Hi guys!
This story is... different. First off, new fandom for me so I probably twisted canon some. I couldn't resist exploring Alpha/Omega dynamics though.
Secondly, Mycroft took control of POV. And he is not particular coherent, especially at first. I swear, I can actually write full sentences! I completely blame Mycroft for the choppy style that takes creative licence with grammar and uses present tense.
Thirdly, this is a one-shot with 4 or 5 chapters. I am currently halfway through chapter 4, so I anticipate no problems posting weekly.
And now, the warnings. I write for adults. Will contain angst and sex. Also, a new one for me, sibling incest. Mention of drug use. Finally, there is always the consent issue when playing with Omega heat, although Sherlock is remarkably lucid.
Lets dive into Mycroft's head a bit, shall we?
Sherlock presented.
Finally.
Mycroft leans back against the plush car-seat, making the black leather creak.
Sherlock presented. Rather, Sherlock is presenting.
Right now.
Mycroft's hand is clutching the umbrella handle too tight. He makes himself let go, watching the drab scenery flash by. Finds himself smoothing his thick trousers over his thigh instead.
Sherlock is presenting...
As an Omega.
...
Mycroft purses his lips, being driven back to the Holmes Estate. Of course, the parents aren't there. But Sherlock is.
Sherlock.
Sherlock, an omega.
Sherlock, an omega in heat.
...
Mycroft feigns nonchalance, wishing for a smoke. Inside, he is screaming at the driver to go fasterfasterfaster. He can't get there quickly enough. If Mycroft plays this right...
It is more than anticipation, this itching jittery roil inside him. It is trepidation, overwhelming and annoying. The surprise culmination of years of longing from his brother and staunch refusal by himself. Archaic conventions repeated ad nauseum.
Siblings.
Brothers.
Incest.
Wrong.
Sherlock does not believe rules apply to him. It is annoying, because it makes his behavior unpredictable. Mycroft doesn't believe in rules either. It is a deeply buried secret, but Sherlock has figured it out. It makes him insufferable. He sees Mycroft as a challenge; teenaged Sherlock grew ever more inventive in his seduction while maintaining apparent innocence.
It was maddening. Mycroft's body betrayed him every time. It still does.
His brother's long frame draped just-so on the couch, too-big pyjamas bottoms falling off sharp hip-bones; Mycroft maintained control. Barely. The soft brush of fingers against his, passing the newspaper, had Mycroft swallowing down an indecent moan. A whisper of air across his neck, pointing out something on the screen over his shoulder; Mycroft tried to remember how to breathe. Control. He clung to it desperately.
He still does.
Sherlock knew. Sherlock still knows.
Brothers. Wrong.
Then WHY did it feel so right?
...
Mycroft licks his lips. He's too hot.
Sherlock is waiting for him.
...
Temptation. Mycroft resisted, for so long. Forever.
It had become a game to his little brother. Mycroft knew it, but he couldn't make him fucking stop. It had become the cruellest exercise in self-control Mycroft could have devised. Temptation. Mycroft had cultivated calm refusal like an art form, ignoring his body clamoring for relief, for more, for just a touch.
Torture.
Until Mycroft didn't even know why he still held back. Eventually, he'd lashed out when it got too much. Temptation. Too much. Mycroft wanted to scream in anguish.
As a last resort, Mycroft had tried to force his infuriatingly arousing brother away. He'd hurt Sherlock with words and brutal truths while his own will-power crumbled between his fingers.
It had worked too, or maybe that was just life taking them down their independant paths.
Torture.
The Holmes' brothers tightened the masks they wore. Locked away fragile childhood emotions and desire; hid behind cutting remarks and cold disdain. They barely saw each other. Even less, now that Sherlock had escaped heavily into drug use.
He was still tempting to Mycroft, even high and too thin. Gods it was worse, in some ways. Those big eyes, glazed and not quite focusing on Mycroft, still promising more; Sherlock was all pointy elbows and too much pale skin these days, marred by bruises and track-marks.
It hurt. Chapped lips pouring out facts that were like barbs, pointy and impossible to dislodge; pure unfiltered glimpses into his brother's ripped heart.
It hurt. Mycroft hated to see Sherlock wasting away. Hated, hated the unbidden thrill in his blood when he rescued Sherlock from yet another crack den. The sigh of relief when he found him still alive. The heady power of gathering Sherlock's uncoordinated body into his arms. Of being stronger, of feeling wiser; he was the big brother who would always be there.
Mycroft hated himself for savoring the power-trip. But he repeated the pattern anyway. Helpless. Trapped. Stupid.
It always hurt even more when Sherlock came down, spewing vitriol and sick, thrashing to get away. Mycroft knew he couldn't comfort Sherlock. Not how he wanted it. It was tearing him apart. Mycroft needed to bring the innocence back into Sherlock's too-cold eyes. He hurt to keep his brother safe.
Torture.
Staying away, watching his brother destroy himself through the cold lense of grainy surveillance imagery.
Masks, barely held in place.
Hurt, his erection unrelieved and painful, alone in his apartment; remembering the smell of Sherlock's soft hair.
...
Mycroft had forced Sherlock into rehab three months ago.
...
Masks, slipping.
Genuine distress in Sherlock's stormy eyes. He was out of control and he knew it. Hurt. Mycroft had allowed himself to hug his shaking brother, held him close during the long drive to the center. Temptation, still, even if Sherlock was unwashed and too bony. Temptation, muted by the lancing hurt.
Triumph, when Sherlock had softened in his arms; quietly pliant and heavy over his knees. Sherlock had allowed Mycroft to massage the knots from his shoulders; to draw circles and formulas with his fingertips, inscribing words he couldn't say on his brother's too-bumpy back.
"Why?" An unasked question, screeching in the silence.
Regret.
"Make it stop." A barely heard plea, breathed into the warmth of his lap. Mycroft had needed to close his eyes, concentrating on keeping the panic at bay. Sherlock, broken.
It was going to be okay. Hurt. Sherlock falling apart. Hurt, so strong Mycroft could taste it.
Sherlock would be all right. He had to be. A shared quiet moment in a car that drove too fast. Their first real connection in years.
Then... Masks, falling back into place.
Sherlock's viscious whisper as he left.
"I hate you, Mycroft."
Hurt. God, it hurt.
It had needed to be done.
...
Sherlock had gone through with rehab, surprisingly, and Mycroft had stayed away since. Paid for everything, of course, and the miserable room his brother was currently living in too.
Well, the room he HAD BEEN staying in.
Now, he waited in his old bedroom.
For Mycroft.
...
Mycroft shifts on the hard car seat.
Sherlock, waiting.
For him.
...
Because Sherlock is presenting.
Sherlock is Omega.
Sherlock is in heat.
And Sherlock has asked for Mycroft.
...
Mycroft is done with control. Done with torturing both of them.
Mycroft is tired. He's been hurt too badly. He almost lost his brother.
...
Mycroft is Alpha. Of course he is. It had never even been a question. He doesn't use his gender much, except when strictly necessary to ensure things go his way. He never succombed to rut. He has never mated. Lovers are a liability, possible fodder for black-mail. Better to endure the occasional inconvenience of his body uselessly wanting to knot than to see years of work destroyed by a photo or two.
Control.
It is hardly difficult, after Sherlock.
...
Sherlock is Omega, unbelievably. Not Beta after all, as everyone had come to believe when he failed to present.
Sherlock, too old at nineteen, has not managed to escape biology.
The news had thrown Mycroft like a blow to the gut; so short for a life-altering message. A few terse words.
"Sherlock is presenting as Omega. He needs you."
A cellphone number no-one knew, except for a couple presidents... And Sherlock. Always Sherlock.
The message was genuine then. Mycroft's world twisted sideways. He could actually feel his walls desintegrate to shambles, gravity re-orienting itself.
Enough.
Mycroft, broken.
...
He had ensured the utmost privacy, as much absolute secrecy as he could under the circumstances. At least Sherlock had stayed out of public hospitals. He had picked an unlikely, but truly trustable ally. Sherlock might be Omega, but he was still intelligent.
...
Sherlock is Omega.
His Omega.
...
Mycroft leans his head back against the car-seat as the vehicle jolts on unkempt country roads. They are getting close.
Sherlock waits.
Sherlock is in heat.
Sweet Sherlock, his brother.
Omega.
...
This chapter was mainly backstory. And hanging participles and one-word sentences. The next one is more coherent. Mycroft is about to get a surprise when he reaches home!
Note; If you are one of my Ai No Kusabi folllowers, thank you for your patience. This story invaded my head and I couldn't write proper Katze when Sherlock was taking all the space! I'll get back to you guys as soon as I can!
xxx
FrenchCaresse