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Mycroft entered the refreshed and refurbished rooms of 221B Baker Street, taking a single moment to see that the flat was almost as grotty and cluttered as its previous incarnation. He sighed. He had hoped, with the presence of Dr Watson and young Miss Watson, his brother would make some effort to keep a tidy home. He should have known that the wish was a futile one, knowing his brother as he did.
And he knew his brother increasingly well, of late.
He allowed himself a slight smirk as he closed the door and removed his coat. Innuendo was, of course, one of the lowest forms of humour, but one could indulge inside one’s own head every so often. As long as it didn’t get too out of hand.
The thought of things getting out of hand made him snort like a schoolboy, his mind still on its somewhat crass line of thought, and he brought himself under control in a most stern manner. It was Sherlock’s flat, after all, not the secure confines of his own townhouse, and such things would just not do here.
He looked across the living room, somewhat surprised his entrance hadn’t drawn a single barbed remark from his usually (still) prickly brother. Said brother was hunched in his chair, John’s laptop in his lap, his brow in a furious crease. Mycroft trod softly across the rug and reached down to smooth out that troublesome line.
Sherlock looked up, surprised, then scowled again.
His older brother snorted delicately, moving to sit on the couch. ‘Come, come, dearest brother,’ he said, arranging himself as elegantly as he could on the new couch. He had to admit that the former one, though malodorous, was somewhat more comfortable. ‘I’ve barely meddled at all in your doings this last week. I would have thought that warranted less of a scowl, at least.’
Sherlock waved his hand. ‘Oh, it’s not you,’ he said, ignoring his sibling’s surprise. ‘It’s these - these - people. Fans.’ He said the final word as though it was rotten meat resting on his tongue. ‘They are completely lacking in decent respect.’ He frowned again, and swooped a hand through his curly locks. Mycroft thought the movement brought them into rather adorable disarray, and had to shake himself to return to the proper frame of mind.
The younger Holmes rose and shoved the laptop in his brother’s vision. ‘I don’t even want to have to explain it. Look. Look at what they’ve done.’
Mycroft took the laptop as ordered. The open browser showed a site in red and white, with what appeared to be lists of stories. It took him a moment to find they were pieces of fiction, not gossip from some kind of fan site, as every piece bore some mention of his brother’s circle of friends. He frowned. ‘John Watson has finally had enough of his flatmate’s teasing…’ That block of text certainly warranted deletion, in his eyes, should it have any link to the ‘fingering’ and ‘anal sex’ tags residing above it. Tamping down his jealousy, he looked over the rest of the entries, not at all pleasantly surprised when the fourth and fifth seemed to feature his brother and himself in similarly compromising storylines.
He handed the computer back, not wishing to see any more. Inside, his stomach burned with a mix of alarm and fury. Alarm - yes, the same he felt when anything threatened to out himself and his darling brother. Fury, though, because of what the trumped-up ‘authors’ had chosen to write. He, penetrating Sherlock with a purple dildo when his own cock would evidently have been to hand? The very thought!
When he looked up he saw Sherlock observing him closely. Mycroft straightened the lines of his trousers and cleared his throat to resume his usual calm demeanour.
‘Yes, well, it is upsetting that some of your fans have lit on a way to convey their adulation that threatens our secret, but I hardly think you need be this upset. Although it is worrying that anyone would come so close to the truth, I believe deleting the stories would not -’
‘Don’t be an idiot, Mycroft!’ Sherlock broke in. ‘Of course we won’t delete the stories. It would draw attention and anyway, everyone knows fanfiction writers are capable of imagining every disgusting romance possible. If the Winnie the Pooh incident didn’t convince you of that, I don’t know what will!’
Mycroft shuddered. Yes. That particular investigation into the world of fandom had left them both with permanent psychological scars.
‘It’s not the stories,’ Sherlock continued. ‘This. This!’ He shoved the screen before his brother’s face again, his finger jabbing sharply at the tag area at the top of a listing.
Mycroft squinted, trying to see what he meant. There seemed nothing unusual about the entry. As with the others, it listed what appeared to be warnings in bold font, then a pairing of names with a ‘/’ between them (which, from his earlier perusal, he took to be an indication of sexual partnership), some other people’s names, and a list of devious acts. Though confused he latched on to the latter as the potential source of Sherlock’s ire.
‘Rimming? I know we’ve not performed it personally, but I wouldn’t think you took particular offense at the term.’
Sherlock snorted. ‘Try not to be absolutely ludicrous. Of course I don’t mind rimming.’ This drew a raised brow from his sibling, and he smirked. ‘We’ll discuss that later. No,’ he said, returning to his predictably huffy state, ‘it’s the name tags! Mycroft Holmes with Sherlock Holmes! It’s ridiculous!’
Mycroft sat back, a little hurt. Although the changed status of their relationship was a little new, he had been fairly confident that his brother was participating wholeheartedly. ‘If - I mean, should you decide, brother dearest-’
The younger brother cut him off with a Look. ‘Of course not. Please attempt to stop your brains dribbling out your ears like that, I much prefer you with some intelligence.’
Mycroft huffed in reply, but smiled.
Sherlock dropped the laptop on his chair, careless of the way it bounced, and ran his hands through his hair. ‘It’s the names! Mycroft Holmes before Sherlock Holmes. Any idiot would think that you had started it!’
Mycroft bit back a smile. Well, at least this was refreshingly trivial. ‘You’ll recall, dearest, that I was there at the start just as much as you were.’
Sherlock slumped down beside him, throwing his legs over his brother’s knees and flopping back against the arm of the couch. ‘Yes, I know that, obviously, you were a significant participant in the opening ceremony, so to speak.’ Mycroft couldn’t hold back a snort at his phrasing, and Sherlock smiled. ‘However, it was very much not your idea to continue with it. I remember you did your best to try to stop it.’
Mycroft, sensing a storm approaching, did his best to clear it. ‘I did think it my duty - as the elder brother after all-’
Sherlock waved a hand. ‘Yes, yes, I understand. The point is that if anyone is getting the credit for getting us together, it should be me, and these morons are giving all the glory to you.’
‘Sherlock, it is a listing of names only. Surely you realise that one of us had to be put down first?’
His younger brother pursed his lips and hit the back of the couch. ‘Yes, but it’s always you. I went through that entire damned site, and every single time those idiots have written a romance about you and me, it’s always about you and me! Not,’ he added, sulkily snuggling into the couch, ‘me and you.’
Mycroft sighed, simultaneously bringing a hand to rub at the bridge of his nose and one to curve gently around his brother’s ankle. ‘You can’t seriously be telling me you’re upset because of the order of our names?’
Sherlock shot a glare at him, then flung himself off the couch. ‘I’m not upset. I’m furious.’ He paced about the room, careless of the books and papers in his path. ‘These supposed fans of mine barely know you - you’re hardly in the public eye at all, secret government agent that you are - and yet they position our relationship with you in control! What does that say about me? Can’t they picture me as a forceful, seductive man? They seem to think of me as some kind of passive, whimpering… princess!’
Mycroft sighed, and stood. He couldn’t help reflecting that the final ecomium was an exact fit at the moment. ‘Darling, you’re overreacting. Reading things that aren’t implied.’ He shot his brother a look, examining. ‘You’ve only just discovered this… so you can’t possibly know that the stories themselves have me in control, as it were?’ He was fairly certain he was correct, but allowed the upward inflection in his sentence as a balm to his younger sibling’s feelings.
Sherlock’s lips firmed into a line. ‘I was only able to stomach the first few sentences of three of the pieces. I don’t know.’ The last three words were spat as something offensive.
Mycroft sighed. ‘Thus, a flaw in your theory, brother dear. The entirety of them could have you forcefully topping me in handcuffs, for all you know.’ His brother’s eyes took on a thoughtful look, and the elder Holmes rushed on. ‘Not that sexual positioning is any indication of power in our relationship, obviously. After all, you…’ The expression in those grey eyes became even more thoughtful, and Mycroft felt it wise to cease pursuit of that line of thought. He cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps it’s a matter of alphabetisation? You should approve of such thinking.’ He smoothed his tie to avoid seeing how his sibling took that particular sally.
Sherlock merely shot him a glare and slammed back to his chair, elegantly whipping the computer off the seat just in time to avoid crushing it.
Mycroft held his hands up: time for logic, not empty comforting. ‘But- that state dinner last week. The invitation listed my name first there and you had no problem with it.’
Sherlock raised a finger. ‘Ah! That was for your work. Naturally you would come first with them.’
Mycroft gave him an indulgent smile. How typical of Sherlock to take point on such bagatelles. ‘I’m the elder brother, Sherlock,’ he reminded. ‘In most circumstances it’s natural that I come first.’ The words were halfway out of Mycroft’s mouth before he realised how foolhardy they were. The look on his brother’s face confirmed it.
‘Oh is it?’ Sherlock stood, rounding the coffee table to stand disconcertingly close. ‘Is it indeed?’
‘Uh,’ Mycroft cleared a suddenly misbehaving throat. ‘What I meant, precisely, was-’
‘Ah-’ Sherlock said, bringing a single digit to his brother’s lips. ‘You know what Freud said about unintended meanings. So tell me, what exactly is this about your entitlement to come,’ he said, tracing the finger across Mycroft’s jaw, ‘first?’
The elder Holmes, master of all the tics that gave nervousness the lie in normal humans, gulped.
‘Sherlock, I didn’t mean-’
‘Consciously, no. But I sense a certain entitlement fixing itself in your mind, brother dearest, and I feel it must be corrected.’ He leant even closer, his lips ghosting across his brother’s ear. ‘Now.’
Mycroft was still sputtering and trying to come up with a reply as Sherlock grasped his hand and propelled him toward the bedroom. This was a bad idea, Mycroft knew. A hideous, terrible, no-good idea. But if someone could just communicate that to the lust swiftly rising in his loins…
In the bedroom, Sherlock closed the door and leant back against it. His eyes, resting on his besuited brother standing in the middle of the room, were predatory.
‘Now, Sherlock, Mycroft said, straightening his jacket. ‘You know it’s imperative that we keep our… activities within the confines of my house…’
Sherlock hummed in consideration. ‘Yes, you’ve told me that. John’s out for the next two hours and Hudders is as deaf as a post. I scanned my rooms for bugs not three hours ago. So tell me, brother dear,’ he said, slinking toward his trembling sibling, ‘why, exactly, must we be confined only to your house?’
He was standing in front of Mycroft, close enough that the other could sense his body heat, but the older man was determined to retain control.
‘It is not about personalities, Sherlock, you know that.’ His breath stuttered as his brother pressed his body closer, close enough that he could feel the arousal pressing against the front of his trousers. ‘My home simply is the more secure. We can’t risk-’
Sherlock’s hand curled around the back of his neck, gently rubbing that spot that Sherlock knew turned Mycroft into jelly.
‘Ungh.’
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. ‘Really, brother? How eloquent. Well, since you are unable to put forward a proper case-’ He shoved the older Holmes back, throwing him on the bed with enough force that he bounced. Mycroft watched his younger brother approach with wide eyes.
‘What- what are you going to do?’ He knew Sherlock was perfectly capable of mischief in the bedroom - a fact that thrilled him - but they’d never got into such dominant territory before. Mycroft found himself feeling remarkably like a maiden about to be ravished - and he wasn’t at all sure he disliked it as he should.
The younger Holmes obviously detected his uncertainty, and gave him a wicked smile. ‘Why brother,’ he said, stalking toward the bed, ‘I’m only going to ensure that you get your dues. It’s practically my duty to see that you come first.’ Mycroft was prevented from reply when Sherlock dashed forward to rip open his sibling’s trousers, yanking them down to reveal his swelling flesh. He eyed it hungrily.
‘Yes, we must make sure big brother gets what he deserves.’ The younger man darted down, without preamble taking the growing cock of his brother deep into his mouth.
‘Oh!’ Mycroft couldn’t have held the sound back if he tried. Besides, after the luxury of having sex only in his house, where they couldn’t possibly be overheard, he simply wasn’t used to having to control his responses to the intense pleasure his brother awarded him. His eyes fluttered closed, despite his best efforts, depriving him of the delicious sight of his brother’s curly, bobbing head, and immersing him all the deeper in drugging ecstasy. His head swam as his world shrank to the feeling of the hot, wet cavern of his brother’s mouth, his climax surging ever nearer at the rough treatment, until-
Sherlock wrapped his hand firmly around the base of Mycroft’s cock and pulled off with a pop.
‘Unless,’ the younger Holmes said, tilting his head in mock consideration, ‘you would feel a little selfish at that?’
Mycroft groaned. Of course Sherlock would choose this point in time to remind him of his ridiculous kink for getting Sherlock off. In the first weeks of their relationship as lovers, the younger Holmes had been shocked at the several times Mycroft had managed to come undone, simply by doing the same to his brother. It was, Mycroft was ready to admit, an unusual kink, all the more unusual as it only applied to getting Sherlock off. It applied to no other man. But there was something about his little brother’s wriggles and whines…
He sighed.
‘Sherlock,’ he said, raising himself up on shaky elbows. ‘There’s still time to stop this. Come here. Let me make love to you.’
Sherlock grinned. It was a particularly devilish grin.
‘Oh, brother dear, I have every intention of letting you make love to me.’ His expression became considering. ‘At least, I have every intention of getting you inside me. But formalities must be observed - I believe it’s my very duty to give you precedence.’
Mycroft slumped back, defeated. It was no use negotiating with Sherlock in this mood. Instead, he needed to brace himself for the possible hours of teasing to follow.
‘Now,’ Sherlock said, slotting himself along Mycroft’s body with the ease of long practice and giving him a kiss. ‘Be a dear and pass me the lubricant, dear brother.’
‘Won’t you let me-’
‘Oh no.’ Sherlock shook his head firmly. ‘I believe it is my job to treat you. Let me do the work.’
His brother groaned again. Sherlock knew how much he loved preparing him, opening him, teasing him and taking pleasure in his whimpers and moans. The thought of Sherlock touching himself, opening himself right in front of him: that was torture.
Sherlock’s smile was smug as he leaned back, having stripped his clothes, his fingers already glossy with lube. Mycroft held his breath as the hand disappeared behind Sherlock’s back, then watched as his brother’s expression shifted from concentrating to aroused. Mycroft knew that expression well. It was the one Sherlock wore whenever Mycroft first circled him with a single finger, teasing him before he - ah, yes, that subtle change of expression - eased the tip of that finger into the tight heat of his body. Mycroft bit his lip. Oh, how he wished he could be doing what that very lucky finger was doing right now.
Sherlock shifted, making the bed wobble, and Mycroft clenched his teeth against yet another groan. He knew what his brother was doing now: that single, teasing finger tip had been joined by another, causing a swift stretch that made his little brother wiggle and moan delightfully. Usually he denied Sherlock this treat, too concerned that it would hurt him, but Sherlock vowed he loved the burn, loved being pushed. From the movements of his arm Mycroft guessed that he was pushing those two fingers inside, and his cock twitched visibly at the thought. How tight it was in there. How furnace-hot. Oh, how he wished to be there.
He caught the mischievous twinkle in Sherlock’s eye and frowned. The little blighter was doing this best to push all his older brother’s buttons, and it was working. He clenched his hands into fists. He wasn’t - he wasn’t going to give Sherlock the satisfaction of making a grab at him.
The movement was noticed, and drew a chuckle from Sherlock. ‘Oh, Mycroft, I wish you could feel this. I’m getting myself ready for you, making myself nice and wet.’ He emphasised the final consonant, wriggling some more, and Mycroft moaned, unable to think of anything else but how it felt to sink into that tight, wet heat, to join with his brother in the most intimate way.
‘I won’t go too far, though,’ Sherlock said with a sigh, arm still flexing. ‘Only two fingers today, dearest brother mine. I want to feel it when you’re inside me. I want it to burn.’ The thought of it seemed to fire off something in his brain, and he closed his eyes in pleasure, briefly.
‘Now,’ he said, removing his fingers and crawling forward on the bed, ‘let’s make sure big brother is truly ready for me. Wouldn’t want to hurt him, hmm?’ This last was addressed to Mycroft’s cock, before licking a wet stripe up it, making Mycroft gasp. The older man reached forward, trying to grab at his attacker, but his hands were caught and pushed back onto the bed, encouraging him to submit. Sherlock’s fingers made swift work of peeling back the layers that still covered Mycroft’s chest, those same deft fingers carding through the older man’s chest hair, seeking out and fondling his sensitive nipples. Then Sherlock took one of his balls into his mouth, and it was all Mycroft could do not to rip the rest of his clothes off, his legs involuntarily spreading wider to welcome more of his brother’s attentions.
The next few minutes were lost in wild pleasure, and Mycroft’s senses were swimming almost too headily for him to notice the cessation of hostilities down below as his brother moved to sit astride him, hovering over him a moment to grace him with a light kiss.
‘Brother dear, if you don’t mind me taking the lead,’ Sherlock said, rubbing his well-lubricated hole against the tip of his brother’s cock, sending sparks of desire strong enough to make Mycroft tremble.
‘Please - huh - do,’ Mycroft urged, keeping hold of his control by his fingernails.
That control snapped as Sherlock, devilish grin in place, held Mycroft’s cock firmly and lowered himself onto it. As the near-painful grip of his brother’s body enveloped him, Mycroft’s hands slammed onto Sherlock’s hips, their grip bruising as he fought against the urge to push down, to bury himself to the root in that delicious heat.
Sherlock noticed his internal struggle, and only grinned wider. ‘Can’t handle not being in control, dearest?’
‘I certainly can,’ Mycroft said, through gritted teeth. ‘I’m merely surprised you’re not already finished.’
‘Naughty,’ Sherlock cautioned, rising up and lowering himself down again with excruciating slowness. He repeated the actions, showing his intent to set a torturously slow pace. Mycroft’s breath stuttered as he felt himself squeezed, massaged up and down.
‘Am I-’ Mycroft huffed, finding it difficult to catch his breath, ‘am I permitted to participate?’
‘Hmm.’ Sherlock seemed to be considering, the only sign that he was beginning to suffer too being the light sheen of sweat on his brow. ‘I wouldn’t want you to think I was putting myself fiiirst.’ The last word was emphasised by a particularly slow, smooth slide down.
Mycroft bared his teeth. He’d had enough. ‘But if I’m to get off first, brother dear,’ he said, tightening his grip and punctuating his words with a hard thrust. ‘I believe-’ thrust- ‘that I should-’ thrust- ‘make some push-’ thrust- ‘to assist you.’ He had the satisfaction of seeing his younger brother’s eyes roll back in his head.
‘I suppose - oh!’ Sherlock cried out, ‘I suppose if you must be in charge.’ He moaned loudly. Mycroft smirked. He’d soon turn those moans into wails.
Planting his feet for better leverage, the elder Holmes brother slammed into his sibling again and again, changing his angle and watching carefully for that special place - ah, there it was, Mycroft thought, as Sherlock howled and flung his head back. But then Sherlock was scrabbling at his wrists, making him stop.
‘What?’ Mycroft was caught off guard, worried that he’d somehow injured his lover.
He was reassured by Sherlock’s determined look. ‘Not fair, brother,’ Sherlock said. ‘You’re not supposed to be putting me first.’ He licked his lips and placed his palms flat on Mycroft’s chest. ‘You may keep your hands-’ he shifted, taking Mycroft deep, ‘where they are, but otherwise - mmm,’ He shifted his hips, rolling them. ‘Mmm, you let me do the work.’
With that, Sherlock took control again, assuming a faster pace than before but no less torturous for that. Mycroft had to bite back a cry as Sherlock rose up and rocked back down again, taking his brother as deep inside his body as he could go. Both Holmeses breathed out heavily. Then Sherlock did it again. And again. He continued, his face glowing with the effort but his eyes firmly fixed on his sibling’s face. Mycroft slowly wilted under the scrutiny, his determination not to give in slowly crumbling with each thrust.
‘Sherlock- please!’ Mycroft huffed, hips moving not entirely of his accord, desperate as he felt his end drawing near. His hand twitched on his brother’s hip, tempted to move and curl around his cock, but knowing that it would infuriate his tempestuous lover, who preferred to come from his brother’s cock alone whenever possible.
Sherlock continued bouncing on his cock, movements a little more desperate now. ‘No-’ bounce- ‘you-’ bounce- ‘first-’ bounce- ‘brother!’
That was it - Mycroft lost all control, gripping Sherlock and thrusting into him mercilessly. He set his focus on his brother’s expressions, revelling in the way that beautiful bottom lip was caught and held between white teeth, the heady flush that graced his cheeks, the graceful fan of his dark lashes and the bounce of his curls as his body submitted to his older brother’s pounding. Sherlock’s mouth dropped open in ecstasy, and Mycroft couldn’t hold back any more - feeling his climax wend its way through his system just as he felt his brother’s tight passage begin to clench rhythmically. Hot spurts of come erupted from the younger Holmes’ cock even as his elder sibling filled him up inside.
Time seemed to stop for several moments, then Sherlock leaned back with a groan.
‘Good gods, you’re trying to kill me,’ he said.
Mycroft huffed a laugh, stroking Sherlock’s skin with his thumbs. ‘I would say the reverse. Did you really think I would permit you to service me without returning the favour?’
‘Perhaps not,’ Sherlock said, wincing as he pulled his abused body away from his brother and stretched out on his stomach beside him. He leant his curly head on his hand. ‘You could’ve let me win, you know.’
‘Not with my kink,’ Mycroft grinned, leaning over and giving his brother a kiss.
He flopped back on the bed, his breath still out of control. It was, he reflected, well worth inciting Sherlock’s rage now and then if this was the result.
Still… ‘I’ll contact the site tomorrow,’ he said. ‘The order of our names will be reversed.’
Beside him, his brother purred. ‘If you think you can cope with me coming first.’
A tiny smile tugged at the side of the older Holmes’ mouth. ‘It will be my absolute pleasure, brother dear.’