Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1020101.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Mycroft_Holmes/Sherlock_Holmes
  Character:
      Mycroft_Holmes, Sherlock_Holmes
  Additional Tags:
      Sibling_Incest, brother_incest, Masturbation, Mycroft_Holmes/Original
      Character(s)_-_Freeform
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-10-27 Updated: 2014-06-07 Chapters: 5/? Words: 2004
****** unseen ******
by thebowtie
Summary
     about things that happen behind closed doors and do not count as
     incest, as long as they remain unseen.
Notes
     this fanfiction is based on my mylock askblog (askmylock.tumblr.com)
     which deals with the incestuous relationship of the holmes brothers.
     i've never written anything in english before and so i'm not quite
     sure whether it makes sense. i'm very open to every kind of review
     and corrector.
     the chapters won't always be in chronologically order, but it will
     always be given in which time they're taking place.
***** the very first time *****
(Mycroft is 24,  Sherlock is 16)
Mycroft always had been quite good when it came to logical thinking and
thinking about the most logical things to do in unpleasant situations. It was
one of his most important characteristics not only considering the position he
wanted to reach, but also in his own opinion.
So in view of this fact he should have reacted as soon as he had observed the
situation. But he had not. He had opened the door to Sherlock’s room. He had
noticed his brother being on the bed, naked and obviously very preoccupied with
himself. He should have turn around and close the door behind him. He should
have never think about it again. But he had not. He was still standing in the
doorway staring at the pale body of his little brother, simply unable to move
or at least look away.
Maybe it was just the fact that he really did not expect this. Because he
absolutely did not. God, he never even imagined it. At least not fully awake.
But even if he maybe had dreamed of this before – nothing could ever compare
with the reality. And it was undoubted the real Sherlock Mycroft was looking
at. His real brother. One hand closed around his cock the other one digging
into the sheets beside him. And he could not help it, but he found himself
instinctly wishing to be the skin under this long fingers; to feel this
slightly open mouth on his very own body.
And he was shocked. Shocked about his forbidden thoughts, about his body’s
reaction betraying him shamelessly. But the worst (and somehow very best) of
all were Sherlock’s eyes. Because Sherlock was fully aware of his presence in
the room. How could he not be? Mycroft had not bothered to open the door
quietly and Sherlock perhaps had been engrossed in his actions, but he was not
that lost. So his grey eyes were glancing at Mycroft. Blown with lust and
despite the darkness much brighter than they usually were. 
After something that felt like an eternity (or so people different from him
might have said, since it was not even a minute he was standing in this
doorway, but it seemed to him like a quite long time), however, he turned
around and left. He walked away and he did not allow himself to stop until he
sat down in his own room door securely closed behind him.
This night he came over the thought of his little brother for the very first
time.
***** there will be oblivion *****
(Mycroft is 24)
People need their time to forget. It takes ages, but eventually it will happen
and even the most dangerous and unpleasant memories will fade. That at least
was what Mycroft was telling himself.
The body that was pressed against his was soft and curvy. Not very surprisingly
for the woman to which it belonged was quite the same. A dark-eyed, tender
creature who stood in perfect contrast to whatever it totally wasn't that
Mycroft didn't want at all. Furthermore she was warm, hot, and she smelled of
sweat and perfume and sex. Her long brown hair was clinging to both their
bodies and her breath was ridiculously heavy in comparison to his. She didn't
seem to notice and he really couldn't blame her. She was the same as all the
others. Nice, with out any doubt, but not what his body was longing for.
He shuddered of the thought how much he’d prefer a slim, male body beneath him
and dark damp curls under his fingers; how very unhelpful of his mind to
remember him. He’d forbidden himself to choose any male partners a few weeks
ago. It never ended well. Not for him. There’s no one who could ever compete
with Sherlock anyways.
And there it was. This name he’d tried to banish from his brain, once again
without any success. Not that he’d tried any hard this time. Probably it was
too late already. He was cursed and it was obvious. It was getting more and
more obvious when his erection twitched just of the thought of his damn
brother, inside a woman, who was chosen so carefully the opposite of everything
Sherlock was to him. And as it seemed Sherlock was everything. His delicious
little brother with his pale skin, his bright eyes and his remarkably intellect
had made a mess out of his mind and there was neither hope nor relief in sight.
The worst thing of all, however, was that a part of him enjoyed that thought of
it, because, oh, Sherlock wouldn't just be a fuck. He’d be so much more. He’d
fit with him, complete him not only physically but on a higher level no one
apart of them even knew about. According to this very perverted and corrupted
part of his mind they could be perfection. And Mycroft didn't need anything
else than this to come apart.
Later on alone again in his flat he might have actually felt the urge to cry,
but he didn't though. It wouldn't be like this forever. He’d forget and in the
end there was no way he had to feel guilt about something that only ever
happened in the depths of his head. And that was where he’d let it happen until
the day he’d wake up and think of something else than of how Sherlock’s
innocence would taste on his lips.
***** the lack of data *****
(Sherlock is 17)
How was there even a way Mycroft did not know? Sherlock shook his head
slightly, eyes closed in half frustation, half amusement. Mycroft simply had to
see it. It was damn obvious, wasn't it? Like - for God's sake - he had walked
in on him. And still Sherlock could tell he didn't know. It was too far from
the possible, probably. Too strange, too...gross. And then when had Sherlock
ever been anything else than that. Maybe there was no way to see this most
obvious detail through all of his grossness. And Mycroft's own silly way of
thinking himself to be so very much more important and smart than anyone else
most likely did it's part too. Sherlock's hand sped up.
In his mind he could see his older brother standing in the doorway. And, ugh,
how ordinary to project it this way over and over again. Jerking off to a
picture couldn't be more odd.
And still it doesn't outdo jerking off to the thought of one's own brother,
does it, Sherly?
Sherlock frowned at the missing data of how the real Mycroft would pronounce
such filthy words. His breathing got more uneven anyway. The eyes of (not
quite) his brother glistened with superiority. Sometimes he wondered whether
his childhood was somehow responsible for this or whether it was simply the way
he was (a freak). Either way it didn't bother him, really. What bothered him
were the close by hand problems. Such as his hand (literally) not being quite
enough. Not when he knew there could be more.
Yes, you'd like that, would you not, brother dear? My hand on your cock. My
mouth. Me inside you.
It sounded empty, not-Mycroft-like, but it was close enough - for his aroused
body anyways.
In the aftermath he usually found himself frustraded at how very little it
needed to make him come - on the one side. On the other side he couldn't help a
cocky smirk thinking of how Mycroft would react to the knowledge of his little
brother getting off so easily to the mere thought of him. It did hardly count
as ordinary to think this way when it was about Mycroft. He wondered lazily
whether Mycroft was still gaining weight. God new it didn't bother him, if
anything he kind of liked it, but it was pleasuring in some way to see him
bothered about it. The come on his stomach was bulidig a cooling pool around
his navel now. Outside the sun was going down already, in a bunch of golden
light and purple white clouds, he narrowed his eyes. He would need rain for the
experiment with the blood stains (what use was it to live in England when the
sun was shining anyways?). He streched out and fetched cigarette from the
drawer of his bedside table. While smoking he tried to decide on the best way
to get more data about Mycroft naked or - even better - in a uniform.
Getting kinky now, are we?
Sherlock smiled silently. Sentiment. Mycroft would laugh at him.
***** the pain of loss *****
Chapter Notes
     there's a gap of several years between this chapter and the last
     ones. I will fill it later, no worries. also i'm not at all sure bout
     the tense I used in this chapter - please tell me if it doesn't make
     any sense at all.
(Mycroft is 27, Sherlock is 21)
Some nights Mycroft would lay awake in his bed, thinking of his brother and his
chest would feel as though it was going to rip to shreds. Indeed it could get
so unbearable that he wished he was dead - a thought he'd never admit to
himself, not even in his darkest hours.
In those nights he'd become painfully aware of what it meant to long for the
presence of another body, not any body, t h a t one body. And the realization
of the full terrible meaning of loving someone, flesh and soul, would hit him
with the force of a bomb. There wouldn't be no explosions to be heard, of
course. In fact, he wouldn't even move. Nothing ever changed. 
He would just lay awake, thinking of his brother, and he would cry. With the
pure and desparate intensity of a man who had lost the only thing he ever
loved, a man who would give everything to undo his own fault, but couldn't -
he'd lost Sherlock.
And it broke his heart.  
 
Miles apart, in the same city, but not necesserily in the same night, Sherlock
Holmes would wake from a trip, tears on his face - unable to even remember why
he felt so empty. 
***** Chapter 5 *****
( Mycroft is 29, Sherlock is 22)
 
There are times when we not quiet know how to proceed with our being; where to
put our living and strangely blunt insides. It was something that always came
suddenly and so Mycroft never cared to wait for it. When a sign showed,
however, he noticed. Sometimes he just knew when he woke up. It had little to
do with what exactly Sherlock was doing. Most times he was already awake, but
lying next to him motionlessly, other times he was still sleeping and two times
he'd been sitting at the edge of the bed next to Mycroft's feet, so he could
only see his pale back. It was rather a feeling deep down in his bones than a
deduction. Or maybe he simply knew without being able to pin point how his mind
got there. Sometimes it wasn't until Sherlock's gaze changed just the moment
before their lips met that he recognized it. Whenever it happened, it made
something shift inside him. Nothing big - in the end it wasn't like they didn't
act tenderly towards each other on other occasions, even in general - but
somehow it made everything feel sweeter in a not-body-bound kind of way neither
of them couldn't quite put into clear thoughts. 
There was something different in the way they hold on each other when the kiss
deepened, the way they undressed same as always, but with their hands lightly
shaking. There was rarely something rushed about it, but they didn't waste time
on unnecessary pausing neither. Their eyes were connected almost all the time
apart from the kisses, but there was no mocking behind them, no challenges or
provocations.
There was no pattern of who was in charge when they lay together on the bed,
the couch, the floor. They just found to each other breathing in and kissing
every part of the other's skin they could reach, their bodies trying to express
all the unspeakable affection and everything they thought was far beyond it. In
those moments there wasn't even the idea of what they had being about
possession, power or rivalry. It was Mycroft giving himself up to his brother
and Sherlock both drowning and somehow being saved in it.  
 
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