his brother's nicest suits, which he placed in the garment bag he'd
brought. He also removed the riding crop Mycroft had requested from its place
behind the suits and put it carefully in the suitcase.
Jonathan raced around the flat, glaring at Sherlock as he tried to decide which
of his law texts were worthy of preservation. Sherlock sat on the sofa and
observed with an amused grin.
"Do you have to sit there and fucking watch, you little prat?"
"I suggest you treat me with a little more respect, Jonathan. I can be very
persuasive when it comes to my brother; I'm sure it wouldn't take much for him
to file those charges."
Jonathan left him alone after that.
He phoned the flat to see if Mycroft had returned from his shopping trip. No
answer. Good. The less time he's alone, the better.
The locksmith and the minicab arrived at about the same time. Jonathan left the
flat with the first armful of his possessions and pressed the button for the
lift.
"Sorry mate, lift's broken," the locksmith said. "I had to take the stairs."
Sherlock stood there with an impassive look on his face. "Yes, it was broken
when I got here, too."
"It wasn't broken when I got here," Jonathan cursed under his breath and
started running down the stairs with his things.
He came back up trailing a very annoyed-looking minicab driver. "Five times the
rate, mind. In cash. I don't do moving services."
Even with the extra help from the cab driver, Jonathan still had to make twelve
trips up and down the stairs.
The locksmith watched Jonathan running back and forth to the cab with his
belongings and looked at Sherlock sympathetically. "Domestic, eh?"
"Something like that, yes."
"My brother-in-law was a right prick. The best thing my sister ever did was
kick him out."
Sherlock just nodded, unsure of the correct response.
By the time he finished, Jonathan looked like he was about to have a coronary.
Seventy-two flights of stairs seemed to have taken their toll.
It was far more satisfying than his meagre apology.
"I suppose you're off then?" Sherlock said breezily.
"You'll never hear from me again," Jonathan spat back between wheezing breaths.
"Well, we'll be able to get in touch with you through your firm, should we need
to contact you," Sherlock reminded him with a not-so-subtle threat, and
Jonathan just glared.
The locksmith finished his work shortly after Jonathan left. Sherlock paid him
twice his asking rate and told him to take his sister out for lunch sometime,
then he phoned the flat again.
"Hello?" a quiet voice answered.
"My, it's me. Are you alright?" Sherlock suddenly had visions of sleeping pill
overdoses and willed himself not to panic.
"I'm fine, Sherlock," he replied, weakly. "I'm just tired."
"I'm finished here. I'll be home in fifteen minutes. Will you be alright until
then?"
"I'm not going to kill myself, Sherlock. I'll be fine. Take as much time as you
need."
Taking the new keys and Mycroft's possessions, he headed down the stairs. After
quickly restoring the lift to working order, he hailed a taxi and headed back
to the flat.
===============================================================================
Mycroft returned from Tesco's and proceeded to put away all of the shopping.
Sherlock's kitchen was now stocked with at least a week's worth of meals, but
by the time he'd finished, he was exhausted. He made himself a cup of tea and
gracefully slid onto the sofa. There was no point in being a savage.
He was relieved to hear Sherlock's voice when he answered the phone. He'd
privately been worried that his brother would run into Jonathan. He had every
faith that Sherlock could handle him, but he really didn't need any extra
excitement at the moment. However, the moment Sherlock walked in the door, the
energy radiating from his every movement told Mycroft that Jonathan had been
there after all. A victorious smile tugged dangerously at Sherlock's lips.
"The shopping go alright?" Sherlock asked, managing a remarkably dull tone of
voice.
Mycroft laughed at his transparent attempt at diversion and said, "Out with it,
Sherlock. What happened?"
"I ran into Jonathan."
"Well, that's obvious," he said. For the first time since last night, he hadn't
flinched when Jonathan's name was mentioned. Perhaps it was the thought that
he'd unleashed Sherlock on him. "And…?"
"Do you want to know the details? I don't want to, well…" Sherlock trailed off.
"Please, little brother, tell me everything. You're here and unharmed. Whatever
you did to him is only going to make me feel better."
Sherlock's grin was almost feral in its intensity. "You would have been proud
of me, My."
He relayed the details to Mycroft, starting with immobilising the lift, and
ending with an exhausted, furious Jonathan trying to cram himself into the
front seat of a minicab on top of a precarious stack of law texts.
"So you didn't let him take all of his things?"
"No," Sherlock said with a wicked smile, "I told him to prioritise."
Mycroft huffed in amusement. Retribution, thy name is Sherlock, he thought.
"Thank you. Very elegantly done, Sherlock, I must say. Even if you did lie
through your teeth; because of it, in fact. What made you think to break the
lift, though?"
"I wasn't sure he'd be there, but I knew that if he was, I'd make him leave
with his things. I just didn't know he'd have to run up and down seventy-two
flights of stairs to get them. It was more satisfying than I'd anticipated, I
admit."
Mycroft sunk back into the comfortable sofa, suddenly aware that for the first
time in two days, he was openly smiling. Perhaps it had been longer; things
with Jonathan had been bad for a while. It was a relief just to be around
Sherlock. Perhaps his brother would let him stay for a few more days. As much
as his mood had improved, he feared that something would set him off and he'd
once again be the emotional cripple he'd been that morning. It was comforting
to be near him.
"Lunch, My?"
"I didn't think you cooked."
"I have a passing familiarity with sandwiches. I assume you bought some bread
and cheese at least?"
"Marmite, even." They shared a grin. They both loved the brown tarry substance,
even though Mummy despised it; most likely becauseshe did.
As Sherlock busied himself with the sandwiches, Mycroft's thoughts turned to
finding another flat and his mood flagged.
"Perhaps I could get a flat near here," he mused. "It would be nice to see you
more often."
"I think you should move in with me," Sherlock countered.
"Don't be ridiculous."
"I'm not." Sherlock turned around, suddenly ignoring the half-made sandwiches.
Sherlock stared at him with a fierce intensity that Mycroft rarely saw, even
for Sherlock. It felt like his brother was peeling away the layers of his skin
to find out what was underneath.
"What do you want,Mycroft?"
"Sorry?"
"Out of life. You don't seem to enjoy your job. God knows Mummy doesn't care
what we do, so you might as well do something you enjoy. So what do you want?"
Mycroft laughed half-heartedly and said, "To get out of London; it's driving me
mad. I don't really care what I do - I despise my job; it takes up my every
waking hour. And the weather is killing me. I know England isn't the sunniest
place on Earth, but there have to be better alternatives."
"Now we're getting somewhere," Sherlock said as he handed him a cheese and
Marmite sandwich.
"Don't be absurd, Sherlock. I'm not actually leaving London."
"No, you're not," he replied, adding a dramatic pause. "We are."
***** Sherlock Discovers the Concept of Sexuality *****
Chapter Summary
     Sherlock's early years. He finds there's more than one reason that he
     doesn't fit in.
Chapter Notes
     Warnings: This chapter contains descriptions of an underage Sherlock
     discovering his sexuality. It does not contain any depictions of
     underage sex or nudity.
Sherlock stared out the window as he conjugated Latin verbs in his head. He
couldn't wait for September. He'd turned five, and Mummy and Daddy were finally
letting him go to boarding school. It was about time, too. Mycroft had been at
boarding school for as long as he could remember; he only came home during
holidays. When Mycroft was back, he helped him build forts, and Nanny let him
stay up late. Best of all, Mycroft was nice to him, just like Nanny was. Mummy
couldn't care less, and Father was a tyrant. Mycroft had taught him that word.
Mycroft was almost impossibly old. Twelve. But he told Sherlock exciting
stories about boarding school, and boarding school meant that he and Mycroft
would always be home at the same times. He never had to be alone with his
parents again. They weren't horrible people, but they weren't very nice people,
either.
===============================================================================
As soon as he got to school, his immediate comprehension of the subjects and
his subsequent boredom made his teacher's lives an absolute hell. They could
only give him advanced textbooks for so long - they didn't want him too far
ahead of the other students. His Latin teacher eventually hit upon the
solution: each time Sherlock got bored and started to cause trouble, he gave
him another language to study. Even at the rate he progressed, it gave him
endless verbs to conjugate into endless tenses, with more languages than he'd
ever go through - at least while he was in that school, and then he wouldn't be
their problem anyway.
Sherlock started to associate with boys at least two years older than him; they
had better textbooks. Once he started hanging around with the eleven and twelve
year old boys, the subject of girls came up. A lot. Most of the boys joined the
inane discussions of breasts and body parts with enthusiasm. He didn't, but he
wasn't the only one. These others tended to keep very quiet about the whole
thing and generally received nothing but bullying for their discretion. Like
him, they obviously weren't interested in girls.
This could explain why Mycroft never mentioned any girlfriends.
It also explained his own odd feelings towards certain boys; a sort of intense
fascination bordering on mild obsession. He said nothing to anyone. His
academic proficiency had earned him enough bullying; he didn't need any more of
it. Some things were better left unmentioned at school.
Perhaps that was the other reason Mycroft kept so quiet about his social life.
===============================================================================
By the age of ten, he firmly understood the concept of sexual attraction, at
least on an intellectual level. The older boys at school had girlfriends; the
boys his age just talked about having them. None of them talked about having
boyfriends, which simply backed up his previous observations about the social
stigma involved.
One evening during the holidays, after a particularly boring dinner where Mummy
went on and on about how well he was doing at school, Sherlock excused himself
and went to bed. But instead of sleeping, he curled up on the window seat and
read one of his physics books. A movement on the lawn caught his eye and he saw
Mycroft's tall, lean shadow move quickly towards the stables.
He had no idea what it was all about, and he didn't think much of it; the book
was far too interesting. Then, about fifteen minutes later, Mycroft reappeared.
With Colin, the stable boy.
That was interesting. Far more interesting than the book. Perhaps Mycroft had a
boyfriend.
He pulled Mycroft aside the next morning after breakfast. "I need to talk to
you," he whispered.
"What is it?" Mycroft asked with a confused look.
"In your room. Not here."
Mycroft shrugged and followed him back to his bedroom. He closed the door
behind them.
Sherlock stood with his legs set wide and his arms crossed over his chest,
looking indignant.
"Is there something you want to tell me, Mycroft?"
"I don't think so," Mycroft replied, utterly confused.
"I saw you and Colin leaving the stables last night."
Mycroft paled.
"Is he your boyfriend, Mycroft?"
"Oh, God," Mycroft muttered. "Sit down, Sherlock. We need to talk."
Sherlock hopped onto the bed, and Mycroft sat cross-legged in front of him.
"Do you know what being gay means, Sherlock?"
"It means you prefer boys," Sherlock replied.
Mycroft seemed surprised. "Yes, it does. Well, I'm gay."
"Well, of course you are, I figured that out years ago. So am I."
Mycroft gaped at him for a second, then squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the
bridge of his nose. He didn't say anything.
"So, is Colin your boyfriend?" Sherlock pressed.
"Well… sort of," Mycroft replied, carefully.
"Oh," Sherlock said as he pondered the implications of this. He'd thought it
was a clear-cut thing, but apparently it wasn't.
"When you say 'sort of', do you mean you have more than one boyfriend? Or that
you're not really sure if he's your boyfriend?"
"He's… my boyfriend, yes."
"Is sex as interesting as Lucas claims it is?"
Mycroft seemed horrified. "How old is he?"
"Twelve."
"Oh dear God. He has no business having sex at that age; he's probably just
saying that to impress everyone." Then he added, under his breath, "I certainly
hope he is."
"When did you first have sex?"
Mycroft shifted on the bed and looked around nervously. "You're only ten,
Sherlock. I'm not sure it's appropriate for us to have this discussion yet."
"You decided I was old enough to know you're gay. Why is talking about sex any
different?"
"Well, technically, you brought it up, not me. But, sex is… complicated;
something you do when you're older. You don't start out with sex."
"What do you start with?" Now things were getting interesting.
"Kissing."
"When did you first kiss boys?"
"When I was fourteen."
"You've had boyfriends for three years and I didn't know about it?" he wailed.
"You were seven, Sherlock. It was hardly appropriate."
Sherlock scowled. "You could have told me."
"I'm telling you now."
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"Because I really didn't think you'd know what it meant before now." He
frowned, and added, "Although it's possible I was wrong about that." Then he
gave Sherlock a mystified look and said, "How on earth do you know you're gay,
anyway? Or do I even want to know?"
"I've been masturbating for a year now," he replied, proudly. "It's far more
effective when I think about boys; thinking about girls was an utter failure.
I'm sure further experimental data will back it up."
"I'm sure it will," Mycroft muttered.
Sherlock grinned at him. "You're just worried because you know how thorough I
am when I collect data."
"Something like that, yes," Mycroft replied as he rolled his eyes. "Now look,"
he added, seriously, "I'd prefer it if you didn't mention anything to Mummy or
Father - about either of us. Father, especially. He might not take the news
well. I think we should wait to tell them when you're a little older, and
perhaps we can tell them together. I think if we told them now, they'd just
think I'd influenced you. This isn't something you choose, as I'm sure you
know, but Father doesn't feel that way - he thinks you can like girls if you
try hard enough."
"That's awfully small-minded of him."
"Yes. Yes, it is. Which is precisely why I don't want you to tell them yet,
alright?"
He nodded.
===============================================================================
The following evening, he curled up in the window seat again, watching. This
time with the light off. He wanted to see if Mycroft would go and see Colin
again, but he didn't want his brother to catch him at it. The meeting time from
the previous night came and went, but he stubbornly refused to go to bed. The
matter warranted at least another hour's worth of observation. The sound of a
door and footsteps on the pea-gravel drive snapped him out of a light doze, and
he saw Mycroft make his way across the lawn.
He changed out of his pyjamas and stealthily made his way out of the house;
there was no way he was missing this. At the very least, he expected kissing.
Hopefully more.
He peered through the crack in the closed wooden door of the stables and was
surprised to see Mycroft braced against the wall with his pants around his
ankles. None of the boys at school had mentioned anything about this. He nearly
fell over in astonishment when he saw Colin wielding a riding crop. He landed a
blow across Mycroft's pale arse with a sharp 'crack'.
When Mycroft arched his back and moaned with obvious pleasure, Sherlock gasped.
He'd expected Mycroft to cry out in pain or beg for mercy, but to see him
silently begging for more? He hadn't expected that. He also hadn't expected the
warm throbbing in his gut that had become so familiar since he'd learnt to
masturbate. The sight of his brother taking a beating was getting him hard.
His brain exploded in a storm of contradictions; the idea of pain as sexual had
never occurred to him, but suddenly it seemed so reasonable. Masturbation was
stimulation that led to pleasure. Pain was a type of stimulation. Perhaps it
could lead to pleasure as well.
But he couldn't figure out the cause of his own arousal. Was it the sight of
his brother enjoying himself sexually, or the idea of pain as a stimulant? He
doubted Mycroft would allow him any insight into the former, but he could
definitely try the latter. He'd have to conduct research on this.
He ran back to the house and crept up to his bedroom, where he had a heady,
breathless wank that left him both glowing and torpid. He hated that part of
masturbation, but he supposed you had to take the bad with the good. Perhaps
pain was different; perhaps Mycroft had figured out how to make sex better.
===============================================================================
The next afternoon, he went to the stables alone and found Colin. He pulled him
over to a quiet corner where no one could hear them.
"What is it, Master Sherlock?"
"I saw what you were doing to Mycroft last night," he said in a whisper.
The colour drained from Colin's face. "Please, sir, don't have me sacked. He
asked me to, you have to believe me."
"Well, obviously," Sherlock replied, sarcastically. "He was clearly willing and
thoroughly enjoying himself, by the looks of it. I have no intention of
reporting you."
"I… I don't understand, Master Sherlock. What… why?"
"I'd like you to do the same thing to me."
"Oh God, no. I can't. You're ten, for Christ's sake. I'm sorry sir, I just
can't. It's not right."
Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation. This was going to require a more
direct approach. He glared at Colin and stomped his way back to the house.
===============================================================================
As soon as he saw Mycroft go out to the stables that night, he hurried down the
hallway to his brother's room. He closed the door behind him and sat at the
head of his bed.
When Mycroft opened the door, he jumped as if he'd seen a ghost.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock! What are you doing here? I thought you went to bed
hours ago; you scared the hell out of me!"
Sherlock was impressed. His brother rarely swore.
"I saw you and Colin last night," he said, and then he added, "with the riding
crop." He wanted to see Mycroft's reaction. It would tell him more than his
brother's words might.
Mycroft closed his eyes as he tipped his head back onto his shoulders. He took
a deep breath, and on the exhale, he said 'fuck' with the weighty conviction of
someone who never normally used the word. His eyes remained closed as he
dropped his head to his chest and started rubbing the back of his neck,
nervously.
"I'm sorry, My. I just wanted to know what you were doing," he said, with a
note of desperation in his voice. He hadn't intended to upset his brother, and
he wasn't sure why Mycroft seemed so profoundly miserable about the whole
thing.
Mycroft sighed and dragged himself up onto the bed, facing Sherlock.
***** Sherlock Discovers Pain *****
Chapter Summary
     Sherlock discovers the pleasure and usefulness of pain and enlists
     Mycroft's help.
Chapter Notes
     Sherlock is still ten in this chapter. He'll be fifteen in the next
     chapter. There will never be underage sex, for what it's worth, just
     a very guilt-ridden Mycroft and a very pushy Sherlock. However, if
     you want to skip this chapter, I completely understand. I have
     included a brief summary at the end of the chapter outlining the
     relevant points to the story.
     Warnings:sibling incest. See additional notes below.
     The short version: This contains no underage sex.
     The long version: This chapter contains descriptions of an underage
     Sherlock discovering his sexuality, his sexual response to pain, and
     Mycroft's conflicted feelings of attraction towards his underage
     sibling. It does not contain any depictions of underage sex (other
     than solo masturbation) or nudity. There is consensual infliction of
     pain which both parties find arousing.
     Thanks to Deklava for the ongoing beta and feedback.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Mycroft couldn't believe it had taken Sherlock this long to find out. Colin had
been beating him for four years now.
"Alright," he replied with trepidation; their discussion about sex had been
bizarre enough. "What do you want to know?"
"Why do you do it?"
Having a brilliant sibling who came straight to the point could be a blessing
at times.
"Because it's pleasurable for me."
"Yes, I saw that you were aroused. Is that what sex is? What Colin was doing
with the riding crop? The boys never mentioned that at school."
Less a blessing than a curse, perhaps.
"Oh God," he muttered. "No. No, it isn't," he replied. "Sex is something else."
He really didn't want to get into the specifics of that.
"So he crops you, and you become aroused, but it's not sex…" Sherlock said,
sounding confused. "Do you even kiss?"
"It's not part of our… arrangement," Mycroft replied with a sigh. "I pay him to
crop me. He's not attracted to boys." Although what I wouldn't give to sink my
cock into his delicious arse afterwards. God.Just the thought of it made him
bite his lip, and he was totally thrown off guard by the next words out of
Sherlock's mouth.
"I want to try it."
"What, sex?" he said, desperately, Colin's arse rapidly fading from his mind.
"No, pain. The riding crop."
Mycroft wasn't sure whether to be relieved that he didn't mean sex or horrified
that he meant pain. "Sherlock, no. It's… it's unusual to react this way to
pain. I understand that you want to try new things, but…"
"I already asked Colin. He said no."
"Oh, God. That'swhy he wasn't there tonight."
"I got aroused when I watched him beat you."
Fuck. This can only end badly.
"I need to find out, My. I need to know if it was the idea of the pain, or if
I'm sexually attracted to you."
Oh God, no. I cannot be having this conversation with my ten year old
brother.Mycroft tried not to panic; he closed his eyes for a few seconds to
steel his nerves, then he swallowed and decided to pursue the pain aspect of
the conversation. He certainly wasn't prepared to deal with the incest side of
it. He was barely prepared to deal with any part of it at all.
"Alright, Sherlock. I will consider assisting you with pain side of things, but
I refuse to participate in anything sexual. You're ten."
He was about to add 'And we're brothers,' but he stopped himself. Sherlock's
intelligence and uniqueness had already deprived him of a happy childhood. What
point was there in adding guilt and shame to the equation?
"I don't see what my age has to do with it," Sherlock muttered.
"If you're going to experiment sexually," he said gently, "it should be with
boys your own age. There are other boys like you at school, right?"
Sherlock nodded.
"Make friends with them. Go out and do things together; non-sexual things. For
God's sake, don't just go up to them and tell them you want to conduct sexual
experiments with them. Maybe you'll find someone you're interested in, and if
he's interested as well, then you can try things."
"That sounds like an awful lot of work."
"It sort of is."
Sherlock pondered that in silence for a few, long moments.
"So should I experiment with pain with them, too?"
Mycroft blanched. "Oh, Sherlock," he said, quietly. "I'm sorry. No, you
shouldn't, people won't understand. I'll help you with that. Tell me exactly
what you want to do. I won't necessarily agree to any of it, but I promise to
consider it."
"I want you to crop me just like Colin crops you."
He thought for a moment before responding. "Alright, we can try that. I'll crop
you and you can see what effect it has."
"Just like he does it, with no trousers."
Oh God."No, I can't do that," Mycroft said firmly. "Over your clothes only. Not
negotiable."
"They still give bare-arsed canings at school," Sherlock whined. "I've heard
about them."
"Yes, but I'm not the one giving them. Like I said: clothed. You don't even
know if you'll like this yet. Most people find it very painful."
"Wait, I'm confused," Sherlock interjected. "I thought you said you enjoyed the
pain. You just implied that you don't find it painful. Which is it?"
Mycroft blinked at him for a second. It was a remarkably insightful question,
even for Sherlock. "It's difficult to explain, Sherlock, but I'll try. It seems
like my brain gets things wrong sometimes, especially when I'm aroused. Things
that should hurt… well, they still hurt a bit, but they're more pleasurable
than painful."
Sherlock pondered this for a few moments, then nodded. "Please, Mycroft. Let me
try it. We don't need to go to the stables; you have a crop in your wardrobe. I
found it this afternoon."
Mycroft sighed. There's no such thing as privacy when it comes to a little
brother."I'm well aware of the contents of my wardrobe, Sherlock. Do you want
to do this now?" There was no stopping Sherlock once he had an idea in his
head. He might as well get it over with.
"Yes," he nodded, eagerly.
"Very well. Bend over the bed. I'll start out lightly and make the blows
progressively harder. Tell me when to stop, alright?"
"Yes. I'm ready."
I'm not sure I am,Mycroft thought. He wasn't sure what he'd do if Sherlock
found this arousing.
After a few light taps with the crop, and no comment from Sherlock, he struck
him a little harder. Sherlock flinched.
"Sorry," Mycroft apologised, and stepped back.
"No, keep going. It was just getting interesting."
He kept going. When Sherlock actually moaned, he dropped the crop like it was a
hot poker.
"Why'd you stop?" Sherlock begged.
"Because it's wrong for me to do something that arouses you. I don't care how
intelligent you are; you're ten." And hearing you moan like that shouldn't turn
me on. Oh God, I'm going to Hell.
"I like it, My. It feels good. It's like my skin is buzzing, almost."
Sherlock's description temporarily drew him out of his guilt. It was almost
exactly how he would have explained it, as well. He wasn't sure whether to be
happy or sad about this turn of events. In one way, it was fantastic to know he
wasn't alone in this, but now Sherlock had to deal with it, too.
"It seems like we're wired the same in more than one way, Sherlock," he sighed
heavily as he sat on the bed. "Here, sit up."
Sherlock flipped over so they were seated next to each other.
Mycroft kept his eyes firmly on the window. If his brother had an erection
under his trousers, he didn't want to see any hint of it.
Sherlock had no such issues and stared openly at his brother's groin.
"I know why I'm aroused, My, but why are you?"
"I don't know, Sherlock," he replied wearily, but it was a lie, and he
suspected Sherlock knew it.
They both sat there for a long time without saying anything. Mycroft eventually
spoke.
"Sherlock, you know how I asked you not to talk to Mummy and Father about being
gay?"
"Yes."
"The way we respond to pain is much less common than being gay. People aren't
going to understand if you try and explain it to them; some people will get
very, very upset about this and want to send you to a doctor. It's very
important that you don't trust anyone with this, do you understand?"
"I trust you with it."
Mycroft's heart broke, or perhaps this was just how it felt to care too much.
Perhaps it was the same thing. He didn't know. He bit his lip to hold back the
tears, and pulled Sherlock into a tight hug and didn't let go.
===============================================================================
The next evening, there was a quiet knock on Mycroft's door before it opened a
crack. Usually his brother just barged in.
"You're never this quiet, Sherlock. What's going on?" Mycroft said, but he
didn't have to ask. He'd been up half the previous night trying to dissect his
feelings regarding Sherlock's response to pain, or, more accurately, his
response to it; he hadn't come up with anything helpful. There was no good
excuse for it, and he still felt guilty.
"Will you do it again, My?"
Mycroft tried to mask his expression, but Sherlock, as usual, was too quick and
saw everything.
"You feel guilty about it. You shouldn't, you know," Sherlock said. "It's
really no different than teaching me how to masturbate. I just figured out how
to do that by myself."
"Oh, God," Mycroft muttered.
"I thought you were an atheist," Sherlock replied.
"You're turning me back to the Church, apparently."
"Really though, I don't see the difference. This makes me feel good, but I
can't do it by myself. You have Colin to help you. I don't have anyone."
It stung, but it was true. He'd inadvertently opened up a whole new sexual
outlet for his brother, only to tell him there was nothing he could do about
it.
Sherlock scrutinised him. "Oh," he said with a sudden realisation, "that's not
the part you're feeling guilty about, is it?"
Mycroft couldn't even answer him; he just shook his head. Once again, he wasn't
sure if Sherlock's brilliance was a blessing or a curse.
"I don't see why you should feel guilty about that. It's normal to find other
people's arousal stimulating, isn't it? Isn't that why people look at
pornography?"
Mycroft gave his brother a weak smile. It did make sense, actually, and he was
going to cling to that for all it was worth. "You're entirely too brilliant for
your own good, Sherlock. But yes, you're quite right."
"So, will you?"
Mycroft sat there for what felt like minutes. "I… I don't know."
"Please?", Sherlock begged, and gave him a desperate look.
"Alright," he relented, "but you have to realise that you won't be able to have
this at school."
"What do you do at school?"
"Mostly, I wait until the holidays. It builds character," Mycroft replied, only
half-joking. He'd managed to smooth things over with Colin, so at least he did
still have that.
Sherlock went to Mycroft's wardrobe, removed the riding crop hidden behind the
suit jackets, and presented it to his brother.
"I have one other stipulation, Sherlock."
"Yes?"
"Any arousal this instigates must be dealt with in private."
Sherlock gave him a meaningful grin. "For either of us, you mean."
Mycroft blushed fiercely, but managed a strained 'Yes.'
"I think you're making too much of it, but alright."
"Thank you," Mycroft said with relief and sucked in a deep breath to soothe his
nerves.
"Will you let me tell you when to stop this time?" Sherlock asked. "You stopped
when I really started to enjoy it last night."
Mycroft nodded, and it was all he could do to mutter, "Bend over the bed." The
memory of Sherlock's reaction the previous evening was already affecting him.
Sherlock didn't seem to care, but Mycroft didn't want him to see, all the same.
Sherlock's arms were at his sides and he shifted his shoulders, trying to find
a better position.
"Put your arms in front of you and grab onto the sheets; it'll be more
comfortable. Tell me when you're ready."
"I'm ready. Don't start out so slowly this time. I could barely feel it."
"Precocious and pushy," Mycroft said with a small laugh.
Mycroft landed the first blow, and Sherlock immediately reacted with an 'unf'
of surprise.
As they continued, it became more difficult for him to watch Sherlock's
reactions. What started out as small moans quickly led to louder cries of
pleasure, and he writhed, almost rutted, against the sheets.
"Quiet, Sherlock!" he admonished. "You'll get us both caught." His ragged voice
conveyed his own state - shamefully hard and aroused. He wasn't sure how much
longer he was going to last, if this kept up. Already, his cock was straining
against his trousers and every now and then he allowed himself a hard squeeze
with his other hand. He was immensely glad Sherlock couldn't see him, but there
would be no hiding it as soon as his brother sat up.
"Harder, My."
I've unleashed a monster. A ten-year-old, precocious monster who's just
discovered he's addicted to sensation.
He didn't have much experience wielding the crop - usually he was on the
receiving end - but it seemed like Sherlock's pain tolerance was surprisingly
high. He increased the force, and Sherlock just sucked in a shuddering breath
and took it, with obvious pleasure.
Two more strikes, and Sherlock spoke: "Think… I have to stop," he breathed.
Mycroft thought, at first, that Sherlock had reached the limit of his tolerance
for pain, but it was nothing like that.
Sherlock pushed himself off the bed and Mycroft bit his lip as he saw his
brother's flushed face and the lust written across it in broad strokes. He
rushed from the room and Mycroft heard Sherlock's bedroom door slam shut down
the hallway.
Mycroft pushed his pants and trousers just low enough so he could reach his
straining cock and dropped to his bed. His earlier guilt had been at least
temporarily replaced by blinding lust, and he groaned as he made contact with
his overheated skin.
It was over almost embarrassingly quickly. He hadn't had an orgasm that intense
in years, especially not by his own hand. He bit his wrist to stop from crying
out.
He'd never had such a strong reaction to watching someone take pleasure like
that. He was still attempting to convince himself that it had nothing to do
with Sherlock when he realised the door had been open the entire time.
Bloody hell,he thought as he slammed it shut.He grabbed some tissues and
quickly cleaned himself off. What if we'd been caught? They'd have me sent
away. God knows what they'd do to Sherlock.If this were to continue, they'd
have to be a lot more careful.
A few minutes later, Sherlock wandered in wearing a sated expression; it seemed
incredibly out-of-place on his normally nervous features. He glanced at the
bite marks on Mycroft's wrist but said nothing.
Mycroft gave him a self-conscious smile.
Sherlock shrugged. "You seem to think it bothers me. I don't know why." He sat
down on the bed next to Mycroft. "The addition of pain definitely improved my
masturbation session afterwards. It took much less time than it usually does,
and it was more intense," he added, nonchalantly. "The orgasm still leaves me
dull-witted, though. Have you figured out a way around that?"
Mycroft smiled, weakly. "No, it sort of goes with the orgasm. Most people enjoy
the feeling."
"I can't imagine why," he muttered. "The pain was fantastic though. I think
without clothing, the results would be even better."
"No!" Mycroft exclaimed, "The clothes stay on. Not negotiable."
Sherlock shrugged and muttered, "You're no fun," but he let it go. Then, he
looked over at Mycroft with an expression of genuine curiosity and asked, "Have
you ever tried anything other than a riding crop?"
Mycroft let out a small huff of amusement. I never could deny him anything, not
even the most embarrassing personal details.He nodded, slowly.
"Well?" Sherlock urged.
"I was twelve, and I got caught playing with acids in the chemistry lab."
"You burned yourself with acid?"
"God, no!"
"Well, what were you doing?" Sherlock interrupted.
"I was working on a better recipe for invisible ink. Anyway, they still caned
boys as punishment then, although it's less common now. I bent over the
Headmaster's desk, pants around my ankles, and as I took my punishment, I found
myself unusually aroused. I knew enough of caning from the other boys to
realise it wasn't a standard reaction. As soon as it was finished, I pulled my
trousers back up, hurried out of the room, and hoped nobody had noticed."
"Did they?"
"No. But they did wonder why I kept getting caught for the most mundane of
infractions. As I got older, I couldn't risk a poor disciplinary record, and I
had to stop. That summer, I realised that a riding crop would make an excellent
substitute. Colin had always been trustworthy and wasn't averse to making a
little extra money, and we came to an arrangement."
"So how do you manage it at school now?"
"Well, shortly after I stopped getting myself thrashed for minor infringements
of school regulations, I discovered kissing." He didn't want to elaborate any
further, Sherlock wasonly ten, after all.
"And I suppose you're not going to help me with that," Sherlock asked, half
smiling.
"Certainly not."
"Not even when I'm older?"
Mycroft felt the heat rising in his cheeks again. Half of him wanted to
throttle Sherlock; the other half wasn't sure what to do.
"You'll find plenty of other people eager to assist you with that, I'm sure,"
Mycroft replied, neatly sidestepping the question. Sherlock didn't seem to
notice and stayed mercifully quiet for a few minutes.
Sherlock's mood seemed to deepen then, and he stared intently at his socks. The
air grew heavier around them. When Sherlock looked up, there was a
vulnerability in his eyes that hadn't been there before.
"My?" he asked with some hesitation, "Can I ask you something odd?"
"You rarely do anything else," he replied, with no sarcasm in his voice. It was
the truth, after all.
"Is it ever… noisy… in your head?"
Mycroft's eyes widened without thinking. He thought he was alone in that: the
echoes and racing thoughts and the overload of constant information. He'd
thought for years that it was some form of madness; perhaps it was. He'd never
mentioned it to a soul. He never realised Sherlock's mind would be so utterly
similar to his own, but it made a certain kind of sense. His sexuality, his
response to pain, and now this. God. What must our gene pool look like?He made
a mental note never to have children and then realised it probably wasn't going
to be an issue anyway.
"Yes, Sherlock. It's noisy in my head too. All the time," he said, trying to
sound reassuring.
"Is everyone like that?"
"No, I don't think so," he replied carefully.
"Does the pain make it quieter for you, too?"
Mycroft nodded.
"Why? It seems like it should make it worse."
"I'm not sure. I think it gives our minds a point of focus. Like the lens of a
telescope."
"Do you ever use it as a tool… for when your brain gets too loud?"
He looked at Sherlock and despaired. What have I done? He's found this, and now
he can only use it four times a year on school holidays. It's fine for me; I
can make do with sex. He doesn't even have that. God knows masturbation never
helped me much.
Mycroft nodded and stood up. "I do, but not in the same way, not when I'm at
school." No stables, no Colin, and nowhere near as much fun, he thought.
He dug through his top desk drawer and produced two washing pegs. He rolled up
one sleeve and held the peg so the jaws brushed the crook of his elbow. Then he
let it close on the tender flesh and drew in a soft breath as the wooden jaws
bit into the skin.
Sherlock watched him, rapt.
"These hurt, and they let you focus, but they don't leave permanent marks or do
any real damage. You have to promise me, Sherlock, you can never use anything
that hurts you in a permanent way."
Sherlock nodded, rolled up his shirt sleeve, and held out his arm towards his
brother.
Mycroft had a sudden, jarring vision of Sherlock as a junkie, and shuddered.
"You have to promise me," he pleaded. "It's important."
"I promise, My," Sherlock said with confusion in his voice.
"Alright," Mycroft replied, and gently let the peg close on his brother's soft
skin. Dear God. What am I doing? Is this even right?He desperately hoped a non-
destructive source of pain and stimulation would be enough to forestall more
'creative' ideas his brother might conceive.
Sherlock's eyes lost their focus and his breathing deepened as the wooden jaws
bit in. A small smile played across his lips.
"Does it help, little brother?"
Sherlock nodded.
"Good. Only use them when you really need to. You can learn to do the same
thing with your mind, but sometimes it's necessary to resort to pain when
there's too much noise."
They worked on that, too. Every day for the rest of the holiday, Mycroft
trained Sherlock to quiet his mind. He didn't want to send him back to school
defenceless against his own brain.
He tried to dissuade Sherlock from regular beatings, worried he'd become overly
dependent on them (although at this point, he wasn't sure who was becoming more
dependent). However, by the time the holiday was over, Sherlock's evening
thrashing and its subsequent activities were a regular part of their routine.
Mycroft did insist that Sherlock abstain from his post-masturbatory
evaluations. It was bad enough that the sight of Sherlock bent over his bed
aroused him; the last thing he needed was a play-by-play description of what
his brother did afterwards.
He sent him back to school with a handful of pegs, a kiss on the top of his
head, and - at Sherlock's insistence - promises of future beatings.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter overview:(for people who don't want to read the whole chapter
     but want the main points)
     Sherlock asks Mycroft why he lets Colin crop him, and he explains
     that he finds pain pleasurable. Sherlock wants to try it and
     pressures Mycroft to crop him. He tells Mycroft that he might be
     attracted to him sexually, and he wants to determine if his arousal
     was caused by seeing him with Colin or by the idea of pain. Mycroft
     eventually gives in and crops Sherlock (fully-clothed), who enjoys
     the pain sexually. Mycroft is horrified to discover that he's turned
     on by the sight of Sherlock enjoying himself. Guilt ensues.
     Mycroft encourages Sherlock to develop friendships and eventual
     relationships with boys at school, but tells him that he can't
     confide in others about the pain aspect, as people won't understand.
     The next day, Sherlock wants to do it again. They do, this time
     masturbating in their own rooms afterwards. More guilt ensues.
     Sherlock knows that Mycroft finds the whole thing stimulating and
     tells him he doesn't mind. Then Sherlock asks for details about how
     Mycroft discovered his interest in pain. (It was in boarding school.)
     Sherlock asks if Mycroft has the same 'noise' in his brain, and if
     the pain always makes it go away. Mycroft realises that their brains
     are similarly noisy and overstimulated; the pain helps them focus and
     quiet their minds. Mycroft teaches Sherlock other methods he can use,
     while he's alone at school, to focus his mind.
***** Deductions *****
Chapter Summary
     Sherlock discovers another way to occupy his overstimulated brain.
Chapter Notes
     Warnings: This contains no underage sex, but Sherlock is twelve.
     There are mentions of consensual infliction of pain between Mycroft
     and Sherlock.
     Beta: deklava
Mycroft spent his time away from Sherlock immersed in guilt. The thrashings
might improve Sherlock’s ability to cope with his overstimulated brain, but his
own reaction to seeing his brother aroused was completely unacceptable. And
wrong. The worst part was that Sherlock knew he got off on it and didn’t mind
in the slightest. But the guilt was crippling.
He resolved to put an end to it during the next holiday break, but Sherlock’s
desperate pleas wore him down almost immediately. Sherlock refused to
understand why they should stop when the beatings were so much more effective
than the pegs. And more pleasurable.
Mycroft couldn’t tell him why he wanted to stop - he didn’t want to admit to
himself that he was attracted to his brother, and he certainly wasn’t about to
tell Sherlock. He sought relief from Colin, in the form of increasingly brutal
beatings that left his arse and upper back raw. Colin wasn’t thrilled about it,
but he was easily convinced with more pocket money. The repeated sessions left
him with an almost constant ache as he sat or whenever his shirt pulled across
his skin, and he discovered that fiercely hot showers reignited the pain as
well. The mental clarity it offered helped him cope with the torrent of
emotions and swirling chaos that overwhelmed him whenever Sherlock demanded
another thrashing.
It would have been easier to stay at school during the holidays, except for two
glaringly obvious facts: Sherlock needed him, and he needed Sherlock. They had
no one else who understood them.
===============================================================================
The beginning of his schooling at Cambridge provided some relief from the
onslaught of guilt and self-loathing. He buried himself in his studies and
ignored the social events and cliques that he saw only as useless distractions.
He tried not to think about Sherlock.
His brother wrote to him from school on a fairly regular basis, mostly
expressing his utter boredom and his disgust with the idiocy of his classmates.
Mycroft commiserated and sent him advanced textbooks as a form of distraction.
They both longed for the holidays.
Once they were together, Sherlock, never content to leave well enough alone,
brought up Mycroft’s reluctance to continue their arrangement.
“I needthis, Mycroft. I still don’t understand why your sexual reaction bothers
you. It doesn’t bother me, and who else is going to beat me?”
They came to an arrangement: both of them would pretend that Mycroft wasn’t
aroused, and the thrashings would continue. It was ludicrous, but it gave
Sherlock what he needed, and Mycroft didn’t have to deal with Sherlock
addressing the issue. They ignored the white elephant in the room.
The spring after Mycroft’s nineteenth birthday, he received a phone call from
Mummy telling him that his father was dead. Drowned. He wanted to be the one to
tell Sherlock - Mummy’s hysterics would not go over well - and he was relieved
to hear that she hadn’t phoned him yet.
He broke the news to him without excessive sentiment. Their father had been, to
put it charitably, an absent parent. ‘A remote, homophobic bastard’ was
probably more accurate.
“Did she tell you what happened?” Sherlock asked.
“Just that he drowned in the lake behind the manor. Swimming.”
“Well, that seems unlikely. I don’t remember the last time he did any sort of
exercise.”
“Nor do I. Look, they’ll give us leave from school for the funeral. I’ll make
the arrangements with your headmaster. Take the first train home and I’ll meet
you at the station this afternoon.”
“I miss you, Mycroft. It’ll be good to see you.”
Despite the reason for their return home, he couldn’t have agreed more. “You
too, Sherlock.”
===============================================================================
By the time they arrived home, Mummy was in her room, ‘recovering’. A few quick
words with the maid confirmed that she’d been there most of the afternoon, and
they didn’t expect her out anytime soon.
“Should we go and see her?”
“Not yet, Sherlock. She’s probably drugged into oblivion at the moment. Let’s
leave it until later; she doesn’t need to know we’re home yet. What do you want
to do in the meantime?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s clear it wasn’t an accident. We need to figure
out what actually happened. I want to see the body.”
By now, Mycroft knew better than to argue when Sherlock wanted something.
The local police weren’t exactly experienced with drownings, accidental or
otherwise.
“We dragged him out of the lake this morning, sir. Your mother said he’d gone
out for a swim late last night and when she woke up he wasn’t there.”
Sherlock flashed him an urgent look and flicked his eyes towards the morgue.
Sombre looks and a few well-acted tears from his brother gained them entrance
to see the body - their protests about the impropriety of a twelve-year old in
the morgue were assuaged with a little cash.
“We’d like to be alone with him, if that’s all right,” Mycroft told the
attendant.
“It’s really not allowed…”
“Please.” Mycroft gave him a particularly desperate look and glanced in
Sherlock’s direction, whose eyes welled up in tears, on-cue.
“Sorry sir, of course.”
As soon as the man was gone, Sherlock removed the drape from his father’s head
and chest and started to examine him. It was a fairly gruesome sight, but
Sherlock seemed undeterred.
“Look, Mycroft: the tissue decay alone shows he didn’t die last night. I’m
amazed they even believe Mummy’s story. Besides, they said they ‘dragged him
out’ this morning. It implies that he wasn’t floating. Drowning victims float,
at least for a while.”
Mycroft nodded; he was right. “It is a Monday; he could have been in there all
weekend without attracting attention. It’s not exactly a public spot, and his
office wouldn’t have missed him until today.”
“If it was an accident though, why didn’t she phone sooner?” For the first
time, Sherlock sounded vulnerable. “Do you think she killed him?”
“I’m not sure,” Mycroft replied. He wasn’t. Father had kept a mistress for
years; it was possible his mother had discovered the truth. He didn’t think she
was capable of killing him because of it, but crimes of passion weren’t
supposed to make sense. “I don’t think so,” he added. “Come on, let’s get back
to the house.”
“Wait, I’m not done. Do you see his clothes around here? They must have put his
belongings somewhere.”
They eventually found a pair of swimming trunks in the corner in a plastic bag.
Sherlock fished them out and inspected them.
“Well, now I’m certain. Either she killed him or he killed himself.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Because?”
“Because they’re cheap ones from Marks & Spencer’s.” He showed Mycroft the tag.
“You know he’d never wear anything that didn’t come from London. Besides, as
you pointed out, he doesn’t exercise. He’d gained a lot of weight in the past
few years; I doubt he owned a pair of swimming trunks that fit. She had to go
out and buy a pair in a hurry so she could put him in the lake and make it look
like he’d drowned.”
Sherlock’s theory was remarkably sound.
“So,” he continued, “either she killed him, or she’s trying to cover up his
suicide.” He put the trunks back into the bag. “All right, now I’m finished. We
need to question Mummy. I don’t think they’ll suspect her; I doubt they’ll even
do an autopsy if Mummy doesn’t insist on one.”
“We’re not questioning Mummy - not yet, at least - but I do agree this bears
further investigation. Come on, and try not to look so excited about your
deduction on the way out - you’re supposed to be grieving and in shock.”
Sherlock’s face immediate morphed into a mask of childlike suffering, and
Mycroft silently marvelled at his acting skills. They were already terrifyingly
good.
Mummy was still sequestered in her room when they got back. They spoke with the
more senior members of the staff, who rather nervously confirmed that their
father had been at supper the previous evening. A few words with Colin and some
of the other junior staff told a different story: their father hadn’t been seen
since early Friday night.
Sherlock dragged him hurriedly towards their father’s study. “We don’t actually
know what killed him, My, but I don’t think she did it. If she wanted to kill
him, she would have planned more carefully. She wouldn’t have bought the tacky
swimming trunks.”
“I tend to agree. You know, Father did have a mistress. It’s possible Mummy
found out about her, but even if she did, I don’t think she would have resorted
to murder. She’d be more likely to publicly humiliate him and get a divorce.”
Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, and his eyes widened. “That’s it!”
“What?”
“Of course she didn’t do it; she was just covering up his suicide! Talk about
public humiliation; she’d never live that down - a husband who’d rather kill
himself than live with her.”
Mycroft nodded; Sherlock’s theory made a lot of sense. “As brilliant as your
deduction is, Sherlock, we can’t discuss it with anyone; they’d almost
certainly prosecute her.”
“I suppose so, and that would be even morehumiliating.” He sighed. “It’s nice
to know she’s not capable of murder: ‘Obstruction of Justice’, at most.” He
looked up at Mycroft. “Why do you think the bastard killed himself?”
“De mortuis nil nisi bonum, Sherlock.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, I know, but he was never a good father, My.
Besides, he would have hated us if he’d found out we were gay; as it was, he
just ignored us. We should probably be thankful.”
“Sherlock…”
“What? It’s true.”
“Look, let’s just think about Mummy at the moment. Even if we aren’t grieving,
she is - well, leaving her misguided attempt at social self-preservation
aside.”
“Don’t you want to find out why he did it? Or even how he did it?”
“I do. But I also don’t think we’ll ever know for certain. If he left any sort
of note, I’m sure Mummy got rid of it. As for how, it’s sort of a moot point.”
“I think it was probably some sort of overdose. Damn! We should have taken
blood samples while we could.”
“Sherlock.” He took his brother by the shoulders, and he could almost feel the
energy flowing through him. “You’ll be expected to play the role of the
grieving son for the next week.”
“Of course,” he said with another roll of his eyes. “I believe I can be utterly
convincing. Just, come on,Mycroft, there’s probably still evidence to be found.
We need to examine the study; he was always in there.”
“Sherlock. You know we’ve talked about the noise in our heads, right?”
“Of course.”
“What’s it like at the moment?” he asked quietly, his words heavy with
implication.
Sherlock blinked, twice. “It’s not there at all,” he replied with awe.
“I didn’t think so. I believe your brain needs more stimulation than mere
textbooks can provide. It thrives on puzzles; observations.”
“But there won’t always be puzzles.”
“No. But there will always be people to observe. Thisis how you’ll get through
school without the boredom and the noise in your head. You can manage it with
this, not with pain.” He looked away. Even as he said it, Mycroft died a
little. As much as the guilt about their relationship consumed him, he really
didn’t want to give it up.
Sherlock gave him a defiant stare. “I’ll manage it with both.”
===============================================================================
Mycroft went back to Cambridge, determined to ‘pursue a healthy relationship’ -
whatever that meant. He at least wanted to be rid of his virginity in a
traditional manner.
It turned out to be surprisingly easy to find someone with whom to have sex. He
surveyed the field of well-heeled twits and narrowed it down to three choices.
Of those, Arthur seemed the least pompous and irritating. Although he wouldn’t
realise it until much later, Arthur’s physical resemblance to Sherlock might
have played an unconscious role in his decision. It was probably for the best
that he didn’t pick up on it at the time.
After a perfunctory date consisting of dinner and dry political discussion,
they ended up back in Mycroft’s room.
“I’m thrilled you asked me out,” he said, gazing at Mycroft with an adoring
smile. “I’ve fancied you for months, you know.”
Oh dear. That was disturbing.
The sex was adequate. They’d both achieved orgasm, so there was that, at least.
Topping wasn’t bad. He wasn’t sure about bottoming; he was curious to try it,
but it was going to be difficult to find someone he trusted enough. Arthur was
certainly not that person. It could wait.
Arthur wanted to spend the night. Mycroft presumed the Mutual Loss of Virginity
protocol demanded it, and let him.
It was a bad idea.
After their second date, Arthur suggested they meet his parents. Mycroft feared
a third date might lead to a discussion of adoption. He tried to let him down
as easily as he could, but the whole thing spiralled into a nightmare. He
endured two weeks of sobbing phone calls from a ‘heart-broken’ Arthur, who
claimed that Mycroft had ruined his life.
All this for two nights of mediocre sex.
Mycroft decided that sex wasn’t worth the trouble and that ‘healthy
relationships’ weren’t his thing anyway. It couldn’t remotely compete with the
emotional connection he felt to Sherlock.
He launched back into his studies with a vengeance.
***** Edinburgh *****
Chapter Summary
     Mycroft escapes to Edinburgh.
Chapter Notes
     Warnings: This contains no underage sex. There are depictions of
     consensual infliction of pain between Mycroft and Sherlock. Sherlock
     is fifteen and sixteen during this chapter.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Sherlock was fifteen now, and they were back for the February half term
holidays.
They laid on Mycroft’s bed after one of their sessions; Mycroft refused to bend
the rules, but he’d become comfortable enough with their routine that they
relaxed together after Sherlock had taken care of his masturbation in private.
These days, Mycroft fought his own arousal through internalised shame and sheer
force of will.
They stared at the ceiling, both lost in thought.
Sherlock moved and let out a small sound of delight as the material of his
trousers rubbed against his reddened skin.
Mycroft winced. It was difficult to be reminded just how much pleasure Sherlock
took in this; it was easier to believe that he just wanted the pain.
“You’re getting really good with the crop, My. I think you should get a cane as
well.”
“No.” His answer was firm. This could not be allowed to escalate beyond the
existing nightmare.
“How’s Colin?”
Colin. That was a sore topic, not that Sherlock had any idea. Colin had got
married and his wife hadn’t been keen on his mysterious late-night outings. The
offer of more money didn’t change things. He hadn’t been beaten in months, and
it was, frankly, driving him insane. Rumour had it there were ‘professionals’
in London, and he was seriously considering employing one. It was difficult for
him to travel to the city, but perhaps with the right incentive, they would
travel to Cambridge.
“Fine,” he replied, as breezily as he could manage.
“Liar. I haven’t seen you go to the stables once since you’ve been here.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“I can do it for you, you know. You can show me how.”
He wavered for a fraction of a second. Perhaps… “No. Absolutely not. End of
discussion.” He changed the subject before he could change his own mind. “How’s
school going? Have you found anyone to ‘experiment’ with? Or on?” He
desperately wanted him to have a normal sex life. He couldn’t allow Sherlock to
become as dependent on their relationship as he had.
Sherlock gave a small huff. “A few boys, yes. Kissing. Some hand jobs. Not much
more.”
“I should get you some condoms while I’m home.”
Sherlock gave him a wry smile. “You have more faith in my abilities than I do.”
“As long as you don’t try and deduce them, I’m sure you’ll have no problem
getting anything you want. I have to warn you though, they can get awfully
clingy.” He thought about his experiences with Arthur, and shuddered.
“They’re boring, though.”
“The hand jobs?”
“No, the boys. They’re not like us, My. I don’t think they’d understand the
pain thing even if I told them. Besides, they’re imbeciles.”
Mycroft shrugged. “You’ll find that a lot, I’m afraid. Enjoy it for what it
is.”
“Pleasure, not intellectual companionship?”
“Yes.”
“You fulfil both.”
Mycroft fought the urge to panic, not sure how to interpret the remark. He
looked over, only to see Sherlock peering at him intently, gauging his
reaction.
“I’m not having this discussion, Sherlock. Drop it.”
Sherlock pouted but fell silent. It wasn’t long before he wanted another round
with the crop. Mycroft thought it might be the death of him.
===============================================================================
His final term at Cambridge brought him in contact with Jonathan, who wouldn’t
leave him alone until Mycroft finally agreed to go out to dinner. When Mycroft
saw the same soppy look on Jonathan’s face as he’d seen on Arthur’s, it was all
he could do not to bolt from the restaurant. He wasn’t about to repeat the same
mistake twice.
===============================================================================
Mycroft escaped to Edinburgh for the weekend of Sherlock’s sixteenth birthday.
It fell during the school term, but he didn’t trust Sherlock not to show up in
London unexpectedly. He didn’t need that sort of stress.
He’d started his job with the government the previous year and taken a flat in
Hammersmith. Now that he had a proper job, he couldn’t take the long holiday
breaks he - and Sherlock - had taken for granted, and Sherlock had begged to
spend the extra week of each holiday with him in London. Every time, he’d
agreed. Sherlock took up residence on the sofa. During the days, he explored
London. Each night, at Sherlock’s insistence, they explored Sherlock’s
tolerance for pain.
Every time his brother departed, the sense of guilt - and loss - was stronger
than before, but he gladly paid the emotional toll in exchange for the time
with his brother.
But he couldn’t face the idea of seeing Sherlock on his sixteenth birthday -
the ‘Age of Consent’ for the one person he truly loved and could never have. He
knew that for Sherlock, their relationship was about pain and the pleasure he
got from it, not about love; that only made the idea of a meeting even more
difficult.
He’d sent a present and his best wishes, and silently thanked the gods that he
wasn’t seeing him in person. The present, a first edition of Chimie organique
fondée sur la synthèse by Marcellin Berthelot, would allow Sherlock to indulge
in both his French and his organic chemistry. It was a rare book; a good,
thoughtful gift; an adequate apology for his absence.
He took the late morning train from London and checked in to the hotel, hoping
to distract himself with a weekend of boring paperwork, but a view of Edinburgh
Castle invited window-gazing and introspection, not work. He’d already been
there an hour, and his papers lay untouched on the desk. He glanced at them
half-heartedly. Hundreds of miles separated him from Sherlock at the moment,
and the knowledge gave him as much relief as it did sadness. This was easier.
He gave up on the paperwork, threw on his coat and a scarf, and went out for a
walk. He ended up - if you can call intentionally walking up a very steep hill
‘ending up’ somewhere - at Edinburgh Castle. A light frost still covered the
shaded portions of the ground even though it was the early afternoon, and he’d
almost slipped twice on the old streets. Now he was frozen. Why on earth am I
doing this?
The old stone buildings on the castle grounds weren’t a good place to escape
the cold, and the open expanses between them were even worse. He curled his
aching fingers into tight fists to warm them.
Ah. That was it.
The colder he was, the more he could focus on that, and the less he’d think
about Sherlock.
Right.
Well, that had been a self-defeating revelation. Once again, everything else -
even the bitter cold - turned into background noise, and all he could think
about was Sherlock. He wandered through the castle grounds and took in the
sweeping vistas of the city. Since it seemed impossible to escape his thoughts,
he might as well enjoy the view.
When his hands hurt so badly that he could stand it no longer, he went into the
small tea-room to warm up. He curled his hands around the hot mug and took a
perverse pleasure in the throbbing pain as the blood flow returned to his
fingers. It proved he could exercise a certain control over his body, even if
his mind was a lost cause.
He spent the afternoon wandering in a sort of haze, distracting himself with
the castle exhibits and the novel architecture of the buildings. By the time
he’d finished, a blue dusk had set in, and he indulged in a relatively warm
taxi ride back to the hotel. He’d get some work done tonight and take the train
back to London tomorrow afternoon.
A few hundred miles could provide him with a physical separation from Sherlock,
but apparently no distance was enough for his thoughts. Still, by Monday,
Sherlock would be back in his classrooms and the danger of an unexpected visit
at the flat would have passed.
He was considering supper as he opened the door to his hotel room and switched
on the lights. Sherlock sat at the desk, spinning slowly in the chair with a
smirk on his face.
“Hello, Mycroft.”
“Sherlock.” It wasn’t a question. There never should have been a question,
really; he should have seen this coming. He wasn’t sure why he thought leaving
London would prevent Sherlock from finding him. The sinking feeling in his
stomach clashed horribly with the joy he felt at seeing him. God, I missed
you.His brother’s hair was longer than the last time he’d seen him, and loose
dark curls framed his face. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at
school.” He managed to keep his voice calm, which was more than he felt.
Sherlock gave him a withering look. “Give me a little credit.”
“I’ll give you more than a little. How’d you find me? I didn’t tell anyone I
was coming here.”
“I went to your flat and realised you weren’t there, so I reported your credit
card as stolen and asked them to give me the details of the most recent
charges. That gave me the train ticket to Edinburgh and the name of the hotel.
The lovely man at the desk let me into your room when I explained that I was
your brother. You’ll probably want to pay for anything else with your other
card, though; I don’t think they’ll let you use that one again.” He grinned,
justifiably pleased with himself.
Mycroft sighed. He’d be more upset about it if it wasn’t so ingenious. “Nicely
done, Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s tone sobered. “Why’d you run, My? Was the idea of spending the
weekend with me really that bad?”
He looked away. “You know that’s not it.”
“Are you upset?” he asked, and it was almost child-like. For as calculating as
Sherlock could be at times, he was startlingly innocent at others.
“Not with you, no.” He looked Sherlock in the eye and forced a smile. “It’s
good to see you, Sherlock; I missed you. I don’t get to see you often enough
anymore. Did you like the book I sent?”
Sherlock smiled. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
He needed to be around other people; make small talk. This was too much to
handle at the moment. “I was just about to go for supper. We could make it
somewhere nice - for your birthday.”
Dinner was a leisurely three-hour affair: safe, with discussions of school and
work, and no mention of anything emotional. It was what he needed. By the time
they were back at the room, things were relaxed and easy between them.
“I brought the crop, Mycroft.” Sherlock retrieved it from behind the desk.
So much for relaxed and unemotional.
He kept the strain out of his voice as he replied, “You broke into the flat.
Please tell me you didn’t do too much damage.”
“’Broke in’ is a little strong, Mycroft,” he replied with a chuckle. “I picked
the locks. You know I’m good at it; I didn’t leave a mark.”
Mycroft glanced around for a bag and saw only his leather school satchel -
bulging, probably with a change of clothes, but far too small for the crop. He
chased the implications of the clothes - an overnight stay - from his mind. He
couldn’t deal with that right now. “Where did you put the crop during your trip
up here?”
Sherlock flashed him a wicked grin. “I carried it. I got the most wonderful
reactions. I shoved it inside my coat when I got here; I thought I’d come off
as a high-class rent boy if I kept it out.”
Mycroft imagined the scene: a gorgeous young man striding purposefully through
King’s Cross station with a riding crop in his hand, daring anyone to question
him. He smiled - only Sherlock would have the nerve, and be able to pull it
off.
Sherlock’s smile faded a little and he fixed Mycroft with an intent stare.
“What do you do, now that you don’t have Colin?” he asked quietly, glancing
down at the crop.
Mycroft froze. “No, Sherlock. We’re not doing that.”
“Give me one good reason why not.”
Mycroft desperately wanted one - desperately tried to think of one - but
nothing came to mind. He wanted the pain so much he could taste it. But he
wasn’t sure he could take it, not coming from Sherlock.
His mind flashed on the obscene acts he’d wanted to perform with Colin after
their sessions; the pain of the beatings always left him achingly hard and
desperate for release, but the idea of being face-to-face with Sherlock in that
state both terrified and horrified him. His attraction to his brother was
normally manageable when he beat him, but he wasn’t sure that would be the case
if the situation were reversed.
“Because I said so.” It wasn’t even a reason, let alone a good one. Sherlock
would call him on it, but he couldn’t be honest.
“I don’t see why this is any different,” Sherlock replied with a nonchalant
air. “You already get off on beating me.”
Mycroft’s heart nearly stopped. The statement was true, of course, no matter
how much he loathed himself for feeling that way. But they’d agreed not to
discuss it.
“We’re brothers, Sherlock,” he pleaded. “Surely you understand what that means
by now.”
“We’re not like everyone else, My. Why should it matter what we do? You need
the pain as much as I do. How long has it been?”
“That’s not the point,” Mycroft replied. Then he mumbled, “Almost two years.”
“I don’t see why you deny yourself what you clearly need. From what I can tell,
you don’t have any outlet at all. You don’t even get yourself off anymore after
beating me. Let me do this for you. I want to.”
Mycroft grabbed the edge of the desk for support as his legs threatened to give
out.
“You’re just proving my point,” Sherlock added dispassionately, noting his
reaction.
Mycroft breathed hard through his nose and tried to focus, but his mind echoed
with the sense memories of the pain he’d missed so much. He shut his eyes
tightly against the temptation, but it didn’t help.
“Let me,” Sherlock pushed. “Please.”
God.
“Why, Sherlock?”
“Because you need it, that’s why.”
He knew Sherlock didn’t feel the same way about their relationship, but what if
his brother wanted to make this a regular thing? Killing me with kindness.
“Don’t worry, I won’t force myself on you,” Sherlock added, with a levity that
Mycroft didn’t remotely share.
That hit a little too close to home. “That’s not funny.”
Sherlock just raised his eyebrows in rebuttal.
Mycroft steeled his nerves. Sherlock was right of course. He did need it;
craved it, in fact.
“Let me do it for my birthday, then. Just this once.”
He wanted it so much. He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Once.” What am I
doing?  “Just once.” Unable to meet Sherlock’s eyes, he bent over the bed.
“Start out slowly, stop when I say, all right?” he said, hesitantly.
Sherlock responded with a soft tease of a strike. A delicious, horrible,
wonderful tease.
“Harder.”
A soft sting this time, through the fine wool of his suit trousers.
“Harder.”
Sherlock took him at his word and started laying into him with more brutal
strokes.
The pain and pleasure made his nerves sing. It had been so long, and the
sensations flooded his brain with the neurochemicals that made it so addictive,
but his clothes were deadening the blows.
“Harder, please,” he begged. “I can take it.” He’d already crossed his own
line: there was no point in denying himself now.
Sherlock wielded the crop inexpertly, but well enough to give him what he
needed. The pain sliced through his suit and painted sharp lines across his
skin. Yes.
He couldn’t stop squirming as the blows landed, and the motion pressed his
erection against the bed, adding an overt pleasure he didn’t want. Pain. Just
the pain. He tried to block out the chant of ‘Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock’in
his mind as the crop made contact. It was as if pain and pleasure and want and
guilt were being injected directly into his veins with a syringe, but the
mixture in the tube was blood-red and felt more like love than any of those
things. Tears started to prick at his eyes, but not from the pain. He needed
the pain - wanted it… and then it dawned on him.
Oh, God. What have I done?‘Sherlock’ and ‘love’ and ‘pain’ were now synonymous.
Two were bad enough; all three might kill him. He couldn’t let his all-
consuming love for Sherlock merge with his need for pain. Ever.
“Stop,” he cried out. “Please,” and it came out more panic-stricken than he’d
intended.
Sherlock ceased immediately and rushed to the bed. “I’m sorry, My. What’s
wrong?” He sat on the bed and leaned over him in a sort of hug.
Mycroft turned his face away so Sherlock wouldn’t be able to see the emotion
there, and he bit down on his lip, trying to get himself under control.
“Just… can’t,” he replied, his voice thick with tears.
Sherlock draped himself on top of Mycroft and held him tightly, whispering,
“I’m sorry, My. God, I’m so sorry.” He sounded confused, like he wasn’t sure
where it had all gone sideways, just knowing that it had and that it was
probably his fault.
Mycroft reached out and grabbed one of his brother’s hands and clasped it
tightly. “Don’t,” he said, still unable to look at him. “I’m sorry; it’s my
fault. I just can’t. It’s… complicated.”
Sherlock finally made the one deduction that had been staring him in the face
for years - the one he’d always missed. “This is killing you, isn’t it - how
you feel about us?”
Mycroft nodded against the duvet.
Sherlock held him tighter. “I do love you, My; I always have. It seemed like
you didn’t want me to love you back, so I never told you. I thought I could do
this for you instead.”
At that, Mycroft completely fell apart and curled into the foetal position with
his forehead in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably.
Sherlock wrapped around him and murmured into his ear, “I’m sorry, My; I should
have told you. I just… well, my feelings always seemed normal to me; I don’t
see why they’re so wrong. I’m sorry I did this to you. I’m so sorry.”
“You didn’t do anything, Sherlock; I didn’t want you to have to deal with my
feelings. I want you to have a normal life: go to university, have boyfriends,
annoy the hell out of people.” The last one almost made him smile. “I’ll get
over this. I can move past it.” He wasn’t honestly sure he could, but he’d try.
Perhaps he could, now that this was out in the open. But although it killed him
to admit it, he knew he couldn’t go on beating Sherlock, no matter how much
either of them wanted it. “I can’t do this anymore, Sherlock, with the crop -
not for either of us. I’ll go mad. I’m sorry. You’ll manage, with your
deductions, or you’ll find somebody else, but it’s tearing me up.” He felt
Sherlock nod against his back.
“It’s okay, My.”
The three words felt like an absolution.
===============================================================================
Mycroft threw himself into his work completely, and Sherlock stopped insisting
that he be allowed to stay in London for the holidays. Their time together was
conducted solely on the neutral territory of the manor. As much as Mycroft
hated Sherlock’s enforced absence, it was easier to bear, and the open wound of
his feelings eventually healed into a scar that merely ached with a dull throb.
Constantly.
He never spoke with Sherlock about it again. Sherlock seemed to be able to shut
off his sexual attraction to Mycroft and interact with him on a completely
normal level. Whatever ‘normal’ was. Civil. Loving. Bearing no resentment
against Mycroft for what Mycroft had felt. It was both an immense relief and
immensely heart-breaking.
He was grateful for Sherlock’s ability to distance himself. He’d gone off to
university, terrorised the deans, destroyed labs, and had a series of sexual
encounters. Normal ones. Well, as normal as they could be considering he
insisted on deducing his lovers afterwards. He’d done all the ‘normal’ things
Mycroft wanted and expected him to do, and that made the misery worth it.
Mycroft’s work thrived; he had nothing else left. Which was why, when Jonathan
came back into his life and pestered him for a relationship, he blindly threw
himself into that instead.
Chapter End Notes
     This chapter brings the timeline back to Mycroft's relationship with
     Jonathan. The next chapter will continue with Mycroft moving into
     Sherlock's flat (from the end of Chapter 16). There shall be far more
     sex in that part of the plot. :)
     My thanks, again, to those of you who have stuck with me through the
     long periods between updates.
***** London *****
Chapter Summary
     Mycroft's new living arrangements result in some interesting
     discussions.
After his fight with Jonathan, Mycroft fled to Sherlock’s flat without
thinking. It was instinctive after a traumatic incident: seek comfort from the
people you trust. People you love. Sherlock.
He lay on the bed that first night, with Sherlock sprawled out on his stomach
next to him, trying to make sense of it all. The past year of his life had been
a huge mistake - he could see that now. His relationship with Jonathan had been
as ill-fated as his brief fling with Arthur, except this time he’d been the
lovesick fool. Looking back on it, he couldn’t really remember a point where
he’d been truly happy. He’d been happy about havinga relationship, not the
relationship itself.
Sherlock’s fingers warmed his skin through the cotton of his pyjamas. He found
it both comforting and a little upsetting. Six years on from the incident in
Edinburgh and he still couldn’t put his feelings for Sherlock behind him,
although God knows he’d tried. Sherlock had done exactly what Mycroft had
wanted - put the non-platonic part of their relationship in a box and stored it
away. Perhaps burned it. Mycroft wasn’t sure. After all, his brother was
sleeping peacefully next to him, sprawled across him like it was the most
natural thing in the world - as if nothing had ever happened between them. It
was for the best, of course. If Sherlock hadn’t compartmentalised things this
well, he doubted they’d have been on such pleasant terms for the past six
years.
Mycroft was profoundly grateful for his brother’s presence. He covered
Sherlock’s hand with his own, let the tension ease out of his body, and slept.
===============================================================================
When he saw Sherlock lying next to him the following morning, he had half a
second of pure happiness before he remembered what had brought him there. Then
the pain and ugliness of the situation came flooding back.
He let Sherlock guide him through the day; he was honestly too exhausted to do
anything else. The shock and grief - could you grieve something you were glad
to be done with? - robbed him of the energy and drive he usually took for
granted. He felt pathetic; he was more capable than this. His situation was
clear: sever ties with Jonathan and move on with his life. So why did he feel
so utterly unable to function?
Being around Sherlock calmed him. It was pleasant to spend time with his
brother again; they hadn’t really been alone together - not without Mycroft
feeling self-conscious and guilt-ridden - in years. A part of his soul still
ached every time he looked at him, or even thought about him, but it had been
like that for ages and he’d learnt to accept it. Having Sherlock help him at
the moment was a huge comfort, even though he was disgusted and mortified by
his own inability to cope with the situation.
He resigned himself to taking orders from his brother for a while, or perhaps
just for the day. The blackness would pass; it had to.
===============================================================================
When Mycroft had shown up at his door the previous evening, instinct had told
Sherlock what to do. Protect. Comfort. Soothe. But as soon as his brother’s
immediate safety seemed assured, his mind shot off in two additional
directions: make sure Jonathan suffered as much as possible without exposing
Mycroft to undue risk, and figure out how to deal with Mycroft’s reappearance
in his life.
The answer to the second one seemed clear: make sure Mycroft didn’t leave
again. Not in the ‘I’m going to lock him in the flat and never let him out’
sense, but emotionally.
As a teenager, he’d never realised just how much guilt and conflict he’d caused
Mycroft. When his brother had almost melted down in Edinburgh, it finally
jolted him out of his self-absorbed world, and he realised he had to let him
go. It was the right thing to do, but it nearly killed him; it felt like he’d
lost part of himself. Every time he saw Mycroft, he’d been forced to pretend:
that he was enjoying university, that he was happy and functioning without him,
that he was fine with Mycroft’s relationship with that moronic, abusive
bastard. The pretence had been so hard, but it was worth it to see Mycroft
happy again. But now, Jonathan had brought Mycroft’s world crashing down.
His brother was here seeking comfort and help. The last thing he needed was a
revelation from Sherlock that was likely to cause even more turmoil.
So that was it, then. Be there to support him, but make damned sure he didn’t
run away again. He didn’t think he could take it twice.
===============================================================================
Sherlock stopped preparing the sandwiches and looked at his brother.
“What do you want,Mycroft?”
“Sorry?”
“Out of life. You don’t seem to enjoy your job. God knows Mummy doesn’t care
what we do, so you might as well do something you enjoy. So what do you want?”
Mycroft laughed half-heartedly and said, “To get out of London; it’s driving me
mad. I don’t really care what I do - I despise my job; it takes up my every
waking hour. And the weather is killing me. I know England isn’t the sunniest
place on Earth, but there have to be better alternatives.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Sherlock said as he handed him a cheese and
Marmite sandwich.
“Don’t be absurd, Sherlock. I’m not actually leaving London.”
“No, you’re not,” he replied, adding a dramatic pause. “We are.”
When Mycroft had mentioned finding a new flat close by, asking him to move in
was only logical. When his brother talked about leaving London, it seemed silly
not to push the idea. Running off somewhere sunny with Mycroft sounded
perfectly delightful.
“You’re mad. You might not have any ties here, but I do.”
“Which ties, exactly?”
“Well, my job, for one.”
“The job that you just admitted is making you miserable. That job?”
“It’s still my job. I’ve put a lot of effort into getting where I am.”
“I never said you didn’t, but what’s the point if you’re not happy? It’s not
like you have to work.”
It was true. Their father had left them more than enough money to live on; more
than they knew what to do with. Mostly, it just sat around in banks, earning
interest. Mycroft would never be ‘the idle rich’ - he was far too hard-working
and compulsive for that - but Sherlock allowed a little of it to flow his way.
His ‘contract work’ at Barts was barely more than access to their laboratories,
which he used for his own personal projects. Mycroft knew he didn’t have a job,
but they were both aware he would never thrive in a traditional work
environment, so there was no point in making it an issue.
“Whether or not I have to is beside the point; I enjoy having a purpose.
Anyway, I can’t move; my part of the government happens to be in London. I
doubt they’d be inclined to relocate.”
“So you plan on being miserable indefinitely?” As soon as the words were out of
his mouth, Sherlock knew he was pushing too hard. The object of the exercise
was to convince Mycroft to stay, not to drive him away again.
Mycroft gave him a pained look, but before he could say anything, Sherlock
stopped him.
“Look, I’m sorry. You’ve just been through something awful, and I’m not trying
to make you crazy, but by your own admission you need a break from London and
your job. We should at least go on holiday somewhere. Somewhere sunny.”
Mycroft raised his eyebrows a little. “We?”
“Of course, ‘we’.” But then he thought back on their experience at Edinburgh
and realised his presence might not be a relaxing element. “Unless you’d rather
go alone.”
“I… I can’t deal with planning anything at the moment. Just let me get through
the next few days, all right? Some time away would be nice though, and of
course I’d like you to be there.” Mycroft gave him a weak smile. “Just don’t
buy us a house in Spain or something without asking me first.”
Sherlock nodded and let the implications of Mycroft’s seemingly offhand remark
sink in: Mycroft might consider moving at some point, possibly with him. It was
more than he’d hoped.
===============================================================================
“Where should I put my things?”
“Oh, right. You can have the bottom two drawers and whatever space you need in
the wardrobe. Just pile what’s in there on the floor. I’ll figure it out.”
“I really don’t want to be a bother.”
“You’re not. If it really worries you, we can get a dresser for your bedroom.”
“I haven’t said I’m moving in, Sherlock. I can get my own flat.”
“You haven’t said you’re not, and I want you to stay. At least consider it.”
Mycroft nodded. “All right. I’ll be in the bedroom if you need anything.”
Sherlock couldn’t stop thinking about the crop Mycroft had asked him to
retrieve. Did he still use it? Could he be persuaded to use it on him? He’d
practically agreed to live in the same house; surely that had to mean somesort
of relationship had been restored, but what exactly?
He stood in the doorway to his bedroom and watched as Mycroft unpacked the few
belongings Sherlock had retrieved from his flat. The crop lay nestled between a
stack of dress shirts.
Mycroft picked it up with distaste. “Please dispose of this, if you’d be so
kind.”
“What?” he asked, completely puzzled. “You had me bring it for you.”
“So no one else would see it. Please, just get rid of it.”
Sherlock snatched it from him and stormed out, hurrying to the living room
where he opened the window and flung it, as hard as he could, into the road
below. It bounced off the window of a passing taxi and then splintered under
the tyres of the next car that passed. He silently fumed. He’d hoped that
Mycroft would want to continue what they’d done all those years ago. He hadn’t
expected it anytime soon, but this seemed to annihilate any chance of it.
“It’s not what you think.”
He jumped; he hadn’t heard Mycroft walk in.
“And you could have just got rid of it in the bin, you know.”
“I was upset,” Sherlock replied, without turning to face him.
“It wasn’t ours. I bought it with Jonathan. It wasn’t… things… never mind.” It
sounded like he might start crying. “I just needed it to be gone.”
“It’s pretty definitively gone. Six cars have run over it so far. The taxi
driver never stopped so I don’t think he minded that it hit his windshield.”
His mind raced; he’d clearly missed something huge, and he had a sudden, awful
realisation of what it was. Mycroft had trusted someone else with his pain, and
it had not gone well. He wanted to kill Jonathan all over again.
“What did you do with it?” Mycroft asked him, quietly.
Sherlock didn’t need to ask what he meant. “It’s in my wardrobe, behind my
suits. I took it with me when I left Edinburgh. I hope you don’t mind that I
kept it.” He turned around and saw Mycroft’s face contorted - his eyes squeezed
shut and tears rolling down his cheeks. He rushed over and held him tightly.
“I’m so sorry. I’ll get rid of it if you want me to. I kept it because it was…
something that was you. Yours… ours. I didn’t want to lose that. But now you’re
here.” He sounded desperate. “Don’t leave, My. Please don’t leave.”
Mycroft rested his head on his brother’s shoulder and cried harder.
Then Sherlock realised: asking Mycroft to stay - to move in - would trigger the
same stress and anxiety that he’d caused his brother before.
“Oh, God,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. Let’s sit down.”
Mycroft allowed himself to be led to the sofa, and Sherlock handed him a box of
tissues.
“I didn’t think. I can be so stupid sometimes.”
Mycroft gave a small, incredulous huff through his sniffles.
“I do want you to stay, but not if…” he paused, unsure of how to put it
tactfully. ‘Not if the guilt is going to drive you insane’ didn’t seem
appropriate, even if it was true. “… not if it’s going to make things difficult
for you. I don’t want to hurt you like that.”
Mycroft twisted out of his grasp and stormed towards the kitchen.
He’d said something wrong, but damned if he knew what it was.
“My?” He rose from the sofa and hesitantly followed his brother.
Mycroft rounded on him, his puffy eyes full of anger. “You already did - for
six years! How could you forget about everything that happened between us? You
just pretended everything was normal and kept going.”
Tears pricked the corners of Sherlock’s eyes. “You… you told me to. You said
you wanted me to have a normal life and you’d get past your feelings. I never
forgot it; it never changed how I felt. I just did what you asked. And then you
seemed so excited about Jonathan; I thought you’d moved on, and I sort of gave
up hoping, but now I don’t know what to think.”
When Sherlock gathered the nerve to look at him again, all the anger had
drained from Mycroft’s face.
“Hoping?”
“Hoping you’d get over your guilt and change your mind about wanting to be with
me.” He paused, aware of how self-centred he sounded. He couldn’t stop a tiny
smile from tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Obviously.”
Sherlock’s intentionally bratty behaviour defused the situation a little, just
as he’d hoped it would.
“I’ve always wanted to be with you, Sherlock. I just wanted you to have a
normal life.”
“I did, and I wasn’t particularly fond of it; it got boring. You’ve never bored
me.”
“It’s not that straightforward. This…” Mycroft gestured between them, “it’s not
even legal.”
“Oh, come on. It’s not like they prosecute it; we’re both consenting adults.
The police have actual crime on their hands, you know.”
Mycroft still held back, with a look of pain on his face that nearly ripped
Sherlock in two.
“I’ve hated how I’ve felt for so long… I don’t know if I can.”
Sherlock edged closer - just a step, to see if Mycroft would retreat. It looked
for a second as if he would. Sherlock’s mind raced. He could deduce his way
through this: feelings weren’t logical, but now he knew enough about Mycroft’s
emotions to attempt to convince him. He had to make it work - he couldn’t let
Mycroft slip through his fingers. Not again.
He reached out and laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Mycroft flinched.
“Your problem with this doesn’t stem from the legality; you think you’re going
to lead me down the same guilt-filled path you’ve taken. I don’t know if you’ve
noticed, but I don’t have much of a problem with guilt, and I have a very
generous definition of morality. You never did anything wrong. Showing me how
to use pain preserved my sanity, and you never laid a hand on me sexually, no
matter how much I practically begged you to. You’re blameless here, Mycroft.
I’m sorry I put you through all those years of hell without realising it. Now
that I know you still feel the same way, I’d at least like to try and make
things work.”
Mycroft didn’t respond. Well, that was a start; at least he wasn’t actively
saying ‘no’. Sherlock wanted to kiss him - press him against the counter and
take his breath from his lungs and make him realise that they were meant to be
together - but this had to be on Mycroft’s terms, or it would never work.
“Please, My. I love you. I need you.” He never stooped to begging, but this -
this one thing - was worth it. Mycroft’s love meant more to him than anything.
The look of anguish on Mycroft’s face softened. “I love you too, Sherlock. And
you’re right - I’d at least like to try; I don’t think I could bear to lose you
again.”
Mycroft leaned forward and their lips met in a soft, sweet kiss. It was gentle
and slow, with a bone-weary exhaustion that reflected the long, brutal journey
that had taken their entire lives thus far, and it was a silent promise between
them: to never separate again.
***** Not Spain *****
Chapter Summary
     They're finally on the same page.
Mycroft didn't push their kiss beyond anything that would have been acceptable
in polite company, and Sherlock was, for the most part, content to let it stay
that way. But he couldn't deny that a glimmer of lust warred with his desire to
respect his brother's boundaries. Besides, he didn't think polite company would
approve anyway.
When Mycroft pulled away, Sherlock pulled him back closer and nestled his face
in the crook of Mycroft's neck. "I missed you," he murmured, as he inhaled the
faint scent of Mycroft's soap and warm skin. "It's been hell without you."
"It has." Mycroft pressed his face against Sherlock's soft curls and let out a
tiny moan at the indulgence.
Sherlock tugged at Mycroft's shirt collar, glad he wasn't wearing anything more
formal, and placed tiny kisses along his neck. It was more reverent than
sexual. He'd yearned to do this for so long; touch his brother without feeling
him flinch away or see pain and guilt in his eyes. His skin was so soft and
yielding beneath his lips, and he felt as if he could stay there for years,
kissing and tasting the hollow above his clavicle.
He pulled back and looked into Mycroft's eyes. He was almost startled to see
the red puffiness that surrounded them, and he remembered that Mycroft had been
utterly distraught only moments ago. Time was moving on a variable scale.
Mycroft grasped Sherlock's hand lightly, rubbing his thumb across the knuckles.
"I don't know what to do, Sherlock."
He could barely hear his brother's strained voice.
"I think the incident with Jonathan has left me a bit broken."
Sherlock silenced him with another gentle kiss. "Then let me take care of you."
===============================================================================
"What about Spain?"
"I'm not moving. Besides, I'd burn to a crisp," Mycroft replied, looking up
from his dinner.
"What about a holiday?"
"I'd rather not increase the probability that I'll die of skin cancer."
"Oh, don't be so dramatic. It'd just be a week."
"I can't leave the country for that long. It's going to be difficult enough
explaining this absence."
Sherlock's eyes roamed across the roast chicken and risotto supper Mycroft had
prepared. He was a surprisingly good cook.
"What if you didn't leave the country? What if you could be back here in a few
hours on the train?"
Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "A beach holiday. Here? Surely you're aware of how
ridiculous that sounds."
"You said you didn't want to burn; what better place than an English beach?"
"Very funny."
"No, really. We've never been to Devon. It's supposed to be nice down there -
'The English Riviera', they call it."
Mycroft nearly choked on his wine.
"'The English Riviera'? Surely that's a bit disingenuous."
"Statistically, it's sunnier than London, and it does have proper beaches - the
Thames at low tide doesn't count."
"Ugh." Mycroft wrinkled his nose in distaste. "I never claimed it did."
"You need a change of scenery for a while; even a long weekend would do you
good. Monday's a bank holiday; let me see what I can find."
"Don't be ridiculous. Everything will be booked."
"That wasn't a 'no'."
Mycroft let out a long breath. "All right. If you can find something for the
weekend, I'll go. You've already told them I'll be out for the rest of the
week; I might as well take advantage of it."
"Fantastic." He shovelled another forkful of risotto into his mouth. With his
mouth still full he said, "If I had access to food like this all the time, I'd
eat more often."
Mycroft smiled at the compliment. "It certainly wouldn't hurt you. I'd say you
could do the shopping and I'd cook, but I'm not sure I trust you to even
remember the milk."
Sherlock wrinkled his nose in reply, but it was true. "You'll just have to
teach me better habits then." The carelessly uttered sentence ignited a fuse of
word associations in his brain. Teach. Discipline. Pain. Mycroft. Pain.
Mycroft. Pain. Mycroft. The last two repeated like a mantra.
He caught his breath and tried to cover his reaction, but Mycroft was too quick
and saw everything. His brother raised one eyebrow and waited for Sherlock to
speak.
He hadn't meant it like that. Had he? God. Yes, he wanted it, but Mycroft
didn't need that sort of mental complication at the moment. "Sorry, that came
out wrong. It honestly wasn't what I meant." His gaze wandered across the
table, lingering on anything but Mycroft's face.
"Sherlock."
He stopped fidgeting and somehow found the nerve to look his brother in the
eye.
Neither of them spoke.
Neither of them knew what to say.
Seconds ticked by, feeling like longer.
Finally, Mycroft spoke. "The crop: you kept it all these years. Did you ever
use it?"
"Of course not. It's yours. Ours. Look, I don't think it's fair to you… I
didn't mean for this to come up. You need time."
"Do I?" His voice was quiet, but his eyes glimmered with a trace of excitement.
The potential in those words made him want to drop to his knees and beg for the
sting of the crop across his arse.
The look on his face must have been all the answer Mycroft needed, because he
got up and walked over to him. He towered above Sherlock, who was still in his
chair. Cupping Sherlock's cheek in his hand, he tilted his face upward.
Sherlock mentally catalogued both the warmth of his hand and his increased
respiration. Cross-referenced Mycroft's perceived skin temperature with the
flush of his own cheeks. Filled his head with statistics while he waited for
Mycroft to speak. It felt like years. It had been years.
"Do you want this, Sherlock?"
He nodded.
"What are your boundaries?"
Sherlock thought about the different types: sexual, emotional, pain. The answer
was the same in each instance. It was Mycroft, therefore there were no
boundaries.
"The only boundaries we've ever had are the ones you've needed," he replied
solemnly. Then, he tilted his head into Mycroft's cupped hand and slowly licked
his palm, finishing it with a kiss. He looked up at his brother with a wicked
smile.
Mycroft's breath caught and a small noise escaped his lips.
Sherlock remembered that sound: the sound of Mycroft's pent-up sexual
frustration as he beat him. God, all those years when he'd wanted him to give
in; to feel the weight of his brother suddenly pinning him to the bed instead
of seeing him look away in shame. Finally.
He pulled away from Mycroft's hand and tilted his head back to lick the pad of
Mycroft's finger, then he let it drag across the fullness of his lower lip.
"You can have me any way you want." If that didn't make his consent clear,
nothing would.
===============================================================================
Fuck.
Mycroft rarely swore, even mentally. He considered it a linguistic crutch. But
the word echoed in his head, both an exclamation and a practical imperative.
His fingertip rested on Sherlock's chin, still slightly damp from his brother's
tongue. His groin throbbed, the sound of blood rushed in his ears, and the room
had gone slightly wavy. He struggled to compose himself. He'd intended his
question to be about the crop, but Sherlock clearly had other things in mind: a
full-on seduction, by the looks of it.
The way his brother looked up at him through his eyelashes like that with his
lips barely parted? Yes, that was definitely what this was. Not that he needed
much convincing anymore. He'd been turning it over and over in his mind since
their conversation earlier. Since their kiss. Pavlovian guilt had chased each
desirous thought for so many years. Even now, he waited for it to catch up like
a stuttering heartbeat. But for as much pain as his enforced distance had
caused them both, it had been the right thing to do. Sherlock had absolved him,
and now the guilt was gone.
And it had been replaced by an all-consuming desire.
He wanted this. Sherlock wanted this. Fuck society.
===============================================================================
"Oh…"
Sherlock betrayed his surprise with one word as Mycroft pulled him to his feet.
He'd long since settled in for the Siege for Mycroft's Affections, and his
apparent sudden victory left him reeling.
His brother pushed him back gently against the counter and kissed him. Less
gently.
Sherlock responded with a moan and pressed against him. The room felt too warm,
and it was glorious. His hands explored the curves of Mycroft's shoulder-blades
as his brother kissed his way along his jawline, then he offered the long
expanse of his neck like a heathen sacrifice and Mycroft moaned.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted this," he murmured, as his mouth played
across the hollows of Sherlock's throat.
"You'd be surprised." He moved one leg between Mycroft's and a gratifying tilt
of his brother's hips gave him the friction he craved. The gesture ignited a
spark at the base of his spine. His uneven breath ruffled Mycroft's light
ginger hair, and he uttered, "Bedroom." Mycroft didn't need convincing.
Sherlock fell backwards onto his bed and pulled his brother on top of him.
Skin. Contact. More. Now.
He fumbled with buttons while Mycroft seemed content to push up his t-shirt and
run his hands across the warm, taut planes of his stomach as he kissed him.
Well, mostly content. He ground his hips sensuously against him, and Sherlock
could barely concentrate on removing Mycroft's shirt. Why did he have to wear
something with cuffs?
He finally pushed Mycroft to the side in frustration. "Come on, help me. I've
waited entirely too long for this to be done in by buttons."
Mycroft quirked a half-smile and flicked the cuffs open, pulling his shirt off
and tossing it on the floor. Sherlock pulled his own shirt over his head and
unzipped his jeans, but lifting his hips to take them off pressed his body
against Mycroft's again, and his brother pushed him back onto the bed by his
shoulders.
"But… trousers," Sherlock moaned.
"Not yet. Desperation suits you." He kept him pinned in place as he dipped his
head towards Sherlock's exposed chest and toyed at one of his nipples with his
tongue. Teasing and delicate at first, then with a quick bite that had Sherlock
crying out more in surprise than pain.
Sherlock grasped for Mycroft's trousers again, but his brother's waistband
remained just out of reach, and those long, slender fingers were surprisingly
strong against his shoulders. Being pinned like this thrilled him. It was so
unexpected, coming from Mycroft. Exciting. He hadn't presumed Mycroft to be
boring in bed: his fascination with pain precluded that. But he'd anticipated a
cautious, gentle approach. This was neither. It was perfect. And it was driving
him out of his skull with need.
One perfect hand left his shoulder and worked its way between them. Mycroft
palmed Sherlock's erection, still trapped inside his pants, and stroked its
length with just the right amount of force as he moved back up Sherlock's body
and kissed him.
Determined to take what he could get, he pulled Mycroft down onto his chest,
relishing the warmth of his brother's skin against his own. "I never thought
you'd be such a tease," he murmured, nipping at Mycroft's ear.
"I never thought I'd have the pleasure. I want to make it last."
"When I said you could have me any way you wanted, it wasn't a one-time offer,
you know. Hurt me, fuck me, let me suck you off. Just… something. Anything." It
wasn't language he'd normally use, but desperate times called for desperate
measures.
Mycroft responded with a low chuckle. "Which should it be then, pain or sex?"
===============================================================================
Hurt me, fuck me, let me suck you off.
Oh, God.
Sherlock's words echoed in his head like a filthy litany.
He climbed off the bed with his heart thudding in his chest and his legs weak
with excitement.
Sherlock pushed himself up onto his elbows and watched with a hungry
expression, running his tongue across his lower lip.
The sight made Mycroft's mouth water, and he had to drag his eyes away and
focus his attention on retrieving the crop.
"The wardrobe, behind my suits."
As if he could forget.
He parted the clothes and saw it leaning in the corner, handle down. The state
of it surprised him. He'd expected it to be dusty; the leather dry. But it
looked like it had been conditioned and polished regularly over the years. He
gave Sherlock a querying look.
His brother shrugged. "It was ours. I took care of it."
"Thank you." His voice came out strained - a mixture of tenderness and still-
overwhelming lust.
He lifted it out of the wardrobe. He closed his eyes and smiled as he inhaled
the rich scent of the leather. His anxiety about the implement's associations
with Jonathan vanished. This was theirs, and theirs alone.
He opened his eyes to find Sherlock gazing intently up at him. He took a few
moments to bask in it before he spoke. "Safeword?"
"I don't need one."
"You have no choice in the matter. Your safeword is 'safeword'; you're not
invincible."
A quick intake of breath from Sherlock.
He'd said it out of practicality; concern. But his brother's reaction to his
authoritative tone was distinctly sexual. Fascinating.
For all their experiments with pain, he'd never framed them in a context of
dominance. If anything, he'd been the one who felt powerless against Sherlock.
Was this something his brother wanted? Pinning him to the bed just now… that
had been well-received, too.
"Get undressed and bend over the bed." His tone brooked no argument, and
Sherlock gave none. Just harsh breaths and long, slender fingers fumbling with
his trousers. Mycroft caught a glimpse of his cock, hard and wanting, before
Sherlock bent over and presented his luscious arse.
Oh, God. Was it possible to die of a heart attack at this age?
He was beautiful and wanton, and when he rolled his hips against the bed,
Mycroft thought he might keel over just from the sight of it.
Sherlock twisted his head back and caught him staring.
"Well?"
His voice had dropped to perilously deep levels, dripping with sex.
"Christ." It was the only word Mycroft could manage. He didn't know whether to
beat him or fuck him senseless.
"Aren't you going to thrash me? I always wanted it on my bare skin. I waited."
He'd waited. All these years. Another tick mark in the 'consent' column, as if
he needed more.
Trying desperately to keep his breathing under control, he stepped towards the
bed. He willed his hands to stop trembling, then he gently ran the leather flap
of the crop along his perineum, causing Sherlock to drop his head back onto the
bed and moan. He continued by leaving a teasingly light trail between the
cheeks of his arse. Sherlock pushed back, seeking some sort of firmer contact,
and Mycroft drew the crop away.
"Behave."
A low, needy sound. Mycroft smiled: his pushy little brother got off on being
ordered around. How ironic.
"Tell me when to give you more, and when to back off. I don't want you to come,
though; not from this."
Sherlock nodded.
He made his first strokes gentle, but not hesitant. Flicks of the crop left red
petals blooming on his pale skin. He was silently grateful he'd never given in
to Sherlock's teenage pleadings for bare-arsed thrashings, because they would
have broken him.
He increased his force slightly and Sherlock rolled his hips in gratitude. The
movement travelled up his spine like a wave and Mycroft paused momentarily to
absorb the sheer beauty of it.
"Harder."
He complied at first, but then he kept the intensity steady.
"Harder." Sherlock's voice was edged with frustration now.
Mycroft instead placed the strokes in three different locations on his
buttocks. He made it random enough that Sherlock didn't know which of the three
would be next. It was much harsher than increasing the intensity.
"Tell me when to stop."
The three lines started to burn an angry red, and although Sherlock's arousal
didn't seem to diminish, he gripped the sheets so hard his knuckles were white.
He took it for much longer than Mycroft expected. Eventually, he caved.
"Okay," he gasped. "Too much… slower."
"Do you want me to stop?"
He shook his head vigorously. "Just not… there. Can't."
Mycroft dropped the intensity way back and returned to cropping him elsewhere,
carefully avoiding the three stripes that now practically glowed. Sherlock's
harsh breathing returned to a series of low moans, and his hips once again
shifted against the bed, seeking friction for his cock.
He realised, to his relief, that he got no thrill from administering the pain.
It was just as he'd suspected all along: he derived his pleasure from watching
Sherlock's arousal, and from the deep love and attraction he felt towards him.
And at this point, that attraction was almost unbearable. His erection strained
against his trousers, and if he didn't do something soon, he was going to come
in his pants like a schoolboy. He dropped the crop on the bed and fumbled with
his zip. "Come here."
Sherlock turned onto his back, a little dazed and with a slight hiss as his
tender buttocks hit the sheets.
As Mycroft stepped out of his clothes, he reached out and pulled Sherlock to
his feet. He found Sherlock's mouth and met it with a desperate kiss, running
his hands across his back and through his hair, drinking in the taste and smell
and feel of him. Sherlock grabbed Mycroft's arse and pulled him closer. Their
cocks rubbed together; the sensation sent a jolt of electricity through his
body and his vision flashed white.
He pulled away from the kiss and put his fingers against Sherlock's lips. His
brother seemed to read his mind and took them into his mouth, slicking them up,
and then licked his palm with lavish, wet strokes. Mycroft groaned his approval
and then worked his hand between them, grasping both of their cocks in his
fist. Sherlock gave his own hand a brief lick and wrapped it over Mycroft's,
forming a hot, slick tunnel.
The sensation - the wet slide of their cocks pressed together - nearly
overwhelmed Mycroft, and he had to fight off an almost immediate orgasm. They
ended up with one hand on each other's shoulder, their eyes locked as they gave
themselves over to the intense feelings they'd harboured for so long.
Sherlock's pale blue-green eyes looked like the vast reaches of some far-off
nebula. He'd never been able to see them this close. So beautiful.
Mycroft's mind was clearly elsewhere, so his body crashed headlong into orgasm
without him. He cried out Sherlock's name as he came, closing his eyes and
throwing his head back at the exquisite bliss. Sherlock batted his hand away
and milked him through his orgasm.
Sherlock had observed the entire event with an expression of wonder, and it
wasn't until Mycroft was clearly sated that he returned his hand to his own
cock.
"No, let me. I want to make you come." Mycroft's voice lacked its usual
crispness, but his full attention was on Sherlock once again.
Sherlock smiled and removed his hand, licking every trace of his brother's
semen from his fingers as Mycroft stroked him. Watching him, Mycroft thought he
might come all over again.
Sherlock was already close to orgasm, and it didn't take long before it ripped
through his body. Then he slumped contentedly against Mycroft and mumbled 'love
you' against the side of his neck.
Tears pricked at the corners of Mycroft's eyes and he held him close. "Love you
too."
***** Holiday *****
Chapter Summary
     Mycroft and Sherlock escape from London for a weekend at the beach.
After their first, glorious sexual encounter, time had passed in a blur.
Mycroft left the flat just once to get food, but other than that, they’d spent
their days and nights in a haze of sex, pain, deliciously exhausted sleep, and
hours of relaxed conversation. They had so much to catch up on after six years
apart - longer than that really, if you counted all those times when he’d only
seen Sherlock once or twice a year. Mycroft’s absence from work gave them the
opportunity to learn each other - sexually and emotionally - and both of them
understood what a rare gift that was.
Sherlock somehow managed to find a place to stay for the weekend. It was a Bed
and Breakfast. Mycroft would have preferred a small, boutique hotel: private
and discreet. This had the potential to be more like Fawlty Towers.
The last thing Mycroft wanted was a lot of contact with - well - anyone other
than Sherlock, really. The idea of breakfast in a shared dining room seemed
horrifying. No doubt it would be filled with loud tourists complaining about
the dryness of the toast. Sherlock pointed out that they didn’t have to eat
breakfast there, and that a few brusque interactions with the owner should be
enough to forestall prying personal questions, however polite and well-meaning.
Mycroft somewhat grudgingly agreed. It would be a change of scenery, and they’d
be together. He was more than happy to stay ensconced in the blissful privacy
of the flat, but Sherlock tended to be easily bored. He didn’t want Sherlock
getting bored with him.
===============================================================================
The owner of the Bed and Breakfast was an older woman, far too inquisitive and
almost aggressively cheerful. Mycroft disliked her at once.
“Two beds then, dear?”
“Of course.” He internally sighed. This wouldn’t have been an issue at a proper
hotel. They were less invasive of one’s privacy. More willing to accept the
existence of gay relationships, if not incestuous ones.
“What brings you to Torquay?”
This was getting unacceptably chatty.
“A funeral.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened and Mycroft saw him press his lips together to contain
a smile.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, dear. Well, we’ve all got to die sometime.”
Mycroft just glared at her, and she shut up. She wrote down his information and
gave them the key to the room.
“Up the stairs, second door on the left. It’s got a lovely view of the water.”
He gave her a tight smile, and they carried their small bags upstairs.
Sherlock smirked. “A funeral? Really? She’s going to expect us to leave here in
black suits, not bathing suits.”
“I wouldn’t be caught dead in a bathing suit, possibly not even at the beach.”
He gave Sherlock a conspiratorial look. “You have to admit though, it shut her
right up.”
Sherlock nodded and eyed the beds suspiciously. “Help me shove these beds
together. There’s no way we’ll both fit on one of these, and damned if I’m
sleeping alone.”
That made two of them. Mycroft placed his bag on the floor and helped Sherlock
turn the ancient single beds into one larger one - even if it was one with a
dodgy bit in the middle. Perhaps they could move the pillows and sleep on an
angle.
===============================================================================
Dinner was acceptable. Not up to London standards, by any stretch, but tasty
enough. French cuisine on the ‘English Riviera’ had a certain delicious irony
to it. Sherlock jokingly suggested that perhaps on their next holiday they
could try English cuisine on the French Riviera. They spent an entertaining ten
minutes pondering exactly what food an ‘English restaurant’ would serve, and
decided there was a reason they’d never seen one anywhere.
Back at the hotel, Sherlock knocked quietly on the wall between the rooms.
“Plaster. Not soundproof, but it could be worse. The rooms at school were
awful.”
Mycroft found himself oddly jealous and looked away.
“It’s not the same,” Sherlock cut in. “They didn’t mean anything to me. I was
bored and they were a form of entertainment. You’re different.”
Mycroft smiled at the sentiment. It was silly to be jealous. Besides, he’d told
Sherlock to go off and have a normal life. “While you were there, did you ever
do anything…” he wasn’t sure how to put it.
“Kinky?”
“Well, ‘submissive’ was the word I was searching for, but that works too.”
“No. They all suffered from a terrible lack of imagination, and I certainly
wasn’t about to trust them. I never forgot what you told me about pain, and I
decided submission fell into the same category.”
Sherlock already had his shirt off and was working on his trousers.
“Perhaps you should draw the curtains.”
“There’s no one to see. Besides, it would be educational; the people around
here need their horizons broadened. Who knows? I might enjoy that sort of
thing.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes in mock despair. Apparently Sherlock had a bit of an
exhibitionist streak. “You’re full of surprises. Is there anything you don’t
enjoy?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have to find out.”
Mycroft wondered what he’d done to get this lucky.
“I intend to. Get on your knees.”
Sherlock’s incandescent grin gave him all the consent he needed. They’d got the
necessary safety discussions out of the way early on, and it was getting to the
point where Mycroft could read him like a book anyway. If Sherlock had a
problem, he’d speak up. His little brother had never been reticent about
anything.
Sherlock dropped to his knees on the clean but thinning carpet. “Did you want
my mouth, or did you have something else in mind?” He lowered his chest to the
floor and wiggled his surprisingly lush arse in the air.
“God, you really are a tart, aren’t you?” Mycroft said fondly.
“Oh, come on. You know you love it.”
He did. Every second of it. He’d gone from a disastrous, sexually-dismal
relationship, to what could only be described as utter bliss with the one
person he loved - all in the past week. The speed and the thrill of it had been
dizzying.
Sherlock’s sexual appetite had come as a bit of a surprise to them both. Having
Mycroft as a partner had rekindled his enthusiasm for sex, and his unexpected
interest in submission had opened doors neither of them had expected. Their
mutual lack of experience in that area merely called for more experimentation.
Neither of them was complaining.
Mycroft gazed at Sherlock’s upturned arse, and his mouth watered as he
considered the tight, silky heat of it around his cock, but he restrained
himself. “Not tonight; I don’t think you can be quiet enough. I think you need
your mouth full.”
Sherlock looked up at him coyly. “You could always gag me.”
Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up. “I had no idea you were into that.” It sounded like
a marvellous idea.
“Neither did I, but it hasn’t stopped us before. Besides, I think I might be.
Come on, you know you want to fuck me.”
He gulped. Sherlock might be the death of him, but what a way to go. He looked
at the clothes strewn in a heap on the floor: not many options unless he wanted
to ruin one of his brother’s shirts. Unless…
“Get on the bed. Same position.”
He clambered onto it in a hurry, and Mycroft admired the sight of his toned
body as he picked up Sherlock’s pants with a smile. Cotton boxers. Not ideal,
but certainly adequate, and with an added hint of humiliation: the long, hot
train trip down to Devon had left them with the mild tang of sweat. He wondered
how his brother would feel about that. He strongly suspected he knew the
answer.
He grabbed Sherlock’s hair and pulled his head back. Sherlock moaned with
obvious enthusiasm.
“You sure about this?”
Sherlock nodded.
“The normal non-verbal safeword - grunt three times.”
“Yes, yes. I don’t know what you’re waiting for.”
Mycroft pulled his head back further, opening his mouth wider.
“Then be a good little slut and let me shove this in that greedy mouth of
yours.”
Obscene language didn’t come naturally to Mycroft. He’d spent far too much of
his life being genteel, never uttering the word ‘cock’ in polite company, let
alone ‘slut’. When Sherlock had begged his brother to use it - and filthy
language in general - he’d almost called safeword himself, but when he saw the
effect it had on Sherlock, who writhed beneath him in obvious pleasure at the
epithet, he started to think that perhaps he could make an exception.
He pushed the material into Sherlock’s mouth with his long fingers. Not too
much of it - he suspected Sherlock could probably be quiet enough - this was
more about exploring a new potential kink, and about the control and
humiliation Sherlock already enjoyed.
The scene before him was absurd, though. It was as if Sherlock - naked and
presenting his arse - had been caught in the act of consuming his own pants.
Mycroft couldn’t help but laugh, just a little.
Sherlock frowned at him.
“Sorry. It just looks like you didn’t have enough for dinner. If you enjoy
this, I’ll buy you a proper gag when we get back. I doubt they have that sort
of a shop down here.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and said something muffled that sounded like ‘Just
fuck me already.’”
Mycroft grasped his hair again and pulled it back with a quick tug. He pushed
more of the material into his mouth. “I don’t think you understand. I’ll fuck
you when I’m good and ready. You don’t get a say in it.”
He grabbed some lube from their toiletry bag, along with a condom.
Sherlock shot him an incredulous look. Once they’d established they were both
clean, they’d stopped using condoms.
“I’m not explaining semen stains on the sheets. We’re already pushing credulity
with the funeral story; I think that would put the nail in the proverbial
coffin.”
Mycroft took his time removing his clothes and placed them, neatly folded, on
his bag. He made sure to take longer than was necessary. The wait would
intensify the need for them both - not that it needed intensifying, but
Sherlock had to learn some discipline.
Once naked, he rolled on the condom and lubed up two fingers. The first time
he’d taken Sherlock’s arse, they’d gone achingly slowly to make sure he didn’t
get hurt, but now that they were having sex so frequently, his brother rarely
needed more than a healthy amount of lube for preparation.
As expected, his fingers slid right in. He added a third, eliciting a muffled
groan of approval from Sherlock.
“Your arse is even more eager than usual. Perhaps it was worth almost missing
our train this morning.” He’d woken up to Sherlock’s lips around his cock,
teasing it to hardness. When his brother had begged to be fucked - well - who
was Mycroft to refuse him? They’d lost track of time and torn through
Paddington station, collapsing into their seats barely a minute before the
train doors closed.
He pulled his fingers out and slicked up his erection.
“Beg for it, slut.” Saying it still jarred his sensibilities, but Sherlock
rolled his hips in invitation and gave a muffled, desperate plea through the
material. Mycroft spread his cheeks and rubbed one finger slowly around the
edge of Sherlock’s hole before lining up his cock.
Sherlock thrust his hips back, trying to impale himself.
Mycroft pulled back - just enough to prevent it. “I don’t think so. If you
don’t behave, I’ll use your mouth instead.” Sherlock enjoyed giving head, but
not nearly as much as getting fucked. He stopped pushing back.
“There, that’s better.” He lined himself up again, pushing the head of his cock
just inside Sherlock’s passage. It felt exquisite, but he resisted the urge to
push in any further. He wanted to make his brother earn it.
Sherlock stayed stock still for the fifteen seconds Mycroft counted off in his
head, but towards the end he heard a keening moan through the makeshift gag.
Mycroft took pity on him - and gave in to his own urges - and claimed the rest
of him in one solid stroke, burying himself to the hilt.
Sherlock threw his head back and ground his arse against Mycroft’s hips,
desperate for even more penetration.
Mycroft realised, too late, that he’d forgotten to use a condom on Sherlock. He
considered stopping to get one, but Sherlock was writhing against him, impaled,
and - well - if Sherlock was into this humiliation thing, he would certainly
indulge it.
“Don’t you dare come on the sheets,” he hissed. “If you do, you’ll be licking
it up.”
He pulled almost all the way out and drove back in, hard.
The ecstatic sounds that came from behind the gag made him infinitely grateful
they hadn’t tried this without one.
He let Sherlock set the pace, simply because it was fascinating to see what his
brother enjoyed. He seemed insatiably submissive and fond of rough sex. Mycroft
worried it would be too much, but it never seemed to be. He should have
expected it, really, from the way Sherlock revelled in the intensity of being
cropped. He craved sensation in all its forms.
No surprise then, when Sherlock responded to his hard, deep thrusts by pushing
himself up onto his forearms to get more leverage. Sherlock’s desires were
clear, and Mycroft held nothing back - he had to wipe his lube-slick hand on
Sherlock’s back in order to get a better grip on his hip. The heat and friction
felt exquisite, and each time he bottomed out, Sherlock’s arse pressed
deliciously against his balls and thighs. He paused just long enough to wrap
one arm around his brother’s chest, then pulled him up so Sherlock was in his
lap. He held him close as he thrust up into him.
Sherlock reached behind him and pressed his palm against Mycroft’s lower back,
closing the circuit of contact between them.
Mycroft had planned to make Sherlock wait for his orgasm - an act of dominance
Sherlock would doubtless enjoy - but this position, with their bodies so close
he could smell his shampoo, filled him with such tenderness that he couldn’t be
in that role. Not right now. He wrapped his other hand around his brother’s
cock and stroked him, each shove of his hips magnifying the action.
He was already close, and it wasn’t long before he came, muttering some
euphoric derivation of Sherlock’s name into his neck. He held him there,
tightly and breathlessly for long seconds, before he started kissing the sweat
away from his shoulder as he stroked him to completion. Sherlock arched his
back and groaned as he came into Mycroft’s fist. Once the orgasm subsided, he
relaxed against his brother, letting him bear his weight as he rested his head
on Mycroft’s shoulder.
Mycroft pulled the ridiculous makeshift gag from his brother’s mouth.
“You’re not going to make me lick it up, then?” Sherlock asked, with a trace of
amusement in his voice.
Mycroft held his hand up to Sherlock’s face. “Why, do you want to?”
His tongue darted out for a quick taste. “Hm. Not bad. A bit salty - I could
probably do with more vegetables in my diet.”
“You could always do with more vegetables in your diet. I don’t think what you
eat even counts as food.” He grasped the base of his cock and pulled out
carefully, then got off the bed. He wrapped the used condom in several tissues
before binning it, and grinned. “If they find this, it’s their own damned
fault.” He handed Sherlock some tissues. “I’m getting a shower. Do you want
one? I’ll try not to use too much hot water - I don’t know how long it’ll last
in a place like this.”
“I’ll share with you. We can swap places while we rinse.”
Mycroft turned on the shower, desperately trying to find the spot on the dial
that was neither freezing nor scalding. Locating it was not unlike brokering
world peace. “If I ever own a hotel, it’ll have endless supplies of hot water
and decent-sized showers. And separate baths.”
“And huge beds,” Sherlock added.
“Four-poster beds so you can tie up your lover,” Mycroft said, pulling Sherlock
in for a kiss. “And no one will ask why you’re there, or who you’re with, or
check the sheets for semen stains.”
“And soundproof walls.”
“Mm. That too,” Mycroft replied idly, as he soaped up his body. “You could
probably put that on the brochure: satellite television and soundproof walls.”
***** Shopping Trip *****
Chapter Summary
     Mycroft and Sherlock go on a shopping trip. Sherlock buys some new
     toys.
Mycroft paused for a second before he opened the door to the sex shop: the same
one he’d once visited with Jonathan.
Sherlock completely misinterpreted the action. “Don’t worry, nobody from work
will recognise you.”
Mycroft shook off his sense of dread and walked in. It had been years. He was
with Sherlock now, and Sherlock would never reject him for being ‘sick’.
Sherlock’s everyday demeanour was one of feigned boredom, but he acted like a
child on Christmas morning when he saw all the toys. He surveyed the room,
taking in the colourful selection with gleeful abandon. When he saw the dildos
and plugs, his jaw dropped. “Oh.” He turned to Mycroft. “I had no idea there
were so many variations.”
Mycroft grinned. He’d seen them before, but apparently Sherlock hadn’t. It was
nice to be the more experienced one for a change.
“God. There’s so many of them. How would you even choose?”
“Personal preference, I would imagine. We could always get a few and see what
you like.” He raised an eyebrow salaciously. “We already have a rough idea of
what you can take.”
Sherlock pulled down a package containing a plug quite a bit wider than
Mycroft.
“Well, you’ve always been ambitious.”
“You say that like you think I can’t take it.”
“On the contrary…” Mycroft walked to the section with vibrating toys. “Here.
You should try one of these, too.”
They made their way around the shop, and Sherlock filled the basket with toys.
Four dildos, one of which was obscenely proportioned. (“It’s good to have
goals,” Sherlock said. Mycroft had agreed.) A set of anal beads. Three plugs.
(Once again, Mycroft thought the largest represented a little too much
optimism, but knowing Sherlock, anything was possible.) Two gags - one pear-
shaped and another that appeared to be some sort of horse bit adapted for human
use. A vibrating prostate massager. A non-vibrating prostate massager. (Thank
goodness for product labelling.) Mycroft wondered if they could get a bulk
discount and buy the toys per gram of silicone. Money wasn’t an issue, but the
last time he’d made a purchase this large it had involved bedroom furniture.
Sherlock walked over to the section with the bondage equipment and pain toys.
“These are nice,” he said, holding up a pair of sturdy leather cuffs. He ran
his tongue across his lips and added, “I wouldn’t be able to move with these
on.”
Until this point, Mycroft had been an amused, somewhat detached observer, but
Sherlock’s words sent a rush of arousal through him. “No,” he said, surprised
at how difficult it was to get his words out. “No, you wouldn’t.” He swallowed
and then selected a complete set of sturdy leather restraints - ankle, wrist,
and thigh cuffs, and a collar.
Sherlock glanced at Mycroft’s crotch and then back at his face with obvious
amusement. “I thought you might like those.”
“Brat. But you’re not wrong.”
Mycroft was imagining how his brother would look with his hands cuffed behind
his back when Sherlock took a ventilated paddle from the wall display.
A sense of horror shot through him and he fought the urge to flee.
“No.”
Sherlock turned around with a confused look.
“Why not?”
“Just… no,” Mycroft managed to say. He’d gone from arousal to panic in a matter
of seconds. “I can’t.”
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, hurrying to put it back on the wall. “What’s wrong?
I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It’s not you. Look, I’d rather not talk about it at the moment. Later.” He
took a deep breath and regained some of his composure. “You can buy everything
in the shop if you want, but not that.”
“All right. I’m sorry; I had no idea.”
Mycroft gave him a weak smile. “I know. Thank you.”
Sherlock seemed too disconcerted to do too much shopping after that, and after
a discussion with the owner about the proper choice of lube, they walked out of
the shop with two large bags full of sex toys.
Sherlock was quiet in the taxi back to the flat, and Mycroft finally broke the
silence. “I apologise; I reacted badly.”
“Don’t apologise. Jonathan?” The question didn’t really need to be asked.
Mycroft looked away and nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
“I thought I was over it by now.”
Sherlock reached over and took his hand. “It was last week. These things take
time.”
“It was over a year ago.”
He watched the realisation cross Sherlock’s face. “Oh.” The taxi echoed with
the sounds of the traffic as they both sat there in silence. Sherlock finally
spoke again. “Do you want to… talk about it?”
“No… I don’t know. Perhaps someday.”
Mycroft tried, but he couldn’t force the return of his earlier good mood, and
Sherlock seemed at a loss for topics of conversation. It was awkward, and he
cursed himself for ruining things. When they got back to the flat, Sherlock put
the sex toys in the bedroom, out of sight and out of mind for the time being.
After dinner, he tried to read, but he couldn’t focus on his book. His mind
kept wandering to his first disastrous experience with the paddle. When he
broke the silence, the words fell out of his mouth in a rush. He didn’t look at
Sherlock - he just stared at his book as he spoke, its text a blur on the page.
“I don’t know why I thought I could trust Jonathan with my pain; it seems
ludicrous now. You even tried to warn me about him at Christmas, but I
overlooked so many things that should have sent me running. Our sex life was a
mess. I thought if he understood what pain meant to me, perhaps we could
salvage things; I’d been denying that part of myself for so long. The man at
the shop tried to dissuade us from getting the paddle with the holes. It left
blisters; I could barely sit for three days.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Jonathan told me I was ‘sick’. A ‘fucking pervert’. I should have left him,
but I desperately wanted things to work. I threw the paddle away and we never
talked about it again. I kept the crop… I don’t know why. I suppose because I
didn’t know if you still had the other one. I never used it with him. It was
something positive - a reminder that at least you understood me.” He took a
deep breath, relieved to have it out in the open. He’d never told anyone.
Sherlock came over and stood in front of him. “You’re not sick, you know.”
“I know.”
His brother bent down and gave him a gentle kiss before he walked towards the
kitchen. Then he looked over his shoulder with a grin and said, “But I’m a much
bigger pervert than you; you’ll have to work to keep up with me.”
 
***** Branching Out *****
Chapter Summary
     Mycroft and Sherlock experiment with some of their new toys.
The toys sat untouched for three days, perhaps out of some respectful period of
mourning. But that night, when Mycroft got home from work, he could tell
something was up. Sherlock moved around the flat with a high-energy thrum and a
self-satisfied grin on his face.
“Evening, My. How was your day?”
“Fine; nothing unusual. What’s… going on?” he asked, nervously glancing around
the flat. He expected to see some tell-tale sign justifying Sherlock’s mood:
new lab equipment; test samples; new corrosive acid stains in the sink,
perhaps.
“Nothing. I just had a good day.”
“Good enough to include making me a cup of tea?”
“Of course,” Sherlock replied, and practically floated by him into the kitchen.
“I know you did something; you’re never normally this… cheery.” Mycroft peered
at him with a suspicious frown.
Sherlock turned on the kettle and walked up behind him, wrapped his arms around
his waist, and kissed his neck.
“I got a little housework done.”
Mycroft glanced around. “Really? I’d never have guessed.” His area was
pristine, as usual, but Sherlock’s stacks of books and notes were undisturbed.
“Perhaps we have different definitions of housework.”
“Mm. Perhaps.” Sherlock took his hand and dragged him towards the bedroom. “I
installed some fixtures.”
As he entered the bedroom, Mycroft saw all the toys set out in neat lines on
their dressing table. On some unbidden, panicked impulse, he scanned them.
There were a few snap hooks and a small padlock he didn’t remember purchasing,
but no paddle. He took a breath.
You’re overreacting.
Sherlock squinted slightly, assessing the flicker of emotion he’d seen cross
Mycroft’s face, but said nothing.
“I made a few adjustments to the bed. Nothing visible, but we can use ropes to
secure the cuffs…” He bent down, showing Mycroft where he’d installed an eye
bolt to the inside of each of the wooden legs.
Mycroft grabbed one and tugged, and found it to be completely unyielding.
“Very nice.”
“If it’s too soon…”
Their previous two nights of sex had been distinctly vanilla, although not in a
bad way. Sherlock seemed unnerved by the incident with Jonathan, and they’d
both tacitly avoided any mention of it. He didn’t want to tell him about his
gut reaction to the toys a few moments earlier.
“Thank you for asking. I believe I’ve put it behind me, as long as I avoid
certain triggers.” It wasn’t an outright lie; he’d just have to desensitise
himself to those triggers. Positive reinforcement was a good place to start.
He still craved the pain; the sensation; the heady euphoria of a good
thrashing, but it seemed so dangerous. He cursed his emotional fragility: he’d
panicked at a row of toys, for Christ’s sake. He shuddered to think how he
might react to an actual beating. He needed to get his pathetic emotions under
control before he could even consider involving Sherlock in his desire for
pain. He shook off his thoughts and brought his focus back to his brother, who
was rummaging around in his sock drawer. Watching him, the panic drained away,
replaced by affection and slight amusement that Sherlock now saw DIY shops as
potential sources of bondage equipment.
“I bought rope, as well,” he said, holding four coils of soft nylon rope like
some sort of adventurer. “I don’t know if you’ll want to use them all together;
it might limit our options.”
“Really? Perhaps you haven’t been thinking about it hard enough. Tomorrow, I
want you to come up with at least one position that immobilises you and doesn’t
involve just stretching you between the corners of the bed. I’m sure you’re up
to the task.”
“Are you saying you don’t want to see me stretched out like that?” Sherlock
asked coyly.
The room suddenly felt too warm. “I don’t believe I did.” He picked up the
black leather collar from the line of toys and held it up. “Did you have any
plans for the evening?”
“Only whatever you have in mind.”
“Well, you’ve had a good look at all your new toys. Now I want a good look at
mine.”
It was all the provocation Sherlock needed; he tossed his shirt into a heap on
the floor and his trousers were about to follow.
“Which of the toys did you use today?” It was only a theory: they all looked
unused, but it seemed unlikely Sherlock had shown that much restraint.
“You didn’t say I couldn’t,” Sherlock said, a bit too quickly and peevishly.
He ran his hand across the array of silicone toys. “I didn’t say you could,
either.” He picked up a medium-sized plug that felt particularly well-cleaned.
A flick of Sherlock’s eyebrows verified his hunch. “Tell me how you used it.”
“I would have thought that was obvious.”
“No, what did you do?”
“I inserted it and left it in place while I masturbated.”
“Hm, did you, now? And what was the result?”
“Positive.”
“Meaning?”
“I came in no time.”
“I can imagine. I’ll have to keep that in mind.” He rubbed the soft leather of
the collar between his fingers and inhaled the rich scent. It always took him
back to the stables at the manor and the positive memories they held. “Is this
what you bought the padlock for?”
Sherlock dropped his eyes in mild embarrassment. “I liked the idea of you
keeping the key,” he mumbled. “Of having to wear it whenever you wanted me to.”
Oh.Mycroft took a deep breath. Heliked the idea, too. It was overtly
submissive; more than he would have expected from Sherlock.
He’d bought the collar on a whim - it had seemed like a natural addition to the
cuffs, but now this strip of black leather took on a whole new significance:
Sherlock wanted himto dictate when and how long it would be worn. This wasn’t
just a sex toy anymore; Sherlock had offered it as proof of his desire to
submit. The thought sent a rush of heat through him. He picked up the small
padlock and held it next to the collar, a few inches from Sherlock’s face.
“Are you sure? Because once I put this on your lovely neck, I might never want
to take it off. Then you’ll have to wear a scarf when you go out, or people
will know that someone ownsyou.”
Sherlock’s breathing quickened. “Yes, I’m sure.”
Mycroft beamed. Sherlock lifted his chin to give Mycroft better access to his
neck - a ridiculous notion really, with a neck like his, but an endearing
gesture. He smoothed the collar into place and buckled it shut.
Holding up the padlock, he said, “Remember: the key belongs to me. If you
remove the collar without asking, or pick the lock, you lose the right to wear
it. Understood?” He had no intention of humiliating Sherlock by making him wear
it in public - or even on a regular basis - not unless he wanted that. Then he
remembered Sherlock at the window of the B&B and smiled, realising his
brother’s exhibitionist tendencies might make public wear a distinct
possibility.
Sherlock nodded. “I wouldn’t have bought it if I didn’t want you to dictate
when I wore it.”
Bloody hell.
He bit his lower lip in an effort to retain his composure, then slid the pin of
the padlock through the purpose-built holes in the buckle and locked it; there
was an audible click. He placed the tiny key in his waistcoat pocket and made a
mental note to find a more permanent home for it. Sherlock ran his fingers
between his neck and the collar, testing its sturdiness and fit, and then
beamed. “All yours.”
God.“All mine.” He glanced down at his collared, naked, very aroused brother.
It was all he could do not to push him onto the bed and fuck him through the
mattress.
Instead, he nodded towards the heap of clothes. “You’re not going to leave
those on the floor, are you?”
Sherlock stood there defiantly and smiled.
Mycroft hooked his finger through the ring on the collar and pulled him close.
In a low, purring voice, he said, “You know, if you want to be punished, I
suggest you ask nicely, because if I have to make you behave, you aren’t nearly
as likely to enjoy it.”
“I doubt that.”
“Well, we’ll soon find out, won’t we?” He tugged down sharply on the collar.
“On your knees, and stay there.”
Sherlock did as he was told this time, already looking like he was enjoying the
‘punishment’ far too much.
Mycroft picked up some toys and dropped them on the bed, then he attached cuffs
to Sherlock’s wrists and ankles. He clipped his feet together, but before
fastening his wrists to each other, he paused.
“On your hands and knees.”
Sherlock complied, but looked back to watch as Mycroft slicked an oddly-shaped
prostate massager with lube. It didn’t vibrate, but the attendant at the shop
had assured them that it was a wonderful addition to ‘manual stimulation’.
Mycroft wondered how much of a distraction it would provide.
Holding it by the s-shaped base, he slid the slim toy into Sherlock’s arse. It
didn’t penetrate far: just as much as it needed to do its job. One nub of the
base rested against his perineum; the other sat between his cheeks. It didn’t
seem to make an immediate difference to Sherlock’s level of arousal, but it was
difficult to tell: he was already hard.
“I don’t know what you think that’s going to do by itself,” Sherlock started to
say, but Mycroft cut him off.
“I don’t think I asked for a running commentary.” He snatched the pear-shaped
silicone gag from the bed and pushed it into his brother’s mouth, garnering a
surprised ‘mphf’ in response. Sherlock’s lips sealed around it in an obscene
‘o’ shape, and he secured the strap tightly around his head. “Can you breathe
properly?”
Sherlock nodded, wide-eyed.
“Good. Back on your knees.”
Once he was upright and kneeling again, Mycroft clipped his wrists together
behind his back. Sherlock shifted against the intrusion in his arse, subtly
testing different positions.
“Do squirm all you want. Please.”
Sherlock frowned.
“No, really. I want you to. I’d like to see if the device works; I plan on
trying it myself at some point, but you’ll make a good test subject.”
It didn’t take him long to find the right position. His eyes went wide and he
gave a muffled cry through the gag.
“Ah, there we go; I wondered how long it would take you. I’ll just observe for
a while.” He tried to ignore his own erection as Sherlock squirmed on the
massager - unable to touch his cock.
Mycroft stood back and took in the view: his bound, gagged brother, kneeling
before him with a straining erection, unable to do anything about his sexual
frustration except make it more intense.
What a pretty sight.
He pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and noted the time, deliberately
not commenting on how long he’d leave Sherlock there.
“You should see yourself, all trussed up like this. I must say, I do like these
cuffs.” He bent down to run his fingers along the edge of the leather and then
tugged on them to remind Sherlock of their effectiveness. The action nearly
threw his brother off-balance, but he managed to catch himself. “I’m thrilled
by your initiative with the padlock, and the eye-bolts are very creative. I’m
not sure we’ll be needing them tonight; I don’t think you plan on going
anywhere, do you?”
Sherlock shook his head.
“I didn’t think so.”
His brother continued to shift his hips, and every now and then Mycroft saw him
shudder with pleasure. It wasn’t constant; it was just enough to keep him
wanting more. Working for more.
Perfect.
Mycroft mentally noted that he was still completely dressed in one of his
nicest suits, and Sherlock was naked, except for a few straps of leather. The
disparity pleased him.
He heard the clink of metal as Sherlock unconsciously tried to move his hand to
his erection. He gave a muffled groan and glanced pleadingly at his cock.
“Oh, did you want me to do something about that?”
Sherlock looked hopeful.
“Sorry; I did tell you that you’d regret it if you didn’t behave.” He sat down
in the chair opposite his brother and smiled. “Perhaps if you try hard enough
with that toy, you’ll be able to orgasm without my assistance. It’s certainly
an interesting experiment.”
Sherlock’s expression made Mycroft think he wasn’t particularly keen on it.
“Why would I take you in hand when I can watch you helpless like this? Your
desperation is beautiful. I should deny you the use of your hands more often;
you wrap them around your cock almost the moment it gets hard. It’s much more
fun to make you wait. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this hard. Practically
bursting.” He drew out the last word and smiled as he ran his tongue across his
upper lip.
Sherlock moaned through the gag.
“I’m sure just a few strokes would do it, wouldn’t they? I wonder how much
longer it’ll take using only that toy?”
Mycroft let one hand drift from the arm of his chair to the bulge currently
deforming the excellent cut of his trousers.
“You’re quite a sight, you know.” He dragged his hand gently across his groin
and let out a slow sigh at the pleasure he’d been denying himself. “All tied up
like this, just waiting for me to take you.” He applied slightly more pressure
with his palm this time, and it felt like heaven. “That’s what you want, isn’t
it?”
Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes as he took a deep breath through his nose.
“Finding it difficult to concentrate?” Mycroft’s voice was low and soothing,
and the noise of his hand brushing against the fine wool of his trousers
whispered just above it. “I know watching you is certainly driving me to
distraction.” He traced the outline of his erection with one finger, purely for
Sherlock’s benefit. He was desperately aroused, but now he wanted to see how
far he could push his little brother. Could he bring him to orgasm like this?
“It’s such a shame you’re over there, isn’t it?” He slowly unbuttoned his
trousers and lowered his zip. “If you were here, you’d be able to help me with
this.” He ran his hand against the silk of his boxers, relishing the softness
of it against his penis. It felt so much better without his trousers muffling
the sensation. “You’d be able to undress me.”
Sherlock’s gaze wasn’t even pointed at his face anymore; all his attention was
focused on Mycroft’s lap, and he seemed to be leaning forward in an effort to
get closer.
Mycroft lowered his pants, pushing them - along with his trousers - snugly
beneath his balls. His cock pressed aggressively against his shirt, and he
sighed. “Without your pretty mouth wrapped around me, I’m going to ruin this
shirt. The sight of you all tied up like that makes me positively leak.”
Sherlock made a sound that wouldn’t have been dignified even if he hadn’t been
gagged.
He unbuttoned his waistcoat with painstaking slowness and placed it on the
floor, then he undid the bottom buttons of his shirt so he could push it out of
the way. Satisfied that his boxers would be the only casualty - as long as he
was careful not to lose control - he returned to the task at hand: undoing his
brother.
“How does that gag feel, hm? Is it anything like having me in your mouth?
Nothing like the taste of salt and warm skin, I suppose. I do love the moment
when I push the head of it between your lips. You’re always so welcoming. So
wet. So very eager. But I suppose since you’re unable to assist me, I’ll have
to manage by myself.”
He favoured Sherlock with a slow, teasing smile before he took himself loosely
in hand and ran small circles around the glans with his thumb. He closed his
eyes and sighed. It was nowhere near as good as Sherlock’s mouth, but he felt
the rush of it all the same. Then he paused. There was a small pearl of pre-
ejaculate gathering at the slit, and he ran his finger through it. He brought
it to his mouth and flicked out his tongue for a taste.
“Hm. Quite pleasant. Would you prefer this to the taste of silicone?”
An aggressive nod.
Mycroft just smiled again.
Sherlock wasn’t even trying to hide his repetitive movements as the massager
rubbed his prostate in precisely the right way. Mycroft prayed his brother
could come like this, without a hand on his cock. For all his calm exterior, he
wanted nothing more than to tear the gag from Sherlock’s mouth and fuck his
willing throat raw, but a few remaining shreds of self-control prevented him.
He considered a few indulgent strokes from his fist, but he’d orgasm almost
immediately. He was determined to make Sherlock come first. Somehow. Perhaps…
He stood, carefully holding his erection away from his clothes, and crossed the
room. He stopped two feet in front of Sherlock, who gazed up at him through his
dark eyelashes. Fucking gorgeous.
Sherlock lifted himself up into a taller kneeling position, trying to get
closer, but Mycroft stepped back, just out of reach. His brother dropped back
down, knowing better now than to overbalance.
“Do you like kneeling at my feet like this, unable to move?”
He nodded, and the look in his eyes was sheer need.
“Imagine the things I’ll be able to do, now that I can restrain you. Nothing
you don’t want, of course, but it gives us… possibilities. I’ll tie you on your
back with your thighs pulled towards your chest. You’ll be all spread open for
me, and I’ll work on you for hours; massage your pretty little hole open with
my tongue as a reward for good behaviour.”
A needy sound escaped Sherlock’s lips: a soundtrack for Mycroft’s running
commentary.
“Mm. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? It wouldn’t take long before your arse
would be so relaxed and open for me. Positively gaping.” He moved back towards
Sherlock, bringing his cock almost - but not quite - within reach of his gagged
mouth. “Just dying to be stretched open with whatever I choose.”
Sherlock leaned forward again, desperate to get close enough.
“What is it you want? Are you going to rub your face against my cock until I
come?” He was certainly aroused enough for that to be possible - even the touch
of Sherlock’s skin would send him over the edge at this point. But what could
he do to make his brother come?
Sherlock was as close to orgasm as he was, and it wouldn’t take much. Oh.His
brother had provided him with the answer when they’d first become intimate.
“Are you sure you want that?” He reached out and ran his fingers lovingly down
Sherlock’s cheek before letting his voice turn low and harsh. “I don’t need
your mouth; I’ll rut against your cheekbones until I cover your face with my
come, then I’ll take your gag out and have you clean me with your tongue, like
a common little slut.”
Sherlock threw his head back and shuddered as the orgasm overpowered him.
Never underestimate the power of language, Mycroft thought, with a shred of
amusement. He watched, fascinated. Usually he was too involved in the
proceedings to observelike this. Semen pulsed in thick streams from his
brother’s cock, some splattering his stomach and the rest running thickly down
its length. Sherlock gasped for air through his nose, and Mycroft quickly
removed the gag, suddenly thankful for the velcro closure he’d earlier scorned
as poor manufacturing. Sherlock took a few deep breaths, and then he started to
laugh; it was possibly one of the most joyous sounds Mycroft had ever heard his
brother make.
He quickly unhooked his wrists and ankles, leaving the cuffs in place; they
could remove them later. Sherlock gave him a look of sheer wonder as Mycroft
helped him to his feet.
“You realise this is unprecedented?” he said, still laughing intermittently. “I
used to try this when I was in school. I was convinced it would be more
efficient if I could just think my way to orgasm.”
“It wasn’t completelyunaided,” Mycroft said, with a glance towards his arse.
“True. Ow, my knees.” He rubbed on them, absently.
“I thought you liked being on your knees,” Mycroft said, in a voice that
dripped with sex. Sherlock might be sated, but he certainly wasn’t, and he
wasn’t above reminding him.
“Oh…” Sherlock replied as his breath caught in his throat. “I like being
wherever you want me to be.”
“And so you should.”
Mycroft had planned to fuck Sherlock’s mouth until he came, but suddenly he had
a better idea.
“I want you braced against the wall with your arse ready for my crop.”
“Yes, sir.” He said it with respect and no trace of irony. The title aroused
Mycroft even further.
He grabbed the crop from the wardrobe and savoured the sight of his brother:
his arms braced against the wall, cuffs encircling his wrists, still slightly
hard, with semen spattered across his stomach and clinging to his cock. Filthy.
Delicious.
And his for the taking.
“I trust you can manage without the gag?”
He nodded.
Mycroft swung the crop and made contact with his left cheek. Sherlock grunted
and stuck his arse out further in invitation.
“God, you love this as much as I do, don’t you?” Mycroft said, not sure if he
meant giving or receiving. Both, perhaps.
“Yes, sir.”
He struck him three more times, with just enough force that he could watch the
red marks blossom on his brother’s pale skin. It was all he needed. With a
sigh, he placed one hand on top of Sherlock’s and finished himself off with the
other, coming all over his brother’s freshly marked skin. He rode it out and
then pulled Sherlock into an embrace, not caring that he’d ruin his shirt. “My
God, you’re amazing. Are you all right?” he asked, placing small kisses along
his shoulder and enjoying the taste of his skin.
“Mm. Wonderful. Much more of that, and I’d be ready for another go.”
Mycroft bit him lightly. “Tease.”
“Mm,” he said, sounding drunk on endorphins. “You know, we should have got that
flogger we saw at the shop.”
“I don’t know how to use one.”
“Well, I’m sure we can find someone qualified to teach you.”
***** Lessons *****
Chapter Summary
     Mycroft and Sherlock seek out some professional instruction for their
     new toys.
The search for an instructor didn’t take long. All it took was a return visit
to the sex shop and a few discreet questions. While Sherlock filled yet another
basket with even more toys, Mycroft spoke with the proprietor.
“I wonder if you could help me with a recommendation for some professional
services.”
The man squinted and looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Not sure… what sort of
services, exactly?”
They were probably thinking about different types of services, Mycroft
realised. How embarrassing.
“Purely educational. I’d like to get some instruction in the use of…” he
glanced at Sherlock’s overflowing basket, “well, apparently most of the pain
toys in your shop.”
“Oh… yes, that I can help with,” he said with relief. “We get other enquiries,
you see…”
Mycroft smirked. “I can imagine.”
“This bloke is strictly professional, mind. He won’t stand for any nonsense.”
“Exactly what I’m looking for.”
“Okay. Let me get you his number.”
He returned with a handwritten phone number and the name ‘David’. “He’s very
good, and you can trust him. Tell him I gave you his name, though; he’s a bit
suspicious of random enquiries.”
When they left the shop with the toys—this time of the pain-inflicting
variety—Sherlock smirked. “So, you got the contact then?”
“Mm.”
“It’s all very secretive, isn’t it?” he said in an overly conspiratorial voice.
“You’d think we were buying cocaine or something.”
Mycroft glanced around to make sure no one had heard him, and then he sighed.
“Pleasetell me you’re not familiar with the process.”
“Not personally.”
“Thank God for that. Come on, let’s get back and phone him, shall we?”
===============================================================================
David asked to meet in person, presumably to run some sort of gut-level check
on them before he committed to anything, which was how they found themselves
sitting on a bench in Kensington Park, discussing sex and pain in vague terms
that wouldn’t alarm the tourists.
David looked more like a young banker than a ‘Tom of Finland’ model, and he
blended in seamlessly with the lunchtime crowd. Mycroft wasn’t sure what he’d
been expecting, but this wasn’t it. His low-key appearance and personable
attitude put Mycroft at ease immediately.
“You understand that I don’t provide any… additional services?”
“Completely. Nor are we looking for any. I just need instruction with various
implements.”
Sherlock sat next to Mycroft, smirked, and stayed blessedly quiet.
“That can be arranged. Will both of you be coming?”
“Yes,” said Mycroft.
“I’ll be the lucky recipient.”
He wished Sherlock hadn’t said it like he’d just won a game show prize.
“Actually, you both will.”
Mycroft whipped around to look at David. “What?”
“You can’t teach someone properly without having them experience the effect.”
Mycroft’s world crashed to a halt and he felt like he was going to be sick,
breathing forgotten as his brain warred with itself in the space of
milliseconds.
     I can’t do this. I’m not ready to face it.
     Ha. That’s not it: you’re afraid you’ll enjoy it.
     No. I don’t want to break down in front of Sherlock. It was fine when
     I thought I’d just be using them on him. I can separate myself from
     that.
     So you’d rather ignore the problem completely and hope it goes away?
     Your need for pain hasn’t gone away, and how many years have you
     ignored that now, hm? Healthy.
     I just need more time.
     Sherlock could help you get through this. David could teach you both.
     You know Sherlock would be good at it; besides, he wants to—don’t you
     remember Edinburgh?
     Oh, God. We’re not going to discuss Edinburgh. Sherlock is my
     responsibility and I will not subject him to feelings I can’t
     control. My need for pain is irrelevant. We’re together now; that’s
     more than enough.
     So you’re going to deny Sherlock what heneeds instead, by refusing to
     learn how to do this?
     No… it’s not like that.
     It islike that.
     I’m not ready to deal with this. Not yet. I’ll just stick to the crop
     if I have to; we’ve made it work for this long.
He took a breath, and the world moved again. Sherlock and David both looked at
him with concern.
“I’m terribly sorry, David, but that won’t be possible. Is this negotiable?”
“I’m sorry, but no.”
Perhaps there were other instructors that wouldn’t require this of him.
Sherlock stood up, pasted on one of his winning smiles, and turned to David.
“We’ll need a few minutes, if you don’t mind.” Then he practically dragged
Mycroft off the bench.
David nodded. “Of course.”
Sherlock hurried Mycroft towards a tree, slightly out of earshot. He stared at
him for about half a second before declaring, “You can get past the thing with
Jonathan. I know you can.”
“It’s not just that.”
“Oh…” he said, as recognition swept across his face. “Then let yourself enjoy
it. What’s the problem?”
“That’s precisely the problem. I’m not ready to.”
Sherlock considered this for a few seconds. “Do you still want to learn how to
use the toys?”
“Of course.”
“Then focus on quantifying the experience; you’ll be in control of your mind,
even if your body betrays you. I’m sure you can manage it.”
He looked at Sherlock, doubtfully. “You’re oversimplifying things.”
Sherlock seemed to weigh his options, then he fixed him in his gaze and said,
“All right, then. Do it for me.” Half a second ticked by. “Please.”
Mycroft raised his eyebrows at the request. Sherlock knew exactly how to wear
down his resistance.
“You know I want the pain; need it, even.” Sherlock’s voice held a note of
desperation. “You enjoy giving it to me. You want to make sure you know what
you’re doing: this is how we do that. Either we do this or we don’t, but we
have to play by his rules.”
Sherlock was right. He was also a manipulative little brat, and they both knew
it. Arguing with Sherlock wasn’t like arguing with himself; he always let
Sherlock win.
“Yes, all right. For you.”
He’d get through it somehow.
===============================================================================
David took more convincing.
“That’s a pretty big change of heart. Mind explaining why you said ‘no’ a few
minutes ago?”
He sighed. David had the right to know, of course. He was glad—on one
level—that he’d asked. It spoke to his professionalism.
“There’s… a history. Things I don’t want to confront.”
David frowned. “And now you think you can manage it?”
Not really.“I believe so.”
“And you’re not doing it—” he glanced at Sherlock, “—just because he asked you
to?”
“On the contrary, that’s precisely why I’m doing it.”
The answer seemed to throw him. He gave Sherlock another suspicious look before
he turned back to Mycroft. “Fine. I’ll take your word for it that you can
handle this, but if things start going south, it’s off. Understood?”
“Perfectly.”
“I’m available in the evenings. You should allow two hours, and you should
bring your ‘tools’ with you. I don’t rush things—it might require multiple
sessions.” He handed Mycroft a card with an address and a phone number.
“Thursday night at 7, if that works for both of you.”
“That sounds perfect, thank you.”
David gave them a polite smile and left, quickly blending in with the lunchtime
crowd of tourists and workers.
Mycroft let out a sigh of relief. Perhaps he could do this, after all.
“I don’t think he likes me,” Sherlock said, vaguely coy.
“No, he just doesn’t trust you; there’s a difference. He thinks you manipulated
me into this.”
“I did.”
“I know, but I allowed it. He doesn’t understand our history. To him, you just
look like a pushy boyfriend; I shudder to think what he’d say if he knew our
true relationship.”
===============================================================================
“I don’t know how this is going to go, so you’d better take the toys you want
most. There might not be a second session,” Mycroft said, surveying the array
of implements spread out on the bed.
“Relax. You’ll be fine.”
Mycroft resisted the urge to snap at him. Last-minute nerves were taking their
toll, and he settled for a ‘look’ that suggested Sherlock back off.
I can do this.He’d been telling himself that for two days now. ‘The power of
positive thinking’ wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
David’s address took them to an unassuming house in the suburbs of London. He
answered the door dressed in a nice t-shirt and jeans—something of a relief
since Mycroft wasn’t sure if he’d be decked out in leather. Sherlock wore his
usual bit-on-the-tight-side shirt and trousers; Mycroft was similarly dressed,
but in sizes that actually fit.
“Can I get you some tea? Water?”
‘Scotch?’Mycroft thought.
“I’m fine, thank you.” Sherlock declined as well.
He led them to a living room and offered them a seat.
“All right. So. Have you ever heard of the concept of a safeword?”
“Yes,” Mycroft said. “Verbal and non-verbal; also levels: ‘red’, ‘yellow’, and
‘green’.”
“Good.” He turned to Mycroft. “Now, this ‘history’ of yours: I need you to
elaborate, or at least tell me how you plan on dealing with it during the
session.”
He’d expected this. He’d vacillated between giving a cagey response or a
brutally honest one all evening. Better a full disclosure…
“I’m a switch.” Sherlock looked surprised at his admission. “I had a bad
experience with someone else, and I’m still fighting that. I’m also worried
that I’ll enjoy this, and I can’t cope with that at the moment. I’m not here to
work through it; I’m here because this is something he wants and he’s worth
it.”
There was a brief pause before David spoke. “That’s very helpful, thanks. So,
we’ll try this and see how things go. You’ll both have safewords, and I expect
you to use them. I’ll keep our interactions as minimal as possible, Mycroft,
but you have to tell me if anything triggers you.”
He nodded.
“Any sort of prior experience?”
“I’ve used a riding crop for a while.”
“How long?”
“Um, years, I suppose.”
Raised eyebrows. “Okay, then. Any physical problems I should know about?”
“No.”
“All right. Follow me.”
He led them upstairs, into a large bedroom. Well. There was a bed in the room,
but that was where the similarities ended. The furniture: Mycroft barely knew
where to start. The sturdy wooden grid braced against the wall; a chair
sporting a large dildo; a low bench with attachment points; a padded sawhorse;
a leather sling with stirrups; a cage. He looked at Sherlock, wide-eyed, and
found him similarly enthralled.
And here we are, smug about our eye-bolts in the bed posts. Who knew?
“We’ll do most of our practice on this,” he said, pointing to the grid, “but
also on the floor and the bed, so you can get a feel for different heights and
positions. Right: ground rules. No nudity. Both of you strip down to your
pants, and put your clothes on that table. No hands on cocks—yours or his. If
you get off on this, you’ll have to deal with it outside of this house, no
matter how much your balls ache.”
Mycroft couldn’t help but grin: the rules were so similar to the ones he’d made
all those years ago. They both nodded their agreement and disrobed.
They started with the flogger. Mycroft grasped the upper rungs of the grid, and
David started with soft, slow strokes against his upper back. He gradually
increased his force, giving a running commentary about technique the entire
time. Mycroft was grateful: he absorbed David’s advice on how to hit, places to
avoid, length of time to spend on an area… so many different details to take
his mind off the slowly increasing thrum of sensation that he recognised as
incipient euphoria. He started to give himself over to the warm buzz of
pleasure. Why was I so afraid of this?
David stopped just as Mycroft started to lose himself a bit, and reality
sharpened around him.
“Okay, his turn. Sherlock, you’ll tell Mycroft when to stop. “Yellow” for ‘stay
at that level but keep going’ and “red” for ‘I’ve had enough.’ If you don’t say
anything, I’ll have him intensify the strokes as I deem appropriate. This isn’t
the only toy you’ll be getting tonight, so keep that in mind.”
He coached Mycroft through the process of using the flogger: increasing the
intensity, changing the patterns, showing him where and how to strike. Sherlock
stood there and took it, more than content to be the recipient.
“Still okay?” David asked. Sherlock still hadn’t given any signal, and Mycroft
was striking quite hard now.
“Mm,” he said, sounding more blissed-out than anything.
David laughed. “High tolerance for pain, eh? Okay, let’s move on or we’ll be
here all night. What’s next?”
Sherlock chose the cane: something neither of them had tried.
Mycroft took his brother’s place, more relaxed this time.
“This one has more of a bite. Upper thighs. You ready?”
He nodded.
The first four strokes stung—in a distinctly non-sexual way. He was just about
to say something when the fifth cut through the air, harder than the others. It
landed just below the line of his pants and felt like a knife slicing across
his legs.
“Fuck!” He tried not to react, but he couldn’t help it. He dodged to the side
and instinctively took a defensive posture. “No, stop! Red!” It was too much,
too fast, just like it had been with Jonathan. The fear and panic of that
experience came rushing back—his fears about this session suddenly justified.
“Oh hell,” David muttered before he rushed to Mycroft’s side.
Sherlock was already there.
“My?”
Mycroft’s eyes were squeezed shut, his back pressed against the wall.
“My… it’s okay. I’m here,” Sherlock said, almost in a whisper.
David stepped back and let Sherlock comfort him, while he went over to a
wardrobe to get a blanket.
Mycroft opened his eyes, but they had a haunted look to them. When Sherlock
reached out to touch him, he instinctively drew away.
“It’s all right; it’s me… you’re okay,” Sherlock said, but he didn’t sound
convinced; he sounded terrified.
David returned with the blanket but kept his distance. Sherlock lightly grasped
his brother’s hand and drew him away from the wall. “Come here.”
At the familiarity of Sherlock’s touch, his panic started to abate a little. He
took a deep breath and attempted to regain his composure.
“I… I’m fine. I overreacted.” He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince:
Sherlock or himself.
David handed Sherlock the blanket, who draped it across his brother’s
shoulders. Mycroft didn’t argue.
“You’re not fine. Here, sit down.”
Stop sounding so scared, Sherlock. Please.He sat on the bed, partly to satisfy
his brother, and partly because he still felt so adrift. He winced when the top
of his legs touched the duvet.
David stood there, observing, looking very concerned. “I’m so sorry, Mycroft.
It seemed like you were okay…”
Mycroft interrupted him by raising his hand, and then he rubbed his face and
sighed. “It wasn’t you. It was the sharpness of the pain that triggered me; it
was too similar... I should have said something when you started.”
It was true, and David didn’t try to argue the point.
A dismal sense of failure washed over him as he looked at his brother. I’m so
sorry, Sherlock. I thought I could do this.
Sherlock, still looking extremely shaken, laid a hand on Mycroft’s thigh. “Are
you okay?”
I need to pull myself together; I can’t let this control me for the rest of my
life. If it’s for Sherlock, I can do anything.
He sat up straighter on the bed, willing himself into composure he didn’t yet
feel. “I’m fine. I’m ready to continue.”
David and Sherlock gaped at him.
“No,” David said. “You’re in no state and I won’t let you.”
“I’d have to agree,” Sherlock said, still looking incredulous.
“I want to get past this.”
“And I’m sure you can. But not tonight. Pushing yourself through this before
you’re ready won’t do anyone any favours, least of all him. Go home. Get some
rest. If you still want to do this after a few days, come back—I’ll still be
here.”
“He’s right.”
“Do you live together?”
Mycroft nodded.
“Good. You shouldn’t be alone tonight, even if you’re convinced you’re past
this.”
Mycroft wasn’t convinced he was.
===============================================================================
They went back to see him; Mycroft was determined not to let it go. Sherlock
wanted this, and Mycroft was going to make sure he could provide it. After two
weeks of multiple sessions, Mycroft put David on retainer. They were going to
be at this for a while. It took them four months to get through all the toys;
sometimes they only managed one toy over the course of an entire session.
It never really got any easier.
David was right, though: it was the responsible way to learn. He
couldn’t—wouldn’t—blindly inflict pain without knowing its effect.
When they’d been through every toy they owned, Mycroft returned to the sex shop
and bought the ventilated paddle.
He arranged one more session.
Despite his fears, it was blessedly anticlimactic. He’d become so good at
compartmentalising the pain that it was just like any other toy.
===============================================================================
He never fully trusted himself around pain again. He could only remove himself
emotionally and endure it.
He couldn’t allow himself to enjoy it like he once had.
Sometimes—when he watched Sherlock in that trance-like, blissful state—he
wished he could revisit it, but he wouldn’t give up control like that; the
risks weren’t worth it.
***** Issues *****
Chapter Summary
     Sometimes, what you have just isn't enough.
It was rush hour on the tube, and people crammed against each other, heedless
of personal space. As undignified as it was, Mycroft had long since got used to
it. Despite their generous financial resources, it was wasteful to make the
daily journey from Hammersmith into the city by taxi.
Sherlock showed up at his office one afternoon when he was getting ready to
leave. Mycroft dragged him onto the crowded tube, ignoring his pleas for a more
civilised ride home. After that first experience—with their bodies pressed
against each other intimately with no one to care—Sherlock met him at work
almost daily.
In truth, it was something of a thrill to be allowed a bit of frottage with his
brother while half of London watched.
Sherlock pressed up against his back, looking for all the world like a bored
student wishing he were in a seat. The rest of his body was anything butbored.
As the train shuddered its way around a corner, jostling everyone in the
carriage, Sherlock grasped Mycroft’s hip and pulled him back, rubbing himself
against his arse.
“I want you to take me out in public,” he said in a low voice. “Show me off. I
want people to see that I belong to you.”
Mycroft felt a little lightheaded, but it wasn’t caused by the crush of
people—just one person. One person who knew what damage he could do with a few,
well-placed words. Mycroft grasped the pole near the door more tightly, aware
of his brother’s breath, warm against his neck.
“Isn’t the collar enough?”
Sherlock wore it almost everywhere now, covered by his scarf, which was light
enough to be plausible in all but the warmest London weather. He toyed with it
constantly, masking it as a gesture of contemplation, his hand slowly tracing a
fan across his neck and face through the concealing material. He wasn’t sure if
it was something Sherlock did for himself or if it was designed to drive him
out of his mind in inopportune places. Perhaps it was both.
“I had something a little more revealing in mind.”
“Not here,” Mycroft hissed, “are you insane?”
“Of course not here. Just not at home.” Another minute thrust of his hips, and
a low huff of amusement as Mycroft shifted in involuntary response.
“Perhaps,” he said.
Inwardly, he winced. We can’t.
His response must have been good enough, because Sherlock eagerly pressed
against him as the train bounced around another corner.
Mycroft prayed he wouldn’t bring up the subject again.
===============================================================================
Sherlock, of course, brought it up again the next day. This time: public sex.
Mycroft—while conceptually intrigued by the idea—dismissed each of one
Sherlock’s increasingly radical choices of location:
The tube station. (”CCTV.”)
Mycroft’s office. (”Oh, honestly.Are you trying to get me sacked?”)
The morgue at Barts. (He’d just stared mutely in response.)
“Fine. Take me out to a club on a leash, then. I’m sure there must be a few
where that wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows.”
“No.”
“At least give me a good reason. I’d have thought that was a lot less dangerous
than sex on the tube.”
“People might see us.”
“That’s the point. I want people to see us.”
“People from work.”
“Oh.” Sherlock’s jaw set, and he glared at Mycroft. “Worried about your image.
Well, I doubt any of your colleagues frequent that sort of club.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. Besides, there are the tabloids.”
“I’ve seen where you work; I’m sure none of the paparazzi will be stalking you
for a front page photo op. ‘Minor government official seen at slightly risqué
dance club.’ It doesn’t have much shock value.”
Mycroft sighed. “I don’t think you understand, Sherlock. People might
seeus—people who know we’re related. I agree, no one would give a toss if I
showed up at some club with a boyfriend, but when I show up with my brother on
a leash, it’s going to be far more newsworthy.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, ‘Oh.’”
Sherlock stood there for a moment, anger radiating from him, before he stormed
off to the bedroom and slammed the door.
Until then, Mycroft had fooled himself into thinking he was exempt from
Sherlock’s epic tantrums, but the perfect little soap-bubble surrounding their
relationship had just popped.
===============================================================================
Sherlock didn’t speak to him for two days.
When Mycroft wasn’t at work, he locked himself in their bedroom. Mycroft slept
on the sofa.
Mycroft spent each evening slumped against the bedroom door, pleading with him
to come out and talk about it, but all he got in response was silence, the
sound of angry pacing, or the occasional slam of something against a wall. Both
nights, he cried silently into his pillow, despairing of Sherlock’s refusal to
deal with the issue. Both mornings, he found a set of clothes waiting for him
outside the bedroom door, presumably to avoid any contact whatsoever.
He came home from work on the third day to find Sherlock lying on the sofa in
his dressing gown, sulking.
Mycroft said the only thing he could think of, praying it would be enough: “I’m
sorry.”
“You don’t love me,” Sherlock said bitterly, staring at the ceiling.
“That’s not true.”
“You’re ashamed to be seen with me.”
Mycroft paused, choosing his words carefully. “No… we just can’t openly
broadcast our relationship. It’s one thing to rub against each other on a
crowded tube; it’s completely different to take you to a club on a leash. We
have to be carefulabout this. Mummy would be devastated. I suppose we could
even be charged, technically.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Mycroft. No one is going to prosecute that.”
“We’re currently blackmailing Jonathan with assault charges, remember? I think
you intimidated him, but I’m sure he’s waiting for any opportunity to drag my
name through the dirt, and I’ve no doubt he’d be willing to go to the tabloids.
I think incest trumps a minor domestic, as far as they’re concerned. A trial
would be irrelevant.”
“Wonderful. Doomed lovers. We finally get to be together, but only on the
condition that we never show our love in public. Isn’t there some sort of
twisted fairy tale about this?”
“Probably.”
“So what do we do? Spend our entire lives pretending to hate each other?”
“No. I’m just saying we can’t be obvious about being together.” He set his coat
and briefcase on the table, unwilling to continue the conversation without a
comfortable chair and a drink. “Do you want some scotch?”
“Which one?”
“Lagavulin?”
“All right.”
Sherlock’s voice sounded more resigned than bitter. It was a start. He handed
him the glass and sat next to him; Sherlock lifted his legs up so they could
rest in his lap.
“It’s so unfair.”
“I know,” Mycroft said. He stared into space, trailing his fingers over
Sherlock’s calves, absently processing the texture of the silk dressing gown
while he thought. They both sipped at their drinks.
“So what do we do about it?”
Escape to some liberal-minded island paradise under assumed names? No. And
probably best not to bring it up, even jokingly.
“I’m not sure there’s much we can do. We have each other, isn’t that enough?”
“Oh! We could ask David! It wouldn’t be public, but it’d still be a thrill. We
could get him to watch.”
And… apparently having each other isn’t enough.
It was difficult not to take “Let’s involve someone else in our sex life”
personally, especially when you were perfectly content, but he didn’t want to
argue the point. Not at the moment.
To make matters worse, David was the only person they’d forged a close
friendship with, and losing that would be miserable. He’d been coming over for
Sunday roast for almost two months now. Other nights, too. He didn’t have a
partner; Mycroft was an incredible cook; they could all freely discuss sex: it
had evolved so nicely.
Late nights with him discussing the realities of professional domination had
provided a sort of instant intimacy to their friendship. He’d been frank with
them about his personal life: a breakup initiated by a lover who didn’t want to
share him with his clients—even in a professional capacity. They, of course,
had been less frank about their own history. While they hadn’t lied, they
hadn’t been forthcoming with details, saying only that they’d known each other
from years ago, and recently started their relationship. But, short of telling
him about their familial bond, they’d shared so much with each other, and the
three of them had become very close.
David provided a touchstone of normality—of the outside world—for Mycroft; a
steady footing in his all-consuming relationship with Sherlock.
Mycroft didn’t want to give that up. Or risk giving it up.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why not? If anyone would go for it, he would. He’s a sex worker, for Christ’s
sakes.”
Mycroft groaned. “And we are his friends—not his clients—and he’s not that sort
of sex worker.”
Sherlock glared at him, and Mycroft felt the entire conversation veering out of
control, heading towards another epic sulk.
I can’t take another two days of silence, even if giving in to him is wrong.
“All right, we can ask him. As delicatelyas possible. If fact, I’ll do the
asking.”
That way, if I screw this up, I’ll only have myself to blame.
***** Question *****
Chapter Summary
     Mycroft asks a question and gets an unexpected answer.
They waited until after dinner; there seemed to be no point in spoiling a good
meal, after all.
Despite Sherlock’s belief that David would be fine with the idea, Mycroft felt
the panic rise in his chest. Is this worth the risk?
He took a deep breath. Yes. Ultimately, Sherlock was worth anything: even their
friendship with David; even involving someone else in their sex life. If this
was what it took to preserve their relationship, he’d do it. He tried not to
focus on how deeply dysfunctional that notion was.
Sherlock had done his best to remain calm while he waited for Mycroft to broach
the issue, but his impatience was obvious: almost every word out of his mouth
was accompanied by wild hand gestures.
“Okay. What’s with you? You’ve been like this all evening.” David said,
relaxing into a chair with a slice of Battenberg cake.
Sherlock looked at Mycroft, expectantly. David followed his gaze. “What is it?”
“I… we… have a very odd request. One you could find offensive.” He placed his
hands on his thighs to stop them from shaking.
Then he paused. They’d made a huge mistake. The obvious answer to Sherlock’s
need to ‘show off’ was to go to a club. David would want to know why that
wasn’t an option.
Oh.
Bloody hell.
That was going to take the conversation to places he didn’t want to go.
“Actually, never mind. Please, forget I brought it up.”
“Mycroft,” Sherlock whined.
“No, come on. You can’t say something like that and then stop. I’m dying to
know what’s going to offend me,” David said, with a bit of a laugh.
It seemed better (better?) to tell him the nature of their relationship before
asking for his participation; to admit to it afterwards seemed, well, like
they’d been hiding something. Which, of course, they had.
“Well, there’s something we need to tell you before I get to that.”
Sherlock’s eyes got almost impossibly wide.
David put his cake back on the plate and sat forward in his chair. “Oh?”
“We have a rather unique relationship.”
Sherlock tried to look nonchalant, but his hand gripped the edge of the sofa so
tightly his knuckles were white.
David sat there, silently. Waiting. Looking intensely curious.
Mycroft hoped the earth would swallow him up so he wouldn’t have to continue.
He clenched his thumbs inside his fists, and pulled against them so hard that
his joints hurt.
“We’re—”, he closed his eyes, “—brothers.”
“Bloody hell!” David exclaimed, with an outburst of incredulous laughter and
wide-eyed amazement. “Really?”
The laughter had to be a positive sign—incredulous or not. He nodded, as did
Sherlock.
“I knew there was something odd about you two, but I’d never have guessed
that!”
“Well, that’s reassuring,” Mycroft said, with a weak grin. “It’s obviously not
something we tell people. Anyone. Ever.”
“So, why tell me, then?”
“You’re not morally outraged?”
David shrugged. “No. Why should I be? No one is being abused. You’re both
consenting adults and you’re clearly in love. Trust me, with some of the
relationships I’ve seen, this doesn’t even begin to register as ‘fucked up’.
‘Interesting’, perhaps. Just because they can prosecute you for something
doesn’t make it wrong. Hell, being gay was illegal for years, and with the
Spanner case, most of what I do is still technically illegal. I’m just careful
to keep quiet about it.”
Mycroft relaxed back into his chair, relieved the whole thing had gone so well.
Oh.
Half of it had gone well. The prosecutable half. He wondered if their
relationship would ‘register as fucked up’ once he got to the other half.
“So why didyou tell me? Seems like a pretty big risk on your part. I’m not
going to say anything, obviously.”
“Well…” Mycroft gave him a pained expression. “Part of it is that it’s a pretty
lonely place to be. We can’t tell anyone or even be seen together as a couple.”
David gave a nod of understanding. “Yeah, I’ve been there. I don’t make friends
with clients, and I can’t make a lot of close friends when I have to hide what
I do.”
“So what are you doing here?” Sherlock interrupted. “Not that we’re
complaining.”
“I dunno, really. I saw both of you so much it sort of bled over into that
realm, and it was a nice change.”
Perhaps he could let the other half of this drop onto the conversational floor
without David noticing. Suddenly, he didn’t want to risk David’s friendship,
after all.
“So, what’s the other part?”
Damn.
“I’m honestly not sure it’s appropriate…”
“Outing yourself as incestuous probably isn’t, either.”
“All right. Point taken.” Another deep breath. “Sherlock would like to be
‘shown off’. As a sub. For obvious reasons, we don’t want to show up as a
couple at any of the clubs. We were wondering if you’d be willing—”, he winced,
“—to observe.” He shrank back defensively into the chair, anticipating the
inevitable rejection like a blow to the face.
Sherlock had no such reservations and leaned forward, eagerly awaiting David’s
response.
“You want me to watch?” His tone was one of quiet disbelief.
“Um… yes.”
David sat back in his seat and gave a short, easy laugh. “Well, you two are
full of surprises tonight.”
They both waited tensely as he looked at them.
“I make it a rule never to play with clients, but at this point, you’re not
clients.”
“So that’s a yes?” Sherlock asked, trying to sound calm and failing miserably.
Another quiet laugh. “Hell, yeah. I’m not gonna lie—I enjoyed it every time you
took a beating from him. You both clearly got off on it, and watching that in a
non-professional capacity would be my pleasure.”
Mycroft sighed with relief, while Sherlock just beamed.
===============================================================================
David was helping Mycroft with the dishes, and Sherlock had gone off to the
toilet. It was the first time they’d had alone since their discussion.
“Is this the reason you always let him have his way?” David asked, point blank.
“What?” Mycroft was confused and a bit taken aback by David’s bluntness. “No.
Well, not because we’re related. It’s because I’ve loved him for so long and
now I finally have a chance—I don’t want to ruin it. Christ. Is it that
obvious?”
“Very. Look, I know it’s none of my business, but you should consider taking
more control. He’s a sub—a pushy sub, granted. He needs structure, and if you
don’t give it to him, he’s eventually going to get bored and wander off, no
matter how much you bend over backwards to please him.”
The toilet flushed, and David hurried to finish their conversation.
“You have to make sure things are about both of you, not just him, or you’ll
end up a basket-case, and he’ll be insufferable. No offence.”
“None taken.” It was the some of the best advice he’d ever been given. “Thank
you,” he said, placing a grateful hand on his shoulder.
David smiled. “My pleasure. We’ll make a respectful sub of him yet.”
Sherlock walked back in and leaned against the kitchen counter with an easy
confidence. “So, when are we going to do this? It’s still pretty early.”
“Mycroft and I will arrange something; he’ll be the one ‘showing you off’,
after all. I’m sure he’ll want to ensure you’re displayed to fulladvantage.”
David managed to make it sound both forceful and utterly salacious at the same
time.
Sherlock stood, the relaxation in his body gone, replaced by a shifting
nervousness. “Don’t I get a say in this?”
“I’m sure he’ll ask for your input when he needs it. Now, there are some things
I need to discuss with Mycroft. Finish off the dishes and then bring us some
tea, please.” His voice was calm and pleasant, but it brooked absolutely no
argument.
Sherlock gaped at them, dumbfounded.
“Will that be a problem, Sherlock?”
“N…no.”
Mycroft had never seen him look so confused in his life.
They went back to the main room, keeping their voices low enough that Sherlock
wouldn’t be able to follow their conversation.
“So, what does he do all day? Does he work?”
“No… he has some personal science experiments, and he reads a lot. Or wanders
around London, observing.”
“Observing?”
“Deducing. Figuring out people’s lives from the scuff marks on their shoes and
the way they fold their newspapers. That sort of thing. It keeps his mind
busy.”
“It’s your call obviously—and his—but I think he needs a part-time job.”
“Oh?”
“I need a houseboy, a couple days a week. Nothing sexual: some light cleaning,
doing the washing, a bit of work in the kitchen sometimes.”
Mycroft smiled nervously. “I’m not sure he’s going to go for that idea.”
“Well, here’s the thing. You know all that furniture in my playroom? It’s not
something you can go out and order; it’s all custom-made by a friend of mine.
Perhaps if Sherlock were willing to help, my friend might be willing to make a
few more pieces. As a favour.”
“Now that,” Mycroft said with a wide grin, “might make all the difference.”
===============================================================================
They all agreed on the terms. Sherlock would act as David’s houseboy from 10am
until 5pm on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. In return, for every two weeks
of service, David would commission an item of bondage furniture from his
friend. At the end of the first two weeks—if Sherlock performed as
required—David would arrange with Mycroft for him to be ‘shown off’.
Sherlock would be expected to arrive on time, perform all his duties politely
and efficiently, and generally not drive anyone mad. That included Mycroft,
which meant he wasn’t allowed to complain without due cause. David would report
any infringements to Mycroft, who would then mete out whatever he considered to
be an appropriate punishment.
Sherlock wasn’t thrilled about all the conditions, but he did concede that they
were fair. And he really, really wanted the bondage furniture.
===============================================================================
Sherlock had never worked a day in his life. Growing up, the staff at the manor
took care of everything. At school and university, the students were similarly
coddled. When Sherlock moved into his flat, he drew on his funds to make life
as easy as possible—sending the washing to the dry cleaners; ordering takeaway;
hiring someone to come in and clean when things got unbearable.
When he thought about it, he realised the number of times he’d done the
dishes—in his life—didn’t even reach double digits.
Someone else had always done the work. All of it.
He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d managed to avoid it. Apparently, throwing
money at things was a fairly efficient solution to the problem. Now, David was
effectively throwing that money at him, in the form of lovely, custom bondage
furniture that Mycroft would use to take him apart. That made getting up at 8am
much more compelling.
And he couldn’t say he wasn’t learning things. Who knew you weren’t supposed to
put woollen jumpers in the dryer? Everyone except him, apparently. 10 stripes
with the cane.
He hated the cane.
It was one of the few forms of ‘punishment’ that actually delivered on the
term. Unfortunately for his arse, David had taught Mycroft how to use it
perfectly.
He learnt how to read the labels on clothes.
He learnt how (God help him) to iron a fitted bed-sheet. And make the bed. He
was sure he’d never done that.
Being polite. That was a hard one. He didn’t intend to be rude; it just seemed
that his brand of humour didn’t mesh with everyone else’s. He decided it would
be easier on his arse if he just kept his mouth shut. At least while he was on
duty.
David was surprisingly easy to work for. He never got angry about mistakes; he
just pointed them out, made him redo the task, and contacted Mycroft regarding
the punishment.
There were a lot of things to learn. Luckily, he was a fucking genius. Once he
screwed something up, it never happened again. His intelligence, and the cane,
saw to that.
It took four days—there were a lot of things to learn—until he made it through
a day with no blemishes on his record.
That night, Mycroft was waiting for him when he got home. This time, not with
the cane. He lounged on the sofa, dressed in—oddly—slacks. He must have got
home from work early.
“I hear congratulations are in order.”
Sherlock smiled. He was actually quite pleased with himself. There had been a
near miss when he’d been ironing one of David’s dress shirts and had to answer
the phone, but he’d caught it just before it left a scorch mark. He was getting
pretty good at the whole ‘houseboy’ thing. And, while he’d never admit it to
Mycroft, there was something oddly satisfying about it.
“I thought I’d take you out to dinner, and then for a little surprise. Only if
you’re up for it, of course.”
“What sort of surprise?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it? Nothing you have to dress
for.”
“All right. Do I get to pick the food?”
“Of course.”
“Thai, then. There’s a new place in the West End that’s supposed to be good.”
“That’ll be convenient.”
“Will it?”
Mycroft just smiled. “Do you want to sit down for a bit before we leave? I know
you’ve had a long day.”
Sherlock frowned. “Why are you being so… odd?”
“I’m just trying to be considerate.”
“No, it’ll be gone six by the time we get there; we should go. I’ll phone ahead
and see if we can get a table.”
They took the tube.
It was still rush hour.
He wondered how much Mycroft would let him get away with. If anything. They
hadn’t taken the tube together since their big falling-out about the club, and
to be honest, the whole dynamic between them seemed to have changed a bit since
David had been to dinner. Not in a bad way… Mycroft seemed to be on surer
footing than he had been in months. Less tentative. It was nice.
It wasn’t very crowded when they first got on—going against traffic to get back
into the city—but by the time they reached South Kensington, the cars started
to fill up. And Mycroft pushed up against him.
“My…”
“Quiet.”
Mycroft placed something in the pocket of his coat.
He reached in and pulled out a smooth, black leather cord. No, not just a cord,
a necklace with a clasp. Oh.He wasn’t allowed to wear his collar at work, or
when he had to remove his coat and scarf somewhere. This, though…
He turned to look at Mycroft, who wore a slight, knowing smile.
“Something a little more subtle. But still mine.”
He ran the supple cord through this fingers. It wasn’t the type of thing he’d
normally pick out, but he’d wear rhinestones if Mycroft asked him to: his
brother—in his own, very subtle way—was showing him off in public. He’d made
the effort to go out and buy this for him, both as a token of love and as a
means to heal the slight rift between them—the rift, he noted, that he’dcaused.
He should be the one making a noble, loving gesture here, not Mycroft. He
wanted to turn around and hug him; kiss him; thank him for putting up with his
childish behaviour.
He grabbed Mycroft’s hand and squeezed it tightly, hoping it conveyed at least
some of those things. Then he mouthed “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Mycroft whispered back, and gave him an incandescent smile.
He passed the cord back to Mycroft. “Would you?”
“My pleasure.”
The crush of people afforded some privacy as Mycroft deftly fastened the cord
around his neck.
“Mine,” Mycroft said, quietly enough that no one else would hear him above the
din of the train wheels.
Sherlock’s body tingled with warmth as his brother pressed against him.
“Yours,” he replied.
***** Trousers *****
Chapter Summary
     Sherlock gets his surprise.
The Thai restaurant was a short walk from Soho. And the sex shop. His brother,
of course, figured it out long before they got there.
“More toys? I thought we had all of them by now.”
“Not exactly. Wait and see.”
The shopkeeper laughed to see them back. “Keep this up and you’ll be regulars.”
Mycroft grinned and headed towards the racks of clothing, and other things that
could only marginally be described as clothing. Mycroft flipped through a rack
of leather trousers to find the smaller, tighter sizes.
Sherlock rubbed the leather between his fingers. Buttery soft. Wondered what it
would feel like against his skin.
Mycroft handed him a pair and headed over to the section containing an
assortment of leather and chrome straps.
“You need a harness to go with them.” He selected a simple x-shaped chest
harness, with straps that met in both the front and back, in an O-ring at the
centre. Sherlock took it from him eagerly, holding it up to his chest to get an
idea of how it would fit once it was on.
“Your fashion sense just leapt forward by about a century,” Sherlock said
quietly. “And I must say, I definitely approve.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Can we try these on?” he asked the owner.
“As long as he keeps his pants on with the trousers—and no funny business in
the dressing rooms, or you’ll get me shut down.”
The pants were ridiculously tight, and showed off Sherlock’s generous arse
perfectly. The soft, slightly stretchy leather allowed for a snug fit, even
around his calves.
Mycroft buckled the leather harness into place and gave an evaluating tug on
one of the rings. Sherlock jerked forward, the snug straps providing plenty of
leverage. He gave Mycroft a look of pure lust, but his brother only returned it
with a chaste kiss.
“Perfect. All right, get dressed. There’s one other thing I need.” As much as
he wanted to watch Sherlock take those trousers off, it would only arouse him
further. He wanted to get home where they could properly indulge themselves.
His one other purchase: a sturdy leather leash. He watched Sherlock’s face
light up when he took it from the display.
===============================================================================
Mycroft settled himself into the chair in their bedroom as Sherlock put the bag
on the bed.
“Put them on.”
Sherlock hastily complied. The anticipation had both of them hard—something
Sherlock hadn’t had to contend with in the shop.
“Um…” he said, trying and failing to zip them up over his erect cock. “I’m not
sure this is going to work.”
“I am.” Mycroft said. He walked over, grabbed his arse, and then palmed him
firmly—so firmly it was probably uncomfortable, but Sherlock just groaned.
Holding him in place, he said, “Now zip them up.” As he'd predicted, it worked.
He stood back to look, and the sight made him weak: the soft leather clearly
outlined the bulge and head of his brother’s cock. The effect was obscene.
Deliciously obscene.
Sherlock rubbed his hand across his crotch and sighed. Mycroft gently batted it
away. “Did I say you could touch? This is all mine right now. You can look,
though; go over and see how desperate you are.”
While Sherlock admired himself in the mirror—and he did look spectacular, with
the tight leather encasing his long legs and highlighting the pale skin of his
bare feet—Mycroft fastened the harness across his chest. When he was done, he
toyed with the thin leather cord around Sherlock’s neck. “Do you like your
daytime collar?”
Sherlock turned back to him and beamed. “I love it, thank you. I’m sorry I was
such a prat.”
“Apology accepted. Now, I’m afraid these trousers are going to require a bit of
effort on my part.”
Sherlock gave him a confused look.
“I need to find out how much harder I can spank that lovely arse of yours
before you beg.” He gave him a salacious grin. “What toy shall we start with,
hm? I’ll let you choose.”
===============================================================================
The answer to the first question, Sherlock decided, was ‘quite a lot’.
They started with the plain wooden paddle, and Mycroft eventually stopped—on
the theory that if the impacts got any louder, the neighbours would call the
police.
For almost any toy they used on the leather trousers, it seemed the bark was
definitely worse than the bite. It let Sherlock enjoy the sensation of
forceful, almost brutal contact without the intense pain that would normally
accompany it. Not that he’d avoid that, necessarily, but this was a much more
hedonistic type of ‘punishment’—blows that left more of a dull ache than any
real pain—and he was thoroughly getting off on it. Bent over the edge of the
bed, each impact forced him across the mattress, sending shock-waves of
pleasure through both his arse and his cock. It was like drinking slowly but
steadily over the course of an entire evening, where you worked up a slow,
burning buzz that made you giddy.
By the time they’d gone through the paddle, the tawse, and a downright
thrashing with the riding crop, the only thing he was begging for was a good
fuck.
“Perhaps we should have got the chaps instead,” Mycroft said with a chuckle.
Those had an open arse and crotch—basically trouser legs held up with a belt.
“Of course, then I wouldn’t have been able to beat you like that.”
Sherlock shuddered to think what the session would have done to him without the
leather protecting his skin. He wouldn’t be able to sit for a week.
Intellectually, he knew the pain would be almost unbearable, but the idea of it
made him even more aroused.
Mycroft pulled him to his feet with the back ring of the chest harness, then he
grabbed Sherlock’s leather-clad erection and pulled him backwards so his
glowing arse rubbed against his own full cock.
“One day, we’ll have a place where you can make as much noise as you want, and
I’m going to thrash you so hard you’ll scream. Would you like that?”
“Oh, fuck, yes.” He meant it. He didn’t know if he could take it, but he wanted
Mycroft to try.
“I’ll take you apart and make you beg for mercy. It’ll clear all the noise from
your mind and all you’ll be able to focus on is the rain of fire on those
lovely cheeks of yours, and I’ll see how prettily you bruise. I’d have to
restrain you; you wouldn’t manage to stay put on your own. I wouldn’t want you
flinching away and putting my aim off. No, I’d have to tie you down before I
started so you’d be completely immobile.”
Mycroft’s voice was rough and his breathing was just as laboured as Sherlock’s;
they were both getting off on this fantasy.
“We should get that padded bench so I can stretch you out along it. Once I’ve
attached the cuffs, I’ll get a wide leather strap that I can fasten around your
waist, so you can’t go anywhere, but you’ll want to stay there and take it,
won’t you? Present your arse to me and be my whipping boy?”
“Oh, God, Mycroft…” If his brother didn’t shut up, he was going to pull off his
trousers and present his arse right then and there.
“You’d be so sore afterwards; you wouldn’t even want clothes against your skin,
but you’d still beg me to fuck you, wouldn’t you? Plead with me to take that
pretty hole of yours even though every touch of my hips would make you scream.
I’d do it, you know: do it if you begged for it. I’d stuff your mouth with a
gag, and then I’d stuff my thick cock into your hole, and dig my fingers into
your bruised arse and ride you hard. Then once I’d spent myself inside you, I’d
thrash you some more until I was ready to take you again. You’d be my little
come-slut.”
‘Come-slut.’ Fucking hell.Sherlock knew without a trace of doubt that those two
words had never left his brother’s mouth in that order before, and it put him
over the edge. He pulled away from Mycroft’s grasp and his fingers flew to his
trousers, pulling desperately to take them off so Mycroft could fuck him.
“Please, just fuckme.”
Mycroft swatted him on the arse the moment the leather was around his thighs.
“Don’t be pushy,” he said with a grin, as he quickly divested himself of his
own clothes. Slacks were easier to take off than tight leather trousers, and
Mycroft finished long before Sherlock, who hopped around for balance as he
tried to remove them without sitting down. Mycroft, managing to look amused,
aroused, and controlled—all at the same time—took pity on him and steadied his
shoulder.
Sherlock was fairly certain he just looked desperate. He certainly
feltdesperate. The second he’d removed the confounding trousers, he stood in
front of Mycroft and did his best to convey every ounce of it. “Please?”
Mycroft pulled him in for a greedy kiss. “Good boy,” he said in a rough voice
as he took hold of Sherlock’s hair and sucked a bruise into his neck. “Very
polite. Now bend over the bed and we’ll see about your reward.”
===============================================================================
It was a hell of a reward for both of them.
They’d had sex a few times since Sherlock had started his ‘job’, but Mycroft
kept dominance out of it. Enough things were changing in that respect, and he
didn’t want to overwhelm either of them. This though—with the trousers, and the
thrashing, and the dirty talk, and the spectacular sex afterwards—it made him
remember just how much he enjoyed that aspect of it.
“God, that was incredible,” came a ragged voice from next to him.
And apparently, Sherlock enjoyed it, too.
They’d both collapsed onto the bed in sheer exhaustion afterwards, and they lay
there staring at the ceiling. Mycroft reached out to grasp Sherlock’s hand.
Sherlock squeezed it in return. “Thanks. For the trousers, for this.” He
paused. “For suggesting I do the houseboy thing.”
Mycroft looked over at him in surprise. He hadn’t expected Sherlock to admit to
enjoying it, or even to ‘not hating’ it. “Really? David tells me you’re doing a
wonderful job.”
Sherlock ran his thumb across Mycroft’s fingers. “It’s more satisfying than I
thought it would be. Occupying my conscious mind with repetitive tasks seems to
improve my subconscious abilities. While I was ironing today, I figured out how
to prevent that chemical instability I was telling you about. Ironing.Can you
believe it?”
“The solution to world peace could be found if more heads of state did their
own ironing.”
Sherlock burst into laughter.
“What? I wasn’t joking,” Mycroft said, trying not to laugh and failing.
After their laughter petered out into contented sighs, he leaned over, gazed
into his brother’s gorgeous eyes, and kissed him. “I love you, you know.” He
hadn’t consciously meant to phrase it like that. He hadn’t meant to bring this
up at all, but some part of him needed to.
Sherlock frowned. “Yes, I know. I love you too, My. Is everything all right?”
Mycroft flopped back onto his back and let out a long breath. “I’m worried that
I’m not enough for you—that one day, you’ll get bored and leave.” David’s words
had haunted him since their discussion, and he hadn’t been sure that putting
more structure into their relationship would completely solve the problem. “Is
sharing you going to fix that?”
The fact that he didn’t get an instant, placating denial—that Sherlock gave his
answer careful thought before responding—relieved him. ‘Don’t be silly’ would
have made things worse.
“I don’t want to involve anyone else emotionally. I’m not looking for a
relationship with David: I already have one that I’m guarding rather
jealously.” He squeezed Mycroft’s hand and brought it up to his mouth for a
kiss. “I don’t consider this sharing, and I don’t want to share you, either.
He’s just another set of eyes, hands, whatever. It’s sex, not love. You’re the
one that matters.”
It was a simple but revelatory concept. He’d always paired the two—he suspected
most people did. Leave it to Sherlock to disregard social norms and come up
with something that makes much more sense.
“Besides,” Sherlock added, “I know I was the one to suggest it, but you have as
much say in this as I do. If it bothers you, we won’t do it.”
He was still processing the idea, letting it sink into his bones a little. “No,
I think I’m all right with it. I’d… I’d presumed it to be a failure on my part.
Separating the physical and the emotional aspects of a relationship hadn’t
occurred to me.”
“It wasn’t something I consciously did. For me, they’ve always been separate. A
few people in school satisfied me physically, but no one else has ever
satisfied me emotionally. Why would they? I wasn’t in love with them. I doubt I
could ever love anyone else.”
“Thank you,” Mycroft said, and kissed him again. The separation made sense.
He’d done the same thing with Colin, he supposed, but he’d considered that to
be more of a ‘paid transaction’ than a relationship.
“For me, the idea of involving other people is just arousing. It’s not much
different than having a new toy.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s completely inappropriate comparison of
people to riding crops. “Please don’t tell David he’s your new sex toy; he
might take it the wrong way,” he said lightly.
Sherlock smiled and grabbed some tissues to wipe the sticky mess from his
stomach, then he curled around Mycroft, the harness still on his chest. “Don’t
wait to bring this up next time, hm? It’s too important.”
“Mm. Sorry, love. I won’t; I promise.”
Sherlock nuzzled closer to him. “Good.”
***** Expectations *****
Chapter Summary
     Sherlock gets to show off his new outfit.
David arrived precisely at six. They’d selected a day when Sherlock had to work
in order to minimise the amount of nervous distraction on both their parts. It
didn’t really help: Sherlock managed to drop one of David’s plates
(replaceable), and Mycroft spent half of a budget meeting thinking only about
Sherlock’s leather-clad arse.
Sherlock had less than half an hour to shower and change. He barely finished in
time; Mycroft was showing David into the flat just as he walked out of the
bedroom dressed in his leather trousers and harness.
“Hello, sir.”
“You’re not at work, Sherlock; you can call me David. Unless you’re on your
knees, or Mycroft instructs you otherwise,” he added with a grin.
“I’m sorry about the plate.”
“I know. I’m sure Mycroft will make sure you’re disciplined for it—in fact, I’m
hoping to watch.”
“Oh, you most certainly may,” Mycroft said from the kitchen. “Something to
drink?”
“Coffee?” said David.
“Of course. Sherlock?”
He wasn’t asking if Sherlock wanted any; it was a request for him to prepare
it. He responded without hesitation and Mycroft joined David in the other room.
“You’ve done wonders,” David said, tipping his head towards the kitchen.
“I think we probably both have. It was extremely insightful on your part.”
Sherlock returned with coffee for David and tea for Mycroft. Mycroft had
instructed him to be in role as his submissive for the entire evening, unless
told otherwise, and Sherlock presented it to them with deference, eyes lowered.
“Thank you, Sherlock. You may kneel.”
He took his place next to Mycroft’s chair in the required position: on his
knees with his back straight and his hands on his thighs.
“James brought the grid by last night. It’s really a beautiful piece of
furniture, thank you.”
David smiled. “Sherlock earned every well-oiled rung of it.”
They’d set it up in the bedroom. Sherlock hadn’t even been allowed to touch it:
it was for tonight.
“Sherlock, please give us five minutes.”
He nodded and went to the bedroom.
They’d already discussed their ground rules the previous evening. Mycroft had
suggested, much to Sherlock’s surprise, that any sort of sexual activity with
David be allowed, if it ‘went there’. They had their safewords, and Mycroft
believed he’d internalised the separation between physical and emotional
connections enough to try it. He wanted to try it, actually—wanted to see
whether watching Sherlock with someone else would result in jealousy or
arousal… or both. Now it was time to have that discussion with David. He’d
asked Sherlock to leave in order to preserve some sense of uncertainty and
sexual tension.
“So, how’s this going to work, then?”
“I’m going to punish him for the plate, then flog him for a while on the new
grid. What happens then is up to you. We’ve discussed it at great length:
Sherlock’s differentiation between sexual and emotional relationships is very
clear. Traditionally, mine hasn’t been, but I’d like to try. We’ve agreed that
you should be given full access to him—whether that involves simply watching or
having your way with him is up to you.”
David gaped. “Holy shit. Really?” He downed the rest of his coffee in one go.
“Fuck. Um. Well. I hadn’t expected that.”
“It’s entirely your decision, of course. The decision on our side was made last
night after a lot of consideration. Safewords all around, of course, so if any
of us find it disturbing, we can call it off.”
“Christ. How do you feel about all this? I mean, I know you’ve said you’re okay
with it, but…”
“Surprisingly, fine. The idea of allowinghim to be with someone—and ultimately
being in control of that interaction—doesn’t threaten me. And it’s somewhat
arousing.” He admitted the last part with a downward glance.
David chuckled.
“Well, okay. Um. If you’re sure, I’m certainly game.”
Mycroft grinned. “I’m sure he’ll be excited to hear that—not that I’m going to
tell him. Obviously this was contingent on your agreement, and we decided it
should be a surprise. He doesn’t know whether to expect quiet observation or a
rough face-fucking.”
He nearly choked. “Jesus! Since when do you use words like that?”
“He gets off on filthy language. I’ve picked up a bit of a taste for it, but
only in relevant situations, of course.”
David laughed, incredulously. “Oh, of course.”
“So, we’re in agreement then?”
“Definitely.”
“Wonderful. I’ll go and get him.”
He went back to the bedroom and found Sherlock kneeling by the bed, looking
stunning in the leather trousers and harness. And bare feet. For some reason,
he found the combination of the black trousers and his bare feet to be
incredibly sexy. He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and then pulled his
head back so Sherlock could see his face. “Such a good boy when you want to be,
aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
He retrieved the collar and fastened it around his neck, then clipped on the
leash. It was the first time they’d used it—Mycroft had made him wait until
tonight.
“Now,” he said, giving a firm yank on the length of leather in his hand, “you
willbehave. Any insubordination will result in the immediate end of the
session. Get on your hands and knees. You’re going to crawl out there like
you’re my pet. You’d do anything to please me, wouldn’t you—just like a puppy?”
“Yes, sir.” He was already on all fours.
“Mm, I thought so, you little slut.” From behind, he reached between Sherlock’s
legs and palmed his cock and balls. Hard as a rock.
Mycroft retrieved the cane, then tugged on the leash. Sherlock followed him,
crawling out into the living room.
David gasped as Sherlock entered. “That’s a sight,” he said with awe, or
perhaps just lust, in his voice. His eyes roamed appreciatively across the
harness and trousers and he shifted in his chair.
“Unfortunately, being pretty doesn’t mean he can do the dishes. He’ll be
getting five with the cane for that, unless you’d like to add more.”
“Make it seven. It was my favouriteplate.”
Mycroft stifled a chuckle. Everyone involved knew it was a generic piece of
replaceable china, but this was far more entertaining.
“Very well. Sherlock, take down your trousers.”
His erect cock sprang free as he did so.
“He gets off on the idea of a caning?”
“The idea of it, perhaps, but I doubt he’ll be as hard after he actually
receives it. It’s one of the few things he truly hates.”
“Good. I’d hate to think we’ve been reinforcing negative behaviour.” David saw
the plug in Sherlock’s arse and grinned. “How often does he get to wear that?”
“If he’s good, I let him wear it to work.” He’d put it in him that morning, in
fact. If the evening ended in sex, he wanted him stretched and ready.
“No wonder he drops the plates. I’d be distracted too if I had something like
that rubbing on me all day.”
“It’s still no excuse. He needs to learn discipline, after all. Ready,
Sherlock?”
“Yes, sir.”
He delivered five strokes quickly and without ceremony. Sherlock gritted his
teeth the entire time and didn’t breathe until they were finished. He slumped a
bit once they were done.
“Posture.”
He straightened back into position.
“David, would you like to administer the last two?”
“Oh, it would be my pleasure.”
He gave him two more—harder than the ones Mycroft had dealt—raising welts
across his arse. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly against the pain, but didn’t
cry out.
“Good boy,” Mycroft soothed, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “You
can put your trousers back on now.”
He gingerly pulled them back up, careful not to rub the soft leather against
the marks. The intense pain had softened his erection considerably, and he
tucked himself back into the trousers without a problem.
“Right. David, if you’d like to come with us to the bedroom?”
Sherlock crawled behind Mycroft, his sore arse making him far more tentative
than he had been previously. David followed behind them.
“Hell of a view. You’re very lucky, Mycroft.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
***** Permutations *****
Chapter Summary
     Sherlock finally gets a chance to show off for David.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Sherlock entered their bedroom on his hands and knees, the black leather of his
trousers moving easily against the wooden floor. He cast a fond look back at
Mycroft, and then up at the new bondage grid, which rested at a slight angle
against the only empty wall of their bedroom. The top, secured firmly with
bolts, almost reached the ceiling. It was a much better payment for Sherlock’s
services than money—they had plenty of that. Custom bondage furniture was a
little harder to come by, and far more prized.
David followed them in, and closed the door behind them.
Mycroft grabbed the ring on the back of Sherlock’s chest harness and pulled him
to a standing position, then he caressed his cheek. “You did so well with the
caning, love,” he murmured, “now it’s time for your reward; you get to play
with your new toy.” That would be the grid,he thought with a smile, not David.
Not yet, at least.“Should I restrain you, or can you take it without writhing
out of position?”
They both knew what ‘it’ was: a suede flogger that was Sherlock’s favourite
implement by far. It was the least painful of their toys, and no matter how
long or hard Mycroft used it, Sherlock could never get enough. Its mild sting
led to a heady arousal, and a session with it almost inevitably led to some
sort of sex afterwards.
“I don’t need the restraints, thank you.”
Mycroft made a mental note to try them anyway at some point, just to see how
well they worked with the grid. It would be quite a sight, to see the dark
leather cuffs binding him to the wooden rack. The thigh cuffs they hadn’t had a
chance to use yet, perhaps: those would keep Sherlock from squirming away.
“Very well. Lean against it, back towards me with your legs apart, and grab the
bars.” Sherlock was familiar with its use from the one at David’s, of course.
The angled position allowed him to relax against it completely—something he was
unable to do when he braced himself against the wall for their usual flogging
sessions.
He sighed as he settled into position, almost as if he was relaxing onto a
sofa.
“Comfortable?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“David, make yourself comfortable, in whatever way you’d like to define that.”
He laughed and took a seat in the chair. “Thank you.”
“Ready, then?”
Sherlock nodded, and Mycroft picked up the flogger. He trailed its soft leather
tails across Sherlock’s shoulders and back, and his brother shivered. “You’re
always ready for this, aren’t you, my love?”
“Mm,” Sherlock said, leaning into it and inhaling the scent of the leather.
“Always.”
Mycroft started in on his upper back, the gentle blows of the flexible suede
more like a caress. He slowly worked up to harder strokes; even at the higher
intensity, it was nothing like the burning sting of the cane.
Sherlock stretched his back out with a blissful sigh as his brother worked him
over. Mycroft kept at it for quite some time, with no complaint from Sherlock,
until his arm started to get tired. He turned to David. “Would you like a
turn?”
“I’d love to.”
Before handing over the toy, he stood next to his brother and ran his hand
across the glowing pink skin of his back. “Enjoying yourself?”
Sherlock nodded.
Mycroft placed his hand between the bars of the grid and rubbed gently at the
large bulge in Sherlock’s trousers. “Mm, I see you are.” He kissed him on the
shoulder and handed David the flogger. He mouthed the word ‘same’ to him, and
David nodded. He didn’t want to knock Sherlock out of the good place he was in
with unexpected or jarring pain.
Mycroft observed as David continued what he’d started, using his skilled hands
to take Sherlock apart even more. Sherlock rolled his head back with pleasure
and moaned.
“All right, gorgeous, I think you’re enjoying yourself a little too much. I
have other plans for you before you get too blissed-out. Get on your knees.”
Mycroft tried to sound stern, but the fondness in his voice betrayed him.
Sherlock didn’t care what his tone was. At the words, he turned and dropped to
his knees, the look in his eyes one of pure hunger. He licked his lips.
Mycroft regained his composure. This time, his voice dropped into in the low,
dark whisper that always made Sherlock weak. “So you want to show off, do you?”
He nodded.
“Want David to see how well you can suck cock?”
“Yes, sir,” he managed.
“Would you like to watch, David? Or would you rather see for yourself? I’m sure
the little slut would be only too eager to show you.” He glanced at Sherlock.
“Wouldn’t you, love?”
Sherlock looked back at him with unbridled lust and whimpered. Mycroft grinned
at him; it had been so much more fun like this, leaving him wondering about
David’s participation until the last moment.
“Well, since you’re giving me the choice…” David pulled his t-shirt from his
jeans and took it off, exposing a lightly-tanned, well-toned body. He walked
over and stood in front of Sherlock, inches from his face. He unbuckled his
belt. Slowly.
Sherlock watched David intensely, his breath shallow. Mycroft watched both of
them, the tableau unfolding before him far hotter than he’d imagined it would
be.
David either had amazing self-restraint or was one hell of a tease, because he
took his time undoing his jeans. Before he pulled them down, he tipped
Sherlock’s head back and looked at him, then he turned to Mycroft. “What’s his
gag reflex like?”
“Not perfect, but not bad.”
“Can I come down his throat?”
“Be my guest.” Their conversational tone belied the buzzing undercurrent of
sexual tension. It felt odd to give someone else permission to use Sherlock
like this. Powerful. It was far more arousing then he’d expected. He’d been a
little worried about this moment—about how he’d react—but there was only
arousal, no fear or jealousy. He wanted to see his brother suck David off; he
had no doubt Sherlock would leave both of them breathless.
David pulled down his jeans and pants to his thighs, exposing his erect cock at
a level just below Sherlock’s mouth. It was of average length, but quite thick.
Sherlock wouldn’t choke on it, but it was going to be a mouthful and his jaw
would probably ache later.
Sherlock swallowed, but it was out of anticipation, not anxiety—he looked ready
to devour David. Without a word, he grabbed the base of it with one hand and
swirled his tongue around the head.
“Holy fuck,” David said, as Sherlock took him deeper into his mouth.
Mycroft grinned: David seemed to approve of his talents.
Sherlock, for the most part, kept his attention on David, but Mycroft saw him
glance over in his direction more than once. He smiled, and Sherlock returned
to his task, satisfied that Mycroft was all right with the situation.
David was gentler than Mycroft had expected, letting Sherlock take the lead and
never forcing himself down his throat. Mycroft was glad—Sherlock could give an
amazing blowjob, and—although they both enjoyed it at times—rough face-fucking
seemed like such a waste of his skills.
“God, he’s got such a talented mouth,” David said as he gripped the nearby
chair for support. “If he keeps this up, I’m not gonna last long.”
“He’ll be happy to take orders; trust me. Tell him what you want.”
“No, no… this is good, believe me. I just don’t want it to end,” he said, with
a blissed-out look on his face. When he got close to orgasm, he gripped
Sherlock’s hair and held his head in place, and then groaned with pleasure as
he came down his throat. With a dazed expression, he pulled his cock from
Sherlock’s mouth. “My God, that was amazing.”
Sherlock beamed. So did Mycroft.
Mycroft extended a hand and helped Sherlock to his feet. “Nice job. Did you
enjoy it?”
“You have to ask?” Sherlock said with a grin.
“No, not really,” Mycroft said, glancing down; Sherlock’s erection still
pressed eagerly against the fly of his trousers.
“You still okay with everything?”
Mycroft smiled, touched that he’d asked. “Yes, thanks.” He ran his hand across
the stretched-tight leather covering Sherlock’s groin. “Would you like some
help with that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me what you want.”
Sherlock fixed him with a desperate look. “Fuck me? Please?”
David, with a well-meaning but absurd sense of propriety, offered to leave the
room.
Sherlock looked at Mycroft and shook his head.
“We’d both like you to stay, if you want,” Mycroft said.
David smiled. “Thank you.” He pulled up his jeans and settled back into the
chair to watch.
Mycroft pulled Sherlock close and kissed him. He found it slightly
disconcerting to taste someone else, but he shook it off—he just hadn’t been
expecting it.
“All right, you,” he said to Sherlock. “Take those trousers off and get on the
bed. I’ll let you choose how you want it; you’ve earned it.”
Sherlock made quick work of his clothes, then knelt on the bed on all fours,
giving David a good view from the side. The two marks from the cane still
showed red against his white skin, but they’d faded a little already.
Mycroft undressed, grabbed the lube and crawled onto the bed behind him. He
palmed his arse and said, “You love being on your hands and knees, don’t you,
you little slut? Presenting your arse for me like this—how can I resist?” He
pushed against the plug a few times, causing Sherlock to whimper. He took his
time as he worked the generously-sized toy out of him. David’s eyes went wide
when he saw its full girth.
“Impressive.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Mycroft said with a smile and obvious pride.
They had much larger toys, although this one was more than adequate for ‘day
use’ and stretching him open for a fuck.
He slicked himself up and held his brother’s cheeks wide for a few seconds,
watching Sherlock’s hole fluttering and gaping for him, desperate and waiting
to be taken. He lined up the head of his cock, resisting the urge to bury it
deep, and teased him, slowly pushing just the head of it in and then removing
it, relishing the squeeze of Sherlock’s muscles as he attempted to pull Mycroft
inside.
Sherlock tried to shift backwards to impale himself, but Mycroft kept a firm
hand on his arse and wouldn’t let him. “Please, Mycroft,” he begged, in a tone
so desperate that Mycroft couldn’t resist any longer. In one swift movement, he
buried himself to the hilt, and Sherlock cried out with pleasure and relief.
The tight, smooth heat felt like velvet around his cock, and he stayed buried
like that for a while, fucking him in tiny increments that felt heavenly to him
but were just a tease for Sherlock.
Sherlock whimpered, sounding almost incoherent.
Mycroft grinned and pulled almost all the way out, then thrust back in and
fucked him with smooth, firm strokes. If he was quick about it, Sherlock would
be unlikely to come without a hand on his cock; Mycroft had something else in
mind for him. It would be a near thing, though—Sherlock was already beside
himself with pleasure, caught up in the overwhelming sensations and brushes
against his prostate, exquisitely sensitive from wearing the plug all day.
Mycroft felt his orgasm approaching, and the thought of what he was about to do
to Sherlock—and how Sherlock would react—was all it took to get him there. He
pushed in hard and deep as he came, gripping Sherlock’s hips as the massive
orgasm tore through him. As he pulled out, Sherlock turned to look at him in
confusion. Mycroft never left him this close to orgasm—this desperate—and
Sherlock remained in position, unsure of what to do next. Mycroft wiped himself
off with some tissues and stood up. He draped a towel over the edge of the bed.
“Sherlock, sit over here. David, would you mind helping? Come up on the bed and
kneel behind him.”
Sherlock looked at Mycroft with bewilderment, but did as he was asked. David
got into place, and Mycroft said, “All right, I want you to hold his arms at
his sides and prevent him from moving.”
As soon as Sherlock was restrained, Mycroft knelt on the floor between his
legs.
Sherlock stared at him, dumbfounded.
Mycroft hadn’t gone down on him in months—not since the early days of their
relationship, in fact, when they’d first started experimenting with Sherlock’s
submissive tendencies.
David held his upper arms tightly against his sides. Mycroft pushed Sherlock’s
legs wide, then looked up at him and said, “Don’t. Move.”
Sherlock made an indistinct movement with his head, unsure if he was supposed
to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. He continued to stare in mute amazement.
Mycroft kept his hands on Sherlock’s legs, then lowered his head and touched
the tip of his tongue to the head of his swollen cock.
Sherlock convulsed at the touch—well, tried to—but David and Mycroft’s hands
kept him firmly in place.
“I said, ‘Don’t move.’”
“Trying…” Sherlock replied. He sounded wrecked.
Mycroft gave him three more teasing licks before he grasped the base of his
brother’s cock and swallowed it.
Sherlock cried out and would have involuntarily bucked deep into Mycroft’s
mouth if he hadn’t been held down.
It had been a while since Mycroft had done this, and he knew he was nowhere
near as good as Sherlock, but judging by his low moans, Sherlock seemed quite
happy. He took his time, savouring the weight of his brother’s cock on his
tongue and the vague scent of warm leather. His technique, although leisurely
and self-indulgent, rendered Sherlock incoherent. It took less than a minute
before he heard Sherlock beg, “Please, can I…”
He nodded, just enough to get the point across, and seconds later Sherlock came
down his throat with a deep moan.
As Sherlock finally relaxed, Mycroft licked him clean, then he wiped his mouth
with a grin and nodded at David to let Sherlock go.
Sherlock sat there, still looking dazed. “Holy hell, My. Fuck.”
Mycroft sat on the bed next to him and kissed him, long and slow, and David
subtly moved away to give them some space.
“That was… I don’t even know. Amazing. Thank you.” Sherlock was still looking
at him with an expression of awe.
“It was my pleasure—all of it,” Mycroft said, and he meant it.
Chapter End Notes
     For those who have asked when I’ll be getting back to Greg in the
     present day: “soon”. I haven’t written it yet though, so I don’t have
     a firm answer for you. Also, this is the last full chapter of work
     that I prepared in advance of NaNoWriMo (which I completed!). I’ll
     try to continue to make weekly updates, but I can’t promise anything.
     I sometimes post status updates on tumblr, where I'm
     chasingriversong.
***** Civil Service *****
Chapter Summary
     The British Government takes an interest in Mycroft's career.
Chapter Notes
     Beta: deklava
Their liaison with David wasn’t a one-time thing; it developed into a guilt-
free ‘friends with benefits’ arrangement. His presence in their lives, far from
hurting their relationship, brought Mycroft and Sherlock even closer together.
Sherlock stayed on as David’s houseboy, and David continued to ‘pay’ him in
bondage equipment. With Mycroft’s approval, and often his direct involvement,
David trained Sherlock to be a ‘proper’ submissive. He also gave Mycroft some
pointers on being an effective Dom.
It probably would have gone on for years, if it hadn’t been for one thing.
It wasn’t jealousy, or guilt, or boredom, or a lack of space for dungeon
furniture.
It was the intervention of the British Government.
===============================================================================
The written summons arrived hand-delivered via personal assistant, which didn’t
bode well at all. Worse still, it wasn’t even his branch—it was from the Home
Office. He couldn’t imagine what he’d done to attract their attention. Mycroft
panicked for a second, wondering if Sherlock was involved, then pasted on an
artificial smile and followed the well-dressed young man out of the building
into the oppressive early-February drizzle.
They were met by a surprisingly luxurious car: a black sedan, with tinted
windows and soft leather seats. It headed towards the Home Office headquarters,
but then—disturbingly—turned off in the opposite direction, towards the Thames.
Mycroft felt the skin crawl on the back of his neck.
“Where, exactly, did you say we were going?”
“I didn’t.”
“I thought you said you were from the Home Office.”
The clean-cut assistant just smiled. “We’ll be there shortly.”
Not at the Home Office, we won’t.
‘There’ turned out to be the sleek, glass-and-concrete headquarters of MI6.
Mycroft felt like he was going to be sick. It couldn’t possibly be anything
he’d done—there had been that one incident where a Member of Parliament had
asked him to change the dates on some corporate earnings reports, but it wasn’t
unheard of—and he’d be surprised if that was something MI6 would care about.
Sherlock hadn’t been much more than arms-length away from him for over six
months now. Surely even hecouldn’t manage to get into this sort of trouble. It
must be something to do with his work. Someone higher up. He prayed he’d know
the answer to whatever they were going to ask him.
He was directed to an unmarked office occupied by an older, dour-faced man.
“Mycroft Holmes.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
The man didn’t offer his name. “We’ve heard a lot about you. You’re reliable,
hard-working, and not afraid to bend the rules every now and then.”
Oh, dear. They know about the earnings reports.
“You’re exactly the sort of person we’d like to have over here; no need to see
you wasting away on the other side of the Thames.”
Relief flooded through him: this visit wasn’t disciplinary, after all. Perhaps
things are looking up.He’d always presumed the adage about ‘hard work paying
off’ was a lie told to hard workers to keep them working hard. He sat up a
little straighter in his chair.
“We think you’d be a good fit for our surveillance team. It’s a good division,
lots of room for advancement, and you’ve certainly got the mind for it. The pay
would be much higher, of course. You’d be subject to the standard background
checks: criminal, financial, medical, social history, yearly polygraph. Just a
formality, really.”
He mentally ticked off each item in the list. Fine, fine, fine… social history?
Oh, God. Former lovers. Jonathan.
Jonathan, who would have all sortsof juicy information and lies to share, he
was sure: as a solicitor, he’d always been clever at fabricating stories.
They’d probably run across David, too, and his living arrangement with
Sherlock—the latter was superficially less damning, but he didn’t want it to
come under closer scrutiny by the SIS, of all people. He’d heard about the
process from someone else who’d been promoted to MI6: they were
extremelythorough in their investigations.
“Thank you very much, sir; I’m honoured to be given this privilege.” Sort
of.“Would it be all right if I took a few days to consider it?”
“Are you quite serious?” the man said, incredulously. “There should be nothing
to consider. People don’t turn down this sort of position unless they’ve got
something to hide.”
Isn’t that the truth. I’ve been here for two minutes, and already I need to
lie.
“It’s a medical issue, sir. I have a history of depression, and it’s
exacerbated by stressful situations. I’m not sure I’d be able to perform to my
full capacity in a job like this.” It was rooted in the truth, at least.
“I didn’t see that in your file.”
I suppose they already started their investigation, then.
“We consulted with our family doctor. It’s genetic, and not something my mother
wished to be publiclyknown.” He said it with the barest hint of accusation.
“I see. Well, I must inform you that a full psychological examination is part
of the background check. However, we have other people with similar issues in
our employ, and I see no reason why it should prevent you from working here, as
long as it’s well-managed.”
“Thank you, sir. All the same, I’d appreciate a few days to consider it.”
“If you must.”
He wasn’t sure how to respond to that. ‘I must’ sounded rude. “Thank you, sir.”
“James will give you our contact information,” he said, then he looked down and
started making notes in the paperwork on his desk—a clear sign of dismissal.
Mycroft showed himself out.
===============================================================================
He sat in his office and stared at the wall. He had the nasty feeling that if
he refused the job, word would get back to his current employers about his
‘history of depression’ and his career path would take a nose-dive. MI6 didn’t
seem to take rejection well.
And if I subject myself to the background check?
Jonathan was a solicitor—his status made it unlikely that he’d be dismissed out
of hand as a jealous ex-lover making up stories. Worse, he imagined Jonathan
pictured himself as blameless; he probably felt Mycroft had overreacted and
thrown him out onto the street without just cause. Since Mycroft hadn’t
reported Jonathan’s abuse at the time, there was nothing except Sherlock’s
pictures to discredit Jonathan’s version of events, and he really didn’t want
to drag the whole thing out into the open.
But his living situation with Sherlock: that had the potential to be even
worse. If they looked into his ‘roommate situation’, they’d surely question why
someone with his finances chose to live in a small flat with his brother. It
had gone on far too long to be a ‘transitory living arrangement’. Regardless of
whether their unconventional relationship could be proved—or, God forbid,
prosecuted as incest—the merest suggestion of it would be career-ending. It was
exactly the type of ‘potential blackmail source’ they were looking for with
their background checks.
And then there was David: Mycroft didn’t want to bring an investigation down on
his head. As a professional Dom, his job skirted the margins of legality as it
was. He had no intention of repaying David’s friendship with legal proceedings.
And a job in surveillance? Violating people’s privacy for money.
No. This wasn’t going to work.
He stared at the wall for another thirty seconds before he picked up the phone.
“Sherlock? We need to talk.”
===============================================================================
They sat in the posh restaurant, discussing the matter over their salad course.
“I’m not going to accept the job; I won’t put us under that sort of scrutiny.
My current job will most likely disintegrate when they hear about this, though.
So much for my ‘promising career’.”
Sherlock shrugged. “You never liked it anyway.”
True.
“So, what are you going to do next? Find a professorship somewhere?” Sherlock
said.
“I don’t have to doanything. You know that.”
“We don’t need the money, no. But if you sit at home all day, you’ll go
insane.”
“I suppose I could teach. I have some contacts at Cambridge who’d probably
help.”
Sherlock pushed a cherry tomato around the plate with his fork. His gaze
drifted out of the windows onto the wet glass buildings of the London skyline.
It was an impressive view, but utterly grey and depressing. “Mummy won’t care
what you do, you know. As long as you tell her you’re happy, she’ll be fine
with anything.”
“Yes, I know,” Mycroft said. It was true enough.
“So, put in your resignation and be done with it; you can find something else
to do later. I feel the same way as Mummy—you should do whatever makes you
happy.”
Mycroft followed Sherlock’s gaze out over the skyline. “I was wondering,” he
said, but he couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. He’d been thinking
about it since the moment he’d decided to decline the offer, but it didn’t seem
fair to ask—not now that they had a social life and Sherlock was enjoying his
job so much.
“What?”
“Never mind. Sorry. Yes, of course I’ll find something.” He smiled, even though
it was a bit forced.
Sherlock turned back to look at him. “I’ll do it, you know.”
“Do what?” Mycroft said, unsure if they were talking about the same thing.
“Leave London. That’s what you’re getting at, right? Your job isn’t keeping you
here anymore.”
“But… David, and your job. Things aren’t the same as they were before.”
“Of course not; things change. What we have with David is unique, certainly,
but if you’ll be happier elsewhere, I think that’s far more important. And it
should go without saying that I’ll follow you anywhere.”
“What about your job?” Mycroft said.
“David will find another houseboy. Besides, it’s not like we’d be moving to
South America or something. England’s a small island. We have a car. There are
trains.” He paused. “You’re not considering moving to South America, are you?
Because I’m going to have to brush up on my language skills if you are.”
Mycroft smiled. “No. I haven’t given the details much thought, really. I didn’t
think you’d want to do it.”
“Well, then: we could still visit London. Perhaps we should find somewhere for
a month—keep the flat in Hammersmith for now. Figure out some options. If it
doesn’t work out, it’ll just be a nice break from the city, but if we like
being away, we can decide what to do from there.”
The plan provided them with a safety net—or more accurately, a very slow-acting
bungee—as they leapt into the unknown.
===============================================================================
Mycroft awoke to the sound of driving rain. He shifted onto his side to see if
he could catch a glimpse of the sky out the window, but the movement woke
Sherlock.
“Sorry. Go back to sleep; it’s still early.”
“S’fine,” he said, his voice still groggy. “Oh no, don’t tell me it’s raining.”
“Fine, I won’t.” It wasn’t just raining, it was pouring. He shifted back and
pressed his side up against Sherlock’s chest, angling for a kiss; he got one.
They’d gone back to Torquay on a whim, curious to see what it was like during
winter. “‘The English Riviera’, eh?” he said, unable to resist a little good-
natured teasing.
Sherlock took the bait, which Mycroft chalked up to sleepiness. “They’d
predicted ‘bright’ for the whole weekend,” he replied with a groan.
Mycroft leaned over and kissed him again. “Don’t worry; it’s nice to be out of
London.”
They were staying in a furnished flat. The owner’s taste in decorating left a
lot to be desired—style à la Ikea—but it didn’t approach the horrors of the B&B
where they’d stayed previously. The heating—necessary in February—worked well,
and the place was clean.
The weather put a damper on their plans to explore by foot. On the first day,
they tromped in raincoats from the car park in the middle of town, to the
warmth of the nearest bookshop—the only shop of significant interest to them
both. As Mycroft shook the cold rain from his umbrella, he wondered if they
should have gone to Paris instead. It had plenty of bookshops, and theatres,
and museums… but then they might as well be back in London. He brought it up,
but Sherlock thought it was a horrible idea, proclaiming the entire country to
be unnecessarily fond of itself—which Mycroft found rich, coming from him.
Besides, he wanted to get away from people for a while. Everybody but Sherlock.
After three solid days of rain, and a well-thumbed stack of new books back at
the flat (on the geology of Dartmoor for Sherlock, and the history of piracy in
Devon for Mycroft), they both longed for the distractions and access to
information they’d had in London. The internet, something they’d started taking
for granted, was next to useless in Torquay. The flat only offered dial-up
access, and doing anything online was an exercise in slow screen-loading
frustration. They’d had a high-speed connection in London for over a year now,
and reverting to dial-up seemed as archaic as a riding in a horse-drawn
carriage. Rumour had it that by 2005, the whole country would be using
broadband. The infrastructure was in place: Mycroft couldn’t see what was
taking them so long. If it was their flat, he’d have a faster connection
installed… but it wasn’t.
They’d made another tactical error: toys. It hadn’t been feasible to bring
their entire collection, so they’d stuck to the basics: plug, crop, gag,
flogger, and a copious amount of lube. He didn’t know what they’d been
thinking, especially given Sherlock’s appetite. The first few days were fine,
but by the third day, Sherlock wanted to be tied up, and of course the cuffs
were in London. Torquay didn’t have much in the way of sex shops. Or, in fact,
anything in the way of sex shops. If they didn’t bring it with them, there
wasn’t any chance of getting it. The best they could hope for was some rope at
the local DIY or marine supply shop.
Sherlock demanded a ‘sanity trip’ back to London to retrieve more toys, books,
and some ‘necessary’ lab equipment. Mycroft, loathe as he was to give in to
Sherlock’s demands, couldn’t agree more. They hadn’t even been here a week, and
already, not having a job was making his fingers itch. He needed to be doing
something. ‘Endless sex and reading’ was only sustainable for so long, no
matter how good it sounded.
He’d envisioned bracing walks across the headlands, fresh air, and a respite
from the teeming crowds of the city. There were certainly fewer people here,
but getting outside was much less appealing when it was raining so hard you
couldn’t see the ocean.
Sherlock snapped him out of his thoughts. “I’m going to run a load of washing;
is this everything? I stripped the bed, too.”
Mycroft looked up, surprised to see him carrying a hamper of clothes. “Oh,
thank you. I think so.” Sherlock had done all the washing since he’d started
working for David. Normally, there wasn’t much, as his suits required dry-
cleaning. Here, though, he hadn’t worn a suit all week. It was an odd feeling.
Freeing. “Bored?”
“I needed a break from reading.” Sherlock went to the washing machine in the
small cupboard and started to sort the lights and darks. Mycroft had to hand it
to David—he’d turned Sherlock into the model of domesticity. He allowed himself
a smile when he knew Sherlock wasn’t looking. Mummy wouldn’t recognise him with
his newfound skills—skills she’d never learnt: she’d never washed anything in
her life. It was silly, but he was proud of Sherlock for doing something simply
because it needed to be done, without making a fuss or expecting some sort of
reward. He could still be an utter brat, of course, when it came to things he
wanted, but this new side of him was a refreshing change.
After dinner, Sherlock did the ironing and Mycroft helped him fold and put away
the clothes. It was comically mundane. The rain let up a bit, but continued as
a heavy drizzle outside their window. They turned on the telly to watch the
news, and were gratified to see that London had been tortured by the same
weather.
“I’m sure it’s not always this bad,” Sherlock said.
“You’re right. It is February. It’s not just the weather, though: I’m used to
having something to think about for eight hours a day, and I don’t really know
what to do with myself at the moment.” He waited for the inevitable ‘I told you
so’ from Sherlock.
“I miss work, too,” Sherlock replied instead. “Besides, it’s not like I can
‘wander the streets of Torquay’ like I used to do in London. I’d be done in an
hour.”
Mycroft chuckled and stood up. He poured some nice Scotch into some horribly
tacky pressed-glass tumblers from Ikea and shuddered a little; he might as well
be drinking straight from the bottle.
“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I think this might have been a colossal mistake. There’s
nothing down here for us to do—it’s a holiday town with no prospects for work.
It’s a nice enough place to visit during the summer but I think we’ll lose our
minds if we stay here year-round.”
Sherlock took a sip of his drink. “Mm. I’m inclined to agree,” he said. “But
I’m still not going to Paris.”
Mycroft smiled. “No, I was thinking I should reconsider Cambridge.”
Sherlock wrinkled his nose in reply. “They’re a bunch of pompous gits, and the
students are entitled brats.”
“Oh?”
“As an entitled brat, I believe I’m qualified to make that statement.”
“Fair enough,” Mycroft said with a smile, but then he sighed and rested his
head on the back of the sofa. “To be honest, I’m sick of working my way up the
food chain. The government, universities: they’re all the same in the end. It’s
as much about who you impress as how hard you work.”
“Start a business, then. You’ve always been incredibly impressed with
yourself—half the work is done.”
Mycroft lobbed a pillow at him, and Sherlock held his drink out of the way of
his poorly-aimed retaliation.
“I’d avoid professional cricket, though.”
Mycroft lobbed the other pillow at him, this one hitting its mark. He smiled,
grimly. “What about rugby?”
“I’d never tolerate that many men piling on top of you,” Sherlock said, without
missing a beat.
“You make the game sound far more interesting than it actually is,” Mycroft
said, and sipped his drink. “What about you? You’ll have to figure out
something as well, or you’ll be bored to tears.”
He shrugged. “I’ll find something. Perhaps there’s a Dom who needs a houseboy.”
Mycroft sat up straight. “That’s an idea…”
Sherlock interrupted him. “You? ‘A Dom in Devon’? Sounds like a bad novel.”
“No, not me. Think about it: what else can I do—really well?”
“Make me come?”
Mycroft looked around to find another pillow, but there were none left. “Be
serious for a moment. I managed all the daily affairs at the manor after Father
died. I still do the books. Remember that abysmal bed and breakfast we stayed
in, and how we joked about making it soundproof?”
Sherlock smiled fondly at the memory. Given the owner’s frosty reception during
checkout, he suspected his pants hadn’t worked very well as an impromptu gag.
“What if we ran a B&B—one that only catered to kinky clients? One that wasn’t
run by a geriatric busybody. Better still: one with sex toys. It would prevent
the very situation we’re in now: going on holiday and having to leave all your
favourite playthings at home.”
He gave Mycroft a distasteful look. “I doubt people would want to share butt
plugs.”
“No, not that: the implements, and more importantly, the furniture. Do you know
anyone other than David who has such a good collection? I’m sure there’d be
lots of couples who’d love access to something like that.”
“A dungeon.”
“A boutique B&B experience,” Mycroft countered.
Sherlock found himself in the unlikely position of talking Mycroft out of doing
something insane; usually it was the other way around. “Running a bed and
breakfast isn’t the same as doing the books at the manor.”
“Of course not, but how hard can it be? I’d do the books and the catering, and
you can be the houseboy.”
“This doesn’t strike you as a disaster waiting to happen? You have seen Fawlty
Towers, right?”
“Of course, but that was a scripted television show, not real life. We’d only
take one booking at a time, and we’d be very selective.”
“How?”
Mycroft paused to think for a few moments. “David might be willing to point
‘appropriate’ clients in our direction.”
“Oh.” Sherlock gave this serious consideration. “That’s not a very profitable
business model.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
Sherlock took a rather large swig of his Scotch. “True… but you’ll have to
explain to Mummy what you’re doing with the money.”
“Of course, but I doubt she’ll care, as long as it doesn’t interfere with her
clothing allowance. Besides, it’ll barely make a dent in our overall
holdings—certainly nothing they can’t recover from. When she asks, I’ll tell
her I hated my job and needed a break from London. We both wanted to move to
the country, so we purchased a house on ‘The English Riviera’ and we’re
renovating it. It’s all true. I would never lie to her.”
“You’ve never told her we’re sleeping together,” Sherlock said, sardonically.
He quirked a smile. “She’s never asked. She’s also unlikely to ask if we’re
running a kinky bed and breakfast. Some things are better left unmentioned.”
“True.”
Mycroft continued thinking out loud. “We’ll buy a place and turn it into a
boutique hotel—one that has a single room available. We’ll renovate,
soundproof—”
Sherlock smirked.
“—run high-speed internet access, decorate the place impeccably, and then we
add our stunning collection of dungeon furniture and toys. We won’t publicise
it, at least not around here. David can vet our potential clients as
responsible members of the community, and then we open it for kinky couple’s
weekends.”
Sherlock was at a loss for words.
Mycroft shrugged. “I’d visit.”
***** Renovations *****
Mycroft walked into the kitchen, his normally perfect grooming marred by the
plaster dust coating the bottoms of his trousers. “I swear it would be quicker
to renovate this place ourselves,” he said to Sherlock, who’d just finished
washing the dishes from their lunch. “They said they’d have the hallway
finished last week, and at this rate, it won’t be done until Thursday.”
Sherlock winced a half-smile in reply. “Sorry, I’m not up on my plastering.” He
brushed some dust from Mycroft’s shoulder. “The plumbers phoned — they’re going
to deliver the new bath tomorrow.”
“Oh, that’ll be good. At least we’ll be able to have a nice, long soak.”
The place was coming along, but not nearly as quickly as they’d hoped or
expected. When they’d purchased the elegant three-storey house in early March,
they’d hoped to open up for business before the end of the summer. The date
came and went. The dodgy September weather drove the tourists back to their
daily lives and the master suite still wasn’t finished; they’d lost the summer
to the never-ending invasion of a contractor army.
Their own bedrooms — they had to keep up appearances for the outside world —
were mostly complete, as was the kitchen and small dining area. They’d taken to
sleeping in the larger of the two bedrooms, with the second one converted into
a temporary study for Sherlock. They’d both share the main study eventually,
but Sherlock’s newfound interest in geology had clashed somewhat with Mycroft’s
desire for a bit of peace and quiet after long days of dealing with the
workmen’s power tools.
The logistics of opening a bed and breakfast, even a tiny one, went well beyond
what they’d imagined. Just updating the house to have proper plumbing and a
post-war electrical system had taken months, and the new room layout and the
soundproofing made it necessary to strip parts of it down to the bare beams.
They each took responsibility for different contractors and different aspects
of the project; it would have killed them if they hadn’t. More to the point,
they’d have strangled each other, and not in an ‘exciting breath-play’ sort of
way.
Neither of them had been bored, but sometimes they’d both longed for it. Even
Sherlock. They’d mostly been exhausted. On those nights when even reading
seemed like too much effort, they curled up together on the sofa and watched
films. Sometimes silly ones. Despite Sherlock’s periodic claims to the
contrary, Mycroft’s sense of humour had not been surgically removed at birth.
They hadn’t even got to the decorating stage. Their bondage furniture currently
existed in a purgatory otherwise known as Exeter Personal Storage and would be
retrieved after they finalised their decisions on paint colours and carpet and
linens and a plethora of other things that made Mycroft’s brain hurt every time
he thought about them. He was sorely tempted to leave all the choices up to
Sherlock, but then they’d end up with something exotic like dark purple —
attractive on Sherlock but less so when it came to carpet or wall colour. He
wanted something that said ‘refined and classy’, which inevitably meant
something in a light neutral, which was a shame, really. He supposed the other
colours would be fine as accents.
As he lay in bed that night, he pressed a gentle kiss to the back of Sherlock’s
neck. Despite the dust and noise and frustration and chaos, he never regretted
their decision to leave London for a second. They were here. Together.
===============================================================================
Mycroft smiled as he closed the door on the retreating figure of the carpet
contractor. That was the last of the workmen. They’d finally finished the
renovation, and the decorating, and now they could get on with retrieving their
‘interesting’ furniture and all the other things that could incriminate them to
outside observers. It was early April. With any luck, they’d be open by May.
On hearing the front door close, Sherlock breezed into the hallway. “We did it,
and we didn’t even kill anyone.”
“Or each other,” Mycroft said, pulling Sherlock in for a kiss. “Both of which
are small miracles. I need a holiday.”
“I need a drink.”
“We can make one of those things happen.”
They went into the study, where they kept the scotch and the good crystal.
As Mycroft poured them each a glass, Sherlock pressed against his back and
kissed his neck in an effort at distraction. “Hurry up with those. We should
celebrate the last of those overly curious bastards.”
Mycroft slid around beneath his embrace and handed him a glass. “Indeed.
Cheers, love. To us.”
“To us.”
They both took a sip. The dusky smoke of the alcohol played across their
palettes as they kissed. Somehow it erased Mycroft’s earlier exhaustion and
replaced it with the urge to bend his brother over the desk — and it seemed
Sherlock felt much the same way.
Sherlock had already abandoned his drink in favour of undoing the buttons on
Mycroft’s shirt. “I’m so glad you stopped wearing suits all the time. This is
much more efficient.”
Mycroft started to reciprocate, but stopped and sat in the desk chair. Sherlock
gave him a confused look.
“I want to watch you undress.”
Sherlock smiled and positioned himself a few feet away from his brother. He
held eye contact as he slowly sucked one finger into his mouth, then he pulled
it over his lower lip and carefully undid the first button on his shirt.
“Tart,” Mycroft said, lovingly. “Always putting on a show.”
“That’s why you love me,” he replied with a grin, undoing another button.
Mycroft mirrored his actions and was already out of his shirt as Sherlock
rubbed his still-damp fingertip across his own nipple and licked his lips.
“Come here, you gorgeous tease,” Mycroft said, and pulled his brother into his
lap. Sherlock straddled him and started to undo his trousers, but his efforts
faltered as Mycroft squeezed one of his nipples. His eyes fluttered closed.
“Enjoying that?”
“Stupid question,” Sherlock murmured, which earned him a chastising pinch. He
ran his hands across Mycroft’s chest, then dipped to claim his unmarked neck.
“Mycroft?” he said, in a low voice that made Mycroft’s legs weak.
“Hm?”
“Will you let me fuck you?”
Mycroft tensed up and willed himself not to panic. He didn’t respond, but the
silence went on too long to be anything but a ‘no’.
Sherlock heaved a sigh and climbed off his lap. Mycroft reached out after him
but he pulled away.
“I’m sorry, Sherlock. You know we’ve talked about this before. I just can’t.”
“We haven’t talked about it — you just tell me we can’t and that’s the end of
the discussion,” Sherlock said bitterly with his back to Mycroft. He took a
hefty swig of the scotch and started to put his clothes back on, but his
slumped shoulders indicated resignation more than the desire for a fight.
“Stop — please don’t. We can discuss this properly.”
Sherlock zipped his trousers and sat on the edge of the desk. He didn’t bother
putting on his shirt. “I’m listening.” He crossed his arms and fixed him with a
stare that was equal parts judgement and curiosity.
He grasped for words but nothing came out, and his silence only confirmed what
Sherlock had stated: there wouldn’t be a discussion.
It wasn’t that he wouldn’t explain — he couldn’t. He couldn’t formulate the
argument; there was no logical basis for his fear. There had to be some logical
reason he couldn’t allow it, but there wasn’t — not one that didn’t involve
control issues or Jonathan or his fear that Sherlock might leave him if the
power dynamic between them changed.
The idea of talking about it made him break out in a cold sweat.
“Did you hear the part where I said, ‘I’m listening’, or is silence your new
version of ‘I can’t’?”
“It’s not … simple.”
“I’ve got plenty of time.” Bitterness bled in around the edges of Sherlock’s
voice.
Unable to think of anything that would satisfy him, he merely said, “I’m
sorry.”
“You don’t trust me.”
“That’s not true and you know it.” He fell back on the one thing Sherlock
wouldn’t question. “Just thinking about it makes me … you know … Jonathan.” It
wasn’t a lie — he’d always bottomed in that relationship — it just wasn’t the
whole truth.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes and bit out, “I’m not Jonathan.”
Mycroft felt helpless. He hadn’t meant to imply that, and he was sure Sherlock
knew it, but this escalating war of words wasn’t going to end well. “No, I
know. You’re nothing like him. I’m sorry.” He couldn’t give up control in their
relationship. They’d worked with the same dynamic for so long it had become
like breathing, and if they went down this path, one day Sherlock was going to
ask to crop him again, and then what would he do?
“Are you ever going to let me fuck you?”
He’d never let anyone penetrate him since Jonathan, not even David. It was just
sex and it seemed ridiculous to be so arbitrary about it, but … logic wasn’t in
play here. “Why do you want this so badly? Is it a control thing? The novelty
factor?”
Sherlock gave a quick laugh. “Honestly?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I just … want to. I think you’d enjoy it. People used to tell me I was
good.” He shrugged.
“And?” There was more to it than that, there had to be.
“And nothing.” He scowled as he slid off the desk and stalked over to the
window. “It’s not like I have a secret plan to overthrow you: ‘one fuck and
you’ll be on your knees begging to be my slave’. I know you better than that.
Besides, that’s not my thing.”
The irony of it was, it wasn’t his thing either. He might be a switch, but not
when it came to Sherlock.
“I’m not trying to push you into anything — you know I’m not — but I think it’s
time you tried to move beyond things with Jonathan. It’s been four years.”
“I know how long it’s been,” he snapped, but then he sighed, suddenly exhausted
by the whole conversation. He followed him to the window and gently placed his
hands on his shoulders. Sherlock flinched but didn’t pull away; he didn’t turn
around either. “I’m sorry,” Mycroft said, “can we just not fight about this?
Please?”
When Sherlock spoke, all the fight had gone out of his voice, replaced by
weariness. “All your control issues — one day you’re going to snap, you know.”
“Please? I don’t want —”
He turned around and cupped Mycroft’s cheek. “Okay.”
Relief flowed through him; a temporary truce — ignoring the situation again —
was better than nothing.
Sherlock refilled his glass and raised it in a toast. Looking cautiously
optimistic, he said, “To the Torquay Arms.”
Mycroft glanced around; the transformed building represented months of work and
the promise of a new life for both of them, but only if they could both stay
sane. “To us.”
 
***** David *****
Throughout the renovation, their relationship with David — despite his distance
from Torquay — continued much as it had before. Their times together were less
frequent, but the unique nature of his job allowed some flexibility with his
schedule, and every few weeks he’d manage to come and stay for a night or two.
It made the loneliness of life in a new town more bearable. Other times, in
between contractors, they’d gone up to London and stayed with him.
It wasn’t as if they’d set anything in stone, but the ‘friends with benefits’
boat had long since sailed. A two-year sexual relationship, even a casual one,
couldn’t be dismissed as something meaningless. They’d been with David for
twice as long as Mycroft had been with Jonathan, and letting something as
trivial as distance come between them was unthinkable.
Slowly though, the ease with which they’d fallen into bed together crumbled.
Whereas before they’d seen each other almost daily and already knew what was
going on, they now spent more time catching up on the details of each other’s
lives. Now, there was more talk than sex. Not that it was bad, per se, but he
had limited time to visit and their focus shifted back into the realm of ‘just
friends’.
No one was to blame, it just didn’t work anymore.
Near the end of their renovation he showed up for a visit, as excited as a new
puppy, talking about Sandeep, a new accountant with the firm that did his
books. (For tax purposes, he was a “relationship consultant”.) Over dinner and
drinks, more drinks than they usually had, they discussed whether he should ask
him out, all of them knowing David couldn’t keep his job a secret forever, not
in a serious relationship.
They drank some more and the night turned maudlin, and they toasted the end of
their own extended relationship — a splendid thing, but doomed to failure by
distance and the British railway system.
Nursing hangovers the next morning, they discussed Sandeep again, this time
while eating dry toast to soothe their roiling stomachs. Even nauseous, David
couldn’t help but smile each time he said his name.
Sherlock said the obvious. “You have to try. You’d be stupid not to.” He’d
resigned himself months ago to the fact that his days as David’s sub were
numbered, and had told Mycroft as much.
Still, the evening had left Mycroft tugging at a thread of regret over the lost
possibility of ever subbing for David himself. It wasn’t that he felt an
immediate need, but now that the option was slipping from his grasp, he felt a
vague sense of panic that those needs would never be fulfilled.
He did what he always did: he repressed his emotions and made more tea.
When David asked Sherlock if he’d mind going to the shop to get the paper,
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’ll leave you two alone to talk about me.”
“Not everything is about you,” David said.
“A bigger shame,” he replied, and went to find his coat.
“How is everything with you two?” he asked, once Sherlock had left.
“Fine,” Mycroft said, quickly enough to sound convincing. (And they were fine,
for the most part, as long as they both carefully avoided the massive hole that
defined his relationship with submission and pain.)
“Sounds like a ringing endorsement.” David knew him well enough not to be
fooled, apparently.
Mycroft didn’t dignify the comment with a reply.
“Anything I can do?”
“It’s fine. It really is.”
“Okay,” he said, looking a bit helpless. “If you ever need to talk things out,
I’m here.”
“Thanks.”
“Can I ask you something personal though?”
“More personal than that?” Mycroft said, smiling a little, because this was
David, and of course he could.
“I’ve always wondered something. When we met, you told me you were a switch.”
His stomach, previously calmed by the toast, lurched for reasons that had
nothing to do with alcohol. This was precisely the last thing he wanted to talk
about. And yet, with the possibility of doing anything about it slipping away,
it was also something he desperately wanted to discuss. He took another bite of
toast to avoid saying anything immediately, and nodded.
“Did you ever pursue that with him?”
He didn’t meet David’s eyes, and instead got up and walked over to the window.
He stared out at the clouds over the English Channel.
“I take it that’s a ‘no’? Sorry. We don’t have to talk about this.”
Mycroft turned to face him. “No, it’s … yeah. It’s a trainwreck. Every time it
comes up. I just can’t.”
“And he takes it personally?”
“Of course.”
David’s lips tightened into a grim line. “I guess a trip to the shop isn’t long
enough to talk about this?”
“I can’t sub for him. I can’t give up control.”
“What about someone else? Me.”
The words felt like a punch to the gut, and he turned around to look out the
window again. The awful truth of it was that he dreaded the thought of subbing
for David almost as much as he wanted it. Ceding control was a slippery slope,
and he didn’t want that slope to end at Sherlock’s feet. “I can’t. And besides,
Sandeep.”
“I haven’t asked him out yet.”
Mycroft gave him a pointed look.
David shrugged and said, “I don’t want you to repress things you shouldn’t.”
“I’m not a charity case,” he replied bitterly.
“I didn’t say —”
“— sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” Mycroft cut in. “I just can’t deal with
this now. I’d like to, but I can’t.”
“Do you think it’s going to hurt things between you?”
“No more than it has since we were kids.”
David looked horrified, and Mycroft realised he’d never told him about their
long and strange history of shared pain.
“That’s … really not what it sounds like. I assure you there was no abuse
involved. He discovered me … well, you know, with someone, with a riding crop.
Wanted to try it for himself.”
“Wow.”
“It’s a lot more complicated than that, but I promise you it was at his behest
and there was no sexual interaction until we were both adults.”
“Wow,” David said again, seemingly at a loss for anything more coherent to say.
They lapsed into silence for a while. Then Mycroft said, “Edinburgh …”
“Sorry?”
“On his sixteenth birthday, he tracked me down in Edinburgh and brought my
riding crop with him. He begged for a chance to use it on me, and I finally
gave in.”
“And?”
“I had what can charitably be described as a nervous breakdown. I was in love
with him by that point, but wracked with guilt about it and desperate not to
let him find out.”
“He didn’t know?”
“He did, in an intuitive sense. He didn’t understand why it was such a big
deal. He thought we should be together if we wanted that. And he thought I
should have pain if I wanted that. Hence the crop.”
“Oh. And when you gave in?”
Mycroft bit his lip to focus on something else for a second, to drive back his
emotions as the sense memories from that beating overwhelmed him, as if it had
been yesterday, not years ago. Pain, Sherlock, love, pleasure, pain, Sherlock,
pleasure, guilt, need. The feelings were just as strong now, and just as
terrifying. A sense of something so much larger than he could ever control, and
the reason he’d run from it all in the first place. “When I gave in, it was
everything I’d ever needed, and I sent him away because it was something I
could never be allowed to have.”
“That’s really …” David said, but trailed off.
“You can say it.”
“… fucked up,” he finished, with an apologetic look.
“I know,” Mycroft said, resigned.
“So what’re you going to do about it?”
“Nothing. It’s worked fine for me until now and I don’t see why it can’t
continue.”
David frowned at him. “That’s not healthy.”
“I never said it was. I just said it seemed to be working.”
“Can I offer my advice?”
“I’m sure you’re going to anyway,” Mycroft said, sarcastically, and then added
a “sorry”, because there was no call for rudeness.
“You need to come to terms with it somehow, or at least talk it through with
Sherlock. Bottling it up … you want to talk lack of control? It’s going to hit
you out of nowhere one day and there won’t be a thing you can do about it.”
He didn’t have a response. David was most likely right, but it didn’t change
his decision. “I appreciate the advice.”
David gave a small huff. “Yeah, sure you do. Look, if this thing with Sandeep
works out … obviously I can’t leave an open offer for everything, but I’m
always willing to talk about this, help you work through it.”
“Thanks. I’ll let you know.”
“And Hell might freeze over,” David said, with enough of a smile that Mycroft
knew he wasn’t going to hold it against him.
***** Open for Business (Plot Outline) *****
Chapter Notes
     This chapter is in plot outline form. Please see the Author's Note at
     the beginning of the work for details.
They open the Torquay Arms to customers the following May. Their clientele is
mainly straight couples, and initially Sherlock isn’t involved sexually, only
doing houseboy duties and helping to run the place. He quickly gets bored. When
they have their first gay couple come to visit, he has the ‘brilliant idea’
that he could join in. Mycroft is crushed that he isn’t enough for Sherlock and
consults David.
David points out that Mycroft needs to rein him in again, as he did before.
Sherlock needs structure. He suggests that Sherlock could work as a sort of
‘sexual houseboy’, attending to the sexual needs of well-supervised or
previously-vetted clients. Sherlock is, predictably, thrilled by the idea
(especially since it’s more or less what he proposed in the first place, but
now it’s David’s idea).
David sends one of his friends to visit, and Sherlock subs for him. Mycroft is
there, supervising and observing. He’s reassured by David’s ability to vet
clients, but incredibly jealous about the whole thing, and he won’t let
Sherlock do it again. He reminds Sherlock of everything they’ve been through
together and how much it took to get to this place in their lives. He worries
that this will split them up and offers to do anything in order to keep their
relationship intact, even moving back to London if that’s what it takes.
Sherlock calls David and says Mycroft is being unreasonable. David says he’s
not getting involved.
They have a huge fight about it, and Mycroft backs down, worried that Sherlock
will leave if he doesn’t get his way. He’s willing to do anything to get him to
stay, and — in the grand scheme of things — the session with David’s friend
hadn’t been too bad. He just has to get over his jealousy. He decides he can do
that.
David sends down another friend, Sherlock subs for him, and it goes well. David
assures Mycroft he’ll continue to vet these ‘special’ clients using his
contacts in the BDSM community. They make up a small portion of their customer
base at first, and it’s not something Sherlock does full-time.
They settle into a routine. Mycroft adjusts and gets over his jealousy issues,
and Sherlock thrives in his new role as an ‘amenity’.
===============================================================================
They’ve been in business for about a year when Greg visits. (See chapters 1-15,
haha.) It’s 2006.
On the second night of Greg’s visit, after the day at the beach, things seem
fine. The three of them have sex, and neither Sherlock nor Mycroft seem to be
jealous, but Greg steers clear of any sort of D/s play with Mycroft due to his
previously distressed reaction. They all sleep in the same room again. It’s an
early night and they’re all asleep by 10:30.
Sherlock wakes up about an hour later. He’s used to sleeping with Mycroft, who
normally drapes an arm over him, and it’s strange to wake up with no one
touching him. He looks over and sees Greg, with his arm draped across Mycroft
in the same way, and he snaps. He’s convinced Mycroft has fallen for Greg
(which he has) and will leave him (which … he won’t, but Sherlock can’t see
that).
He leaves in the middle of the night and drives to London. He’s not sure what
to do. He doesn’t want to go to David, because he blames him almost as much as
Greg. (It was David’s stupid idea — he was supposed to vet Greg, and now
Mycroft doesn’t need me anymore.) He has to get out of Torquay. (I’ll go back
to London. I liked it there, and it’s exciting. I don’t need Mycroft and
Mycroft clearly doesn’t need me.)
He’s in a very dark place emotionally. He feels hurt and betrayed, and he
responds by running and being self-destructive.
It’s a long drive so he stops and buys caffeine pills on the way. He’s still
wound up when he gets there, and goes to a club in Soho because he wants to
burn off some energy and find some of the excitement he’s looking for. He’s
starting to think the club is boring and stupid when a good-looking guy starts
flirting with him.
Mycroft wakes up shortly after Sherlock has left. He fears the worst but hopes
Sherlock has just gone back to their own bedroom. He tells Greg not to worry,
he’ll be right back. The bedroom is empty. He tries to tell himself Sherlock
has just gone for a walk, but he doesn’t really believe it. He phones him and
gets no answer, so he throws on some clothes and runs up the adjacent road to
where they park the car, far enough to be able to see that it’s gone. When he
gets back, Greg is waiting for him, looking just as panicked as Mycroft feels.
Mycroft, to put it charitably, has a fit. He doesn’t know what to do. Greg
talks him down a bit. It’s only about midnight, so — figuring Sherlock might
have gone to London, and not knowing anyone else who can help — Mycroft calls
David. Unfortunately, David hasn’t heard from him.
Greg offers to go to London to find him (although realistically, there’s not
much he’d be able to do, even with the resources of the Met). Mycroft asks him
to stay. He doesn’t want to leave in case Sherlock comes back, and he can’t
bear the thought of being alone all night. Mycroft is a wreck, inconsolable,
and Greg realises how delicate the relationship between Mycroft and Sherlock
is, and how careful he has to be. He doesn’t want to disturb it any more than
he already has.
Back in London, Sherlock is telling the stranger how intelligent and amazing he
(Sherlock) is. The guy puts up with this for a while, because Sherlock is
pretty and he’s hoping to get laid, but when it becomes clear that he’s only
interested in explaining how clever he is, the guy gets bored and leaves.
Sherlock tries telling other people how brilliant he is, to similar effect.
Disgusted, he leaves the club and wanders Soho, ending up at an all-night
coffee place with other people who have made their way out of the clubs. But
even the caffeine buzz from a double espresso can’t distract him from thoughts
of Mycroft.
Sherlock is still hurt and angry, but he misses Mycroft and starts to realise
coming to London might have been a mistake. He goes to David’s flat — it’s
still before dawn — and rings the doorbell until someone answers. It’s Sandeep,
who doesn’t have a clue who he is, and Sherlock has to explain that he’s not
some raving lunatic. (It’s a hard sell.) Meanwhile, David comes to the door,
and is immensely glad to see him.
“Mycroft doesn’t need me anymore. He doesn’t want me.”
“He’s been looking everywhere for you. Do you have any idea the state he’s in?”
“He’s in love with Greg.”
“Don’t be stupid. They’ve known each other for, what, just over a day? Also,
how is it any different from all the sex you have with clients?”
“He subbed for him.”
“Oh.”
David goes quiet, because he knows how much that means. He convinces Sherlock
to phone Mycroft to at least let him know he’s okay.
Mycroft is incredibly relieved, tells Sherlock how much he needs him, and
convinces him to come home.
Sherlock is in no state to drive, being sleep deprived and due for a caffeine
crash any second. Normally it would make sense for him to take the train back
and come back to London to get the car later, but David doesn’t trust him to
get there. (There’s at least one connection he could sleep through and miss.)
David offers to drive him back to Devon (in Sherlock’s car), and then take the
train back to London.
Back in Devon, Greg and Mycroft are profoundly relieved. Greg, who feels at
fault for all of this, says he’ll leave immediately. He doesn’t want to do any
more damage. But Mycroft doesn’t feel he’s to blame and asks him to stay at
least until morning. It’ll be another four hours before Sherlock is back and
Mycroft doesn’t want to be alone while he’s feeling so wrung out.
As they wait for Sherlock, Mycroft attempts to explain to Greg the complex
dynamics surrounding his desire to sub, his desire for pain, and his inability
to cede control to Sherlock.
During the process of talking to Greg, he sorts through some of his feelings
about the whole situation and it becomes crystal clear to him that as much as
he may have enjoyed subbing for Greg, and as much as he may need it on some
level, his relationship with Sherlock is more important. He needs to figure out
how to repair that before he does anything else.
Greg points out that Mycroft could quench his desire for pain by letting
Sherlock crop him — just not in a dominant way. It wouldn’t do anything to
fulfil his need to sub, but it’d be something.
This is a revelation to Mycroft. His experience in Edinburgh had been so
emotionally charged that compartmentalising pain/pleasure and his submission
needs (like Sherlock does with sex and emotional attachment with the guests)
hasn’t occurred to him before. It gives him hope that he might be able to
satisfy at least some of his needs, while also making Sherlock happier in the
process. After all, Sherlock isn’t looking for submission from him, he wants to
crop Mycroft because Mycroft enjoys the pain. It dawns on him that the same is
true for Sherlock wanting to fuck him — it’s not because he wants him to lose
control, Sherlock just thinks it’d be enjoyable for them (which Sherlock has
told him, but he’s never really grasped).
Greg apologises for making such a mess of things, and Mycroft tells him it
wasn’t his fault. He was just the catalyst in a situation that had been brewing
for a while — one that David had tried to warn him about.
Greg leaves, with no hard feelings between them. He still feels bad about
inadvertently upending Mycroft’s relationship and hopes there’s been no
permanent damage. He’s disappointed it hadn’t worked out — the deep connection
he’d felt with Mycroft had been the first he’d had in ages, and topping
Sherlock had been a lot of fun as well — but he figures he was lucky to have
had the time he did with them.
Sherlock arrives home with David, exhausted. He’s immensely relieved to find
Mycroft eager to see him — and not with Greg. He’d worried throughout the
drive, sure that Mycroft would want to end their relationship because only Greg
could give him the domination he craved. He’d been convinced the sole reason
Mycroft wanted him back in Torquay was for his own safety.
They have an emotional reunion, in which Mycroft explains to Sherlock that he
is the main priority in his life, and all other things come secondary to that.
Sherlock returns the sentiment.
David wants to hang out for a bit and chat, since he hasn’t seen Mycroft in a
while. Sherlock wants to get a few hours of sleep. Now that he’s finally been
reassured of Mycroft’s love, he can barely stay awake. He heads off for a nap.
Mycroft makes David some breakfast, and they start talking about what happened.
He tells David about Greg’s idea that Sherlock crop him, and they discuss how
Mycroft feels about it. Since its genesis only a few hours previously, he can’t
stop thinking about it. The thought that he might be able to once again have
some of the euphoria of Edinburgh — but without the guilt and the nervous
breakdown — is intoxicating, especially now that Sherlock is home and doesn’t
appear to be harbouring any grudges. He wants to know what David thinks about
the whole thing.
David grills him on the submission and control aspects, worried that this will
result in a bigger mess if he has another meltdown like he did with Greg (and
with Sherlock, in Edinburgh). Mycroft concedes the point, but believes he can
work past that as long as he compartmentalises it. David also worries that
Sherlock won’t know how to handle the crop properly — something he can help
solve.
When Sherlock wakes up, a few hours later, the three of them discuss it. He’s
as excited as Mycroft had hoped he’d be by the idea. David and Sherlock have a
short, private session together where he shows him how to use the crop properly
and lets Sherlock practice on him. Mycroft isn’t there, because putting
Mycroft, Sherlock, and a crop in the same room is going to be very charged,
even if Sherlock is just practicing, and David wants to let them have that
experience to themselves.
With a “good luck”, David heads back to London.
***** Behind Closed Doors *****
As soon as they’d closed the front door, they practically fell on each other in
a kiss, full of passion, and relief, and desperation.
“I’m so sorry —”
“— it’s not your fault, I should have known,” Mycroft cut in. “I got caught up,
and I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay —” Sherlock started, but Mycroft kissed him again, before they could
waste any more words. “Say you won’t abandon me?”
Mycroft shook his head. “You mean too much to me. Please don’t run again?”
“I thought you —”
“It’s okay. Just promise me you won’t leave without … I mean, if we’d talked …”
“I know. I’ll say something next time. I wasn’t thinking.”
They kissed again, and this time, relief bloomed into passion and escalated
from there. They headed to their personal bedroom and Mycroft closed the door
behind them.
“I want you to crop me,” Mycroft said.
It wasn’t a surprise to Sherlock, given that David had just given him lessons,
but his breath caught anyway. He’d never expected to hear the words from his
brother’s lips. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve wanted it for ten years.”
“Since Edinburgh?”
“Since before that, really,” Mycroft admitted.
“How do you want it? Clothed, naked?”
Mycroft didn’t bother with an answer, just started stripping.
“Is it okay if I …?” he asked, and Mycroft nodded. He got rid of his clothes as
well. There was no point in pretending he wouldn’t get off on this; he might as
well be expedient about it.
Mycroft stood in front of him, naked and half-hard, already a little
breathless.
“Red, yellow, green,” Sherlock said, “and for fuck’s sake, don’t wait until
it’s too late to use them if you need to.”
“I know.”
“Where?”
Mycroft hurried over to their bed and bent over the side, stretching his arms
above his head to grab on to the covers. In that position, his long legs placed
his arse slightly higher than the top of the bed, presenting it perfectly to
Sherlock for cropping.
“Oh, Mycroft,” he said, his tone a mixture of reverence and lust, “this looks a
lot different without clothes.” Unable to help himself, he grabbed the crop and
started rubbing the leather tip of it over Mycroft’s unmarked skin. “Tell me …
tell me when —”
“— do it, please!”
He landed the first smack, not too hard, the way David had shown him.
“Yes, come on!” Mycroft begged.
He let loose a small volley of stinging slaps and got a sigh of pleasure for
his efforts.
“Harder.”
He increased the intensity, and Mycroft pushed his arse up towards Sherlock
like an offering. He rubbed the crop back and forth along the crease between
his legs and his arse cheeks, teasing. When Mycroft keened with anticipation,
he hit him hard there, three times, and then moved in parallel lines up across
his arse. He sagged onto the bed.
“Too much?”
“No,” he said, his voice ragged, “keep going.”
“You have to tell me when to —”
“I will. Just keep going!”
He did, and soon his arse had a ladder of red marks.
“Okay,” Mycroft said, “get the lube.” His speech was round-edged and slurred.
“Sorry?” he replied, incredulous.
“You’re going to fuck me.”
Sherlock looked at him like he’d lost his mind.
With what looked like great effort, Mycroft propped himself up and turned to
look at him. “— if you have no objections, of course,” he added with a smile.
He bolted for the bedside table and came back with the lube. “Are you sure?”
“Does it help you to know I made this decision before we started?”
“Yes,” Sherlock said, and opened the lube. “How was the cropping?”
“You’re not done yet.”
“Sorry?”
“I want you to open me up, then crop me until I can’t take it, and then fuck me
until I come. Understood?”
He was too stunned to do anything more than nod.
“Next time —”
“Next time?” Sherlock interrupted.
“— yes, assuming this works out — I’ll plan ahead and be ready for you.”
Sherlock, who’d already been turned on from watching Mycroft enjoy his
cropping, was now as hard as a rock. The thought of his brother, wet and open
for him, ready to take his cock, made him lightheaded. The idea that he wanted
that …
He carefully prepped him with his fingers, relishing the soft velvet heat that
surrounded them. When Mycroft was taking three and rutting against his hand, he
said, “I think you’re ready.”
Mycroft ‘assumed the position’ to be cropped once more. “I’ll say ‘yellow’ when
I can only take a few more strokes. Then make the last ones a bit harder until
I say ‘red’. Then I’ll turn over and you’ll fuck me. Don’t be tentative. I’ll
tell you if I want you to back off.”
“What … if I can’t last until you come?”
“You know how to stave off an orgasm. Don’t disappoint me.”
===============================================================================
With Sherlock’s first strokes of the crop, Mycroft was transported back to
Edinburgh: the elation and the thrill, but then a tug of panic. But instead of
repressing the panic, he acknowledged its presence, accepted that it was
irrational and unfounded, and let it slip away harmlessly. With the next smack
came ‘Sherlock’,and then ‘love’, and then pain-joy-freedom-hunger-need-bliss.
He begged for more. It had been so long. So, so long.
He could feel himself slipping away already, and he wanted Sherlock to anchor
him here afterwards. He needed him to know that he finally understood, that he
could be flexible in their relationship without sacrificing his own need for
control. He’d enjoyed it when Greg had taken him; he wanted Sherlock to take
him now.
When Sherlock opened him up, he’d writhed on his fingers, desperate for his
cock, but he wanted to push himself as far as he could before he gave in.
This second round of blows was harsher. He’d be sore tomorrow, but he didn’t
care. He pushed his arse higher in the air and the force of the strokes
increased. He half-moaned, half-nodded his approval. When he started to pull
away from the crop, when it started to become too much, he said, “yellow”. This
wasn’t the time for establishing his upper limits on pain. As requested,
Sherlock gave him a harder blow, and he took two of them, enjoying them, riding
them out before saying, “red”.
It took more concentration than he’d expected to turn over onto his back. In
some ways, he wanted to lie there forever and bask in the glow. But in a much
more immediate way, he wanted Sherlock’s cock inside him.
“You okay?” Sherlock said, looking down at him, his face full of love and
concern as he touched Mycroft’s cheek.
“Never better.” Mycroft had simply flipped over, and his arse was still at the
edge of the bed, in the perfect position for Sherlock. He wrapped one leg
around his waist and pulled him closer. “You?”
Sherlock nodded.
“Then be so kind as to fuck me senseless.” He couldn’t help but notice the
slurring of his words.
“I think you’re already a bit senseless.”
“Then senseless…-er.”
Sherlock laughed as he slicked up his cock. “I rest my case.”
Mycroft hooked his arms under his knees and pulled them back, spreading his
cheeks and putting his arse on full display.
Sherlock’s eyes went wide, and he paused to run a slick finger across his hole,
circling it, as if he didn’t quite expect this all to be real.
“This wasn’t what we agreed on,” Mycroft said, a smile on his lips.
It seemed to shake him out of his disbelief and a look of hunger replaced the
dazed expression. “You’re right.” He stepped forward and nudged the tip of his
cock against his stretched hole.
Mycroft shifted, pressing against it but unable to find the leverage to do
more. “Come on,” he hissed.
Sherlock — finally — took him at his word, and buried his cock to the hilt in
one strong push.
Mycroft’s face went slack with bliss as he started pounding into him. So many
sensations: the fullness, the drag-slide of his brother’s cock against his
hole, the feel of Sherlock’s balls against his skin each time he slammed back
into him, his own cock, bouncing against his stomach, begging for attention it
wouldn’t get. No, this orgasm was Sherlock’s to give him.
When Sherlock grabbed his cheeks and hoisted him higher, the next thrust
glanced across his prostate, and Mycroft cried out. Sherlock gave him a wicked
grin. Another thrust hit the same spot, and he struggled to catch his breath.
“You like that?”
He nodded, and Sherlock pulled out. Mycroft keened.
“I need more leverage,” he said. “Move up the bed.”
Once they were both there, Sherlock knelt between his legs. Mycroft hooked his
arm behind his knee and pulled it back towards his chest, letting his other leg
fall wide.
Sherlock grinned down at him and lined up his cock. When he pushed in, it slid
home with no resistance, even better in this position than the last. Once
again, he set a steady pace before interspersing his thrusts with ones he knew
would hit his prostate, never regularly enough to be predictable.
Never let it be said Sherlock was boring.
“God, I’ve wanted this,” he said, still pounding into him. “Never thought you’d
let me.”
“Make me come and you can do it again,” Mycroft said, gasping out the sentence
in between strokes.
Sherlock hoisted his arse higher. Now each thrust slid over his prostate and
lit up a shower of sparks across his brain. He didn’t last very long in the new
position. His words devolved into a porn film soundtrack of “Yes — oh — there —
yes — yes”, and a full-on moan as he climaxed, cock pulsing thick trails of
semen onto his stomach.
Sherlock wasn’t quite there, and fucked him hard through his orgasm. It was
just starting to be too much when he came, emptying his load deep inside
Mycroft’s arse.
He pulled out and looked up at Mycroft. “You okay?”
He smiled in response.
Sherlock moved up the bed so he was lying on his side next to him. He reached
down with one finger and toyed with Mycroft’s arse, still slick with lube and a
few drops of come. “Want me to clean this up?” he said, his innuendo-heavy
voice making it obvious he meant to do it with his tongue, not a flannel.
Mycroft kissed him instead, and pulled him closer.
***** A New Life (Plot Outline) *****
Chapter Notes
     This chapter is in plot outline form. Please see the Author's Note at
     the beginning of the work for details.
After their relationship’s upheaval and subsequent strengthening, they come to
a joint decision that Sherlock will stop working as an amenity. They go back to
hosting just couples. Mycroft worries as much about his own weakness (he did
fall for Greg, after all), as he does Sherlock’s.
Sherlock is reasonably content. The new aspects to his relationship are more
emotionally gratifying than the job was, and now that Mycroft has changed his
stance on pain and bottoming, their sex life is more varied and frequent.
However, Mycroft still ignores his own needs for submission. Sherlock lets it
slide for a few months, hoping the incident with Greg will prompt some sort of
discussion, but he seems to have buried it again. He raises the topic and
suggests Mycroft phone Greg. Mycroft asks him if he’s lost his mind.
Sherlock, ever the pragmatist, points out that Greg has something Mycroft
needs. He feels more secure that Mycroft won’t leave, now that he can give him
everything he wants in the pain and sex departments. (And, Sherlock being
Sherlock, he has a pretty high opinion of himself as to what he can provide.)
Mycroft still won’t call Greg, so Sherlock phones him instead. He tells him
that they’ve worked out their relationship, and that he’s no longer working for
the B&B, but that Mycroft still needs to find someone to sub for. Greg is very
reluctant to get involved, still horrified over causing problems in the first
place. That said, he still has some feelings for Mycroft, and certainly a
fondness for his time with both of them (before it all went pear-shaped).
Conflicted, he refuses. When pressed on it, he confesses he’s not sure he could
keep it purely ‘professional’ with Mycroft, and he doesn’t want to ruin the
brothers’ relationship. Sherlock says he appreciates his candour and doesn’t
press the issue.
Sherlock goes back to his brother and says Greg would like Mycroft to sub for
him, and suggests he pursue it. He neglects to mention that Greg said he didn’t
want to get involved.
Mycroft contacts Greg, who immediately tells him everything he’d told Sherlock.
Mycroft is embarrassed but also not surprised, because of course this is the
sort of thing Sherlock would pull. They end up chatting anyway. They both enjoy
the phone call and agree to talk again.
After a few more phone calls, Mycroft hesitantly asks him to visit — just as a
friend, if that’s what he’d like. Greg says he’s willing to try that but
suspects ‘just friends’ is going to be difficult, given the surroundings of the
B&B, and the lack of things to do. He asks if they’d like to visit London
instead.
They combine their trip to London with a visit to see David. He still works as
a professional Dom, but he’s gone into business on the side with his friend who
makes the bondage furniture. They’re hoping to make a go of it so David can
have a ‘legitimate’ business and not have to skirt the law. Sherlock, being
Sherlock, has lots of feedback about their new furniture designs (blunt, but
useful). David sarcastically suggests that he should help design the next one.
They all decide this isn’t a bad idea.
After seeing David, they go and spend the evening with Greg at his flat. He
makes them dinner, and everything is pleasant but very chaste. They talk about
his work at the Met. Mycroft and Sherlock call it a night and stay at a hotel,
which had always been the plan. They meet up with Greg again and go out for
brunch the next day — which had not been the plan, but the evening had gone
well enough to merit it. The spark of attraction is still there between Greg
and Mycroft, but no one is freaking out about it.
Brunch is nice, but no one talks about the elephant in the room, not until
Sherlock brings it up after they’re done eating. “So, are we going to do this
or not?” Mycroft facepalms (and then apologises). The restaurant is not the
place for this discussion, so they go back to Greg’s.
They have a very detailed conversation about who has what needs, where they are
getting them met, and how. Sherlock says that although he’s happy subbing for
Mycroft, he sort of misses working as an amenity and that he’d enjoy subbing
for Greg again. This is the first Mycroft has heard about it, which disappoints
him, but they can discuss that later. Mycroft admits that he needs to sub for
someone, and that being able to combine the submission and the pain components
would be nice every now and then, even though it’s not necessary all the time.
This is all very well, but they’re treating this interaction like it’s a
transaction with a professional Dom. Greg asks them if there’s anything they
want from this that they wouldn’t be able to get from someone like David.
Sherlock says, “I would have thought that was obvious, but are you willing to
get emotionally involved?”
Greg is willing, with the understanding that he’ll leave if any of them starts
having a problem with the arrangement. Sherlock is predictably enthusiastic.
Mycroft, cautiously so. Greg asks if they want to stay instead of going back to
Devon that night.
Sherlock is thrilled and wants to leap right into sex. Mycroft wants to take
things more slowly. They have dinner and watch a film on the sofa, but Sherlock
is fidgety. Greg tells him to go and get them more drinks from the kitchen.
While he does, he checks with Mycroft to see if he’d have a problem with him
dominating Sherlock a bit to calm him down. When he comes back, Greg orders him
to his knees and has him suck them both off. He sits at their feet for the rest
of the film, happy and content to lean against their legs.
Later, sharing a bed, Mycroft works up the nerve to tell Greg he’d very much
like to be the one on his knees next time. Greg is only human and says, “Then
kneel on the floor and show me what you can do with that mouth.” Sherlock
watches enthusiastically. After having Mycroft suck him off, he orders them to
finish themselves off while he watches. Sherlock is gleeful to have another Dom
again, and Mycroft is so turned on he can barely stand it.
The next day, they’re faced with the more mundane question of logistics.
Torquay is almost four hours from London, and not well located for frequent
trips. All three of them agree that they’d like to pursue … something … but not
a primary relationship for any of them. (Greg is not involved in another
relationship which makes it slightly less complicated.)
They work it out so that he comes down to visit a couple times a month; he
works hours that allow him to be flexible with his days off. Sherlock is also
spending time in London working with David at the furniture company. Mycroft
travels with him and they stay with Greg.
Mycroft learns to distinguish between “I’m madly in love with this person” and
“I desperately want to sub for this person”, something he’d not grasped during
their first time with Greg. He’d figured this out — in intellectual terms —
after the incident with Sherlock, but he’s very aware of it as they embark on
this new relationship. What he and Sherlock have must be preserved at all
costs, and Greg understands that.
Sherlock ends up being a key part of the custom erotic furniture and toy
business. His work, both in London and remotely from Torquay, keeps him busier
than he had been when he worked as an amenity. With Mycroft’s agreement (and to
Sherlock’s delight), David uses and ‘abuses’ him regularly as a test subject.
At one point they consider branching out into custom silicone toys. Ultimately
they don’t pursue it, but a prototype cast from Sherlock’s cock is picked up by
a major high-end toy manufacturer, and they make a killing in likeness
royalties. It makes Sherlock crazy that he can’t talk about it with everyone he
meets.
The design business (and toy revenue) does so well that they decide to close
the Torquay Arms. It had never been a money-making concern — more of a personal
project. They turn the main B&B play-space into their personal bedroom suite
and convert their old bedroom into an additional office, which Sherlock uses
for the design firm. They continue to keep the ‘extra’ bedroom as a cover story
for nosey visitors who expect brothers to have separate bedrooms.
Mycroft joins the design firm as its legal advisor. He doesn’t miss his
interactions with the public. Truth be told, he was never much of a people
person. Sherlock gets to model half-naked with bondage equipment for their
catalogue — which is perfect for him, because he gets to show off but doesn’t
have to actually interact with anyone.
In the bedroom, Sherlock still subs for Mycroft, but now it’s just as likely to
be Mycroft bent over the padded sawhorse as it is Sherlock, especially if
there’s a crop involved; Sherlock’s as skilled with it as any Dom. When they’re
with Greg, Mycroft gets to indulge his switch tendencies, and their
relationship with him has developed into a ‘very fond friends with benefits’
situation.
Some days, Mycroft and Sherlock go down to Anstey’s Cove and have a picnic
lunch, and look back in amazement at how — despite all the guilt and pain and
repression they’ve had in their lives — they’ve ended up together. Happy.
And then they go and have sex in one of the caves.
                                       ❦
End Notes
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