Early August called for the worst sort of torment: death by heat wave.
Mycroft stretched across his bed, stripped to his boxers, relishing the breeze from the oscillating fan over his sweat-licked skin. He'd tried reading to keep his mind off the unrelenting heat, but his eyes remained unfocused on the page, the humidity heavy on his eyelids.
He was nearing the edge of sleep when a distinct noise from outside shook him from his lethargic state. Sighing, he pushed himself out of bed, slipped on a pair of shorts and walked downstairs to fill up a glass of water. When he returned to his room, a familiar lanky figure greeted him, curled up on his bed like an uncomfortable child. Dressed in an ill-fitting hoodie and worn jeans, Sherlock shivered intensely, despite the aching heat.
Mycroft approached his cousin and coaxed him to an upright position, bringing the glass to his lips.
"Drink."
Sherlock's eyes remained shut as he obeyed, taking a drawn out sip and pulling away when he was done.
Mycroft hated these nights. Mostly because he loved them.
By now, it was an unspoken expectation. About every week, Sherlock would get high and crawl into Mycroft's bedroom and sleep beside him. Sherlock said it was because Mycroft's parents were much more oblivious than his own. Mycroft said he let him do it because he'd rather him crashing here, where he can look after him, rather than in some drug den or abandoned warehouse.
In reality, it was a source of comfort for the both of them. For Sherlock, it was a warm body and someone to take care of him. For Mycroft, it was a warm body and someone to take care of. Sherlock would leave before he woke up, and they'd pretend it never happened.
"I'm cold," Sherlock whispered throatily as another violent shiver ran through his body.
"It's actually 90 degrees," Mycroft muttered, but he bent down to pull his cousin's shoes off and let him crawl underneath the sheets. Sherlock curled up, facing the inside of the bed, hugging a pillow to chest.
Mycroft grabbed his top sheet and rolled it up, tucking it along Sherlock's back to make sure he doesn't roll onto his back in the middle of the night in case he needed to vomit.
After shifting the fan to aim only at his side of the bed, Mycroft climbed into bed, the mattress sinking in considerably.
"You're so heavy," Sherlock said, muffled into a pillow.
Mycroft rolled his eyes, but he patted his bare stomach self-consciously.
Sherlock edged closer and rested his head onto Mycroft's too warm body. He slid a hand on his stomach, patting it endearingly.
Mycroft knew this was probably more intimate than was appropriate. But he thought little of it, considering that Sherlock needed another outlet of warmth, and he let his arm fall around Sherlock's shoulders.
"I always loved sleeping in this room," Sherlock murmured sleepily.
Peeling his eyes open, Mycroft only saw the top of Sherlock's head, a messy array of dark curls shifting slightly as he spoke.
Since he had the biggest bed out of his siblings, Mycroft's room doubled as a guest room when they had company over, and he'd have to sleep on their incredibly uncomfortable couch. As a child, Sherlock slept over often, which meant that Mycroft's back was wrecked often. It didn't take long for him to resort to sneaking back into his room to sleep at the edge of his bed. Sherlock knew but never minded, and eventually Mycroft stopped sneaking in.
"You know you don't have to get high if you want to stay over," said Mycroft.
"Well, where's the fun in that?"
"Seriously, Sherlock. It isn't healthy."
"Spare me the lecture. If I wanted to be criticized for my life decisions, I would've stayed home."
Mycroft felt a pang of guilt, because a part of him didn't want to tell Sherlock to stop for fear that he'd resent him and put an end to his nightly visits.
They were all each other had, really. Mycroft had three younger brothers and a sister, and Sherlock had one acquaintance from school, but they were the constant in each others' lives. Seven years apart seemed inconsequential when they were closer in intellectual age than anybody else. And as much as Mycroft abhorred sentimental drivel, he knew Sherlock's loss would be... regrettable.
"Look, any other time, I'd go along with you doing whatever the fuck you wanted, as long as you're not hurting anybody. But you're hurting yourself, and," Mycroft bit his lip, "you're hurting me."
Sherlock snorted dismissively. "Why would my drug habits hurt you?"
"Because you're family, and I love you."
Sherlock scoffed, his fingernails subconsciously digging into Mycroft's skin.
"I love you, I care about you, everyone always says 'loves' me. But nobody really does, do they?"
Mycroft looked past him at the mirror on the opposite wall, and he could see Sherlock through the reflection. Sherlock liked to think he was dangerous, and he'd try to prove it every day, to himself and to the world. But lying there like that, with his eyes closed and head buried into the crest of Mycroft's body, he was the picture of innocence.
"I do."
No response came, only the sound of Sherlock's breath evening out. Whether he'd succumbed to sleep before or after Mycroft's admission, he didn't know.
Mycroft found himself sliding his hand on top of Sherlock's head. Holding the comforting weight upon his chest, he allowed himself to drift off.
When he opened his eyes again, his bed was empty, with only Sherlock's mattress indentation and lingering scent left behind.
Sherlock didn't make any more midnight calls.
It took Mycroft two months before he found himself at his cousin's house. He knew that his aunt and uncle would have said something if Sherlock had died or fallen ill, but Mycroft wasn't going to just wait for that day to come.
He drove up on a Saturday evening. He knew Sherlock's parents would be out on their monthly dinner with his parents. Motorcycle gone. Outgoing footprints about Sherlock's size, about 9 hours old. Gone the whole night. He'd return in a matter of time.
Mycroft let himself in and scanned the house. Checked under his bed, his mattress for holes, loose floorboards. Behind the toilet, false bottoms in drawers, hollow walls.
Nothing. Not a single needle or baggie. Sherlock wasn't stupid enough to carry his paraphernalia around with him, and he'd hardly leave it stashed in a public drug den, but he wouldn't put it past him to have a deeper hiding place that'd be near impossible to find.
The roar of the engine slowly approached the house and Mycroft waited patiently. When Sherlock finally reached his open bedroom door, he looked at his cousin, unsurprised to see him sitting at the edge of the bed. Mycroft passively observed the dirt on his jacket, the state of his hair. He'd been driving long, at least an hour outside of town.
"Mycroft," he said in a tense voice, brushing past him to drop his bag onto the floor and slip out of his jacket.
"Sherlock –"
"Didn't even bother to ask me, then?" he cut him off, the indignation bleeding into his expression. "Automatically assumed I went overboard, so you go ahead and help yourself to my privacy?"
Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "I'll concede your point if you show me that my concern was unfounded."
Sherlock looked as if he was about to tell him to fuck off. Instead he walked up to him, pulled up his sleeve up to his forearm and stick his arm out.
Faded track marks, at least a month old.
Sherlock shook his sleeve back and looked at him defiantly.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Mycroft demanded.
"I don't have to report back to you like you're my fucking sponsor," Sherlock snapped.
"Well, when I don't see you for months and you don't tell me why, you can't fault me for assuming the worst," Mycroft said waspishly.
"Assuming the worst and combing through my things are two different things, Mycroft!"
That shut Mycroft up. It sank in. It wasn't really about his privacy; it was a matter of trust.
"You're right," he said quietly. "I should've asked you first."
Sherlock let out a noise of disdain. "Yeah, you should've."
"It's just that," Mycroft cleared his throat uncomfortably, "dealing with my mom... I know that there's a time for trust and there's a time for action."
It was the sort of thing that everyone knew but no one talked about. His mother's addiction to medication, constantly overlapping and mixing prescriptions under the guise of mouth cancer. She was primarily the reason why Mycroft was 24 and still living at home. Not that he resented her for it. Those were just the circumstances he had to live with.
Sherlock's expression softened.
"Yeah, I get it," he said, "but I'm not her, nor am I your child to look after."
"Doesn't mean I can't worry about you."
Sherlock looked away guiltily but said nothing more.
"I'm sorry," Mycroft said, meaning it. "I'm glad to know you're quitting, though. That can't have been easy."
He grimaced in response. "Huge fucking understatement. I had to screw over Victor to make sure he'd sabotage all my connections with any dealers within a 500 mile radius."
"I really wish you had told me. I would've wanted to help."
"And if I failed? If I went back? Please, it's bad enough as is without having to read the disappointment on your face."
Mycroft's brow wrinkled in his confusion. "Why would you care – "
"Do you want a drink?" Sherlock deflected.
"Uh..." Mycroft looked at him strangely, taking note of Sherlock's overly passive body language. "No, that's alright."
"You'll want this one."
Sherlock reached over to grab the bag he'd walked in with and sat down next to him on the bed. From the bag, he pulled out a wine bottle.
"I was going to give it to you for your birthday next week, but I have a feeling I might end up finishing it myself before I get the chance."
He handed it over and Mycroft held it out in front of him to read the label. 1961 Saint Emilion.
"Where did you get this?!" Mycroft gaped at him. "The best wine around here are of this current year."
"If I was able to get my hands on a gram of H a week, I think I could get my hands on a bottle of wine."
Mycroft look at him disbelievingly. "You're drinking it with me."
"No shit," Sherlock eyes gleamed.
Mycroft grabbed a pocket knife that was sitting on Sherlock's desk, burying it in the cork and systematically pulling it out. He considered letting it breathe after he pulled the cork out, but thought, fuck it, and took a swig before he handed it over.
They spent the next few minutes in silence, passing the bottle between themselves.
"When did you start?" Mycroft interrupted the silence. "Using, I mean."
"Last year."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow skeptically.
Sherlock didn't miss that. "You don't believe me, do you?"
"I know for a fact you were high during Livitha's thirteenth birthday party."
Sherlock scowled. "Well, you never told me about what you did that night. I can have some secrets of my own."
Mycroft froze. He'd never told anyone about that, much less his younger cousin. He doubted Charlie would've mentioned it to anyone. People around here just weren't the accepting type.
"What are you talking about?" he said, a little too nonchalantly. "It was a party. Boring and tedious."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and gave him an obvious smirk. "Really? Now who's the liar?"
Mycroft responded with silence, looking out into space as he took another sip.
"Alright," Sherlock said, grinning. "But Charlie didn't tell me, if that's what you're thinking."
Mycroft stared at him. Of course Sherlock figured it out. Playing deductions was never just a game after all.
"Going to ask me how I knew?" Sherlock fished.
"And give you another opportunity to show off?"
Sherlock responded by snatching the bottle back and flipping him off.
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I'm sure you figured it out the same way I figured out when your drug habits started."
"Wrong," Sherlock blurted.
Mycroft gave him an annoyed glance.
"I didn't deduce it from you," Sherlock explained, "Although that wouldn't have been difficult, I'm sure, going by the sizable bruises you two left on each other and the state of his knees."
"Then how?" Mycroft pressed.
Sherlock hesitated. "I was in your closet."
Only the integrity of the drink prevented Myroft from spitting out.
"What?!"
"Look, I was high as a fucking kite, Victor just ditched me, and I was still a novice at hiding it, so I hid in your closet until I came down. And then I saw you come down – " Sherlock's lip twitched. "His throat."
"You are such a dick," Mycroft said as he took another swig, but he couldn't help but giggle along.
"I'm sorry, I would've left, but it all happened so fast and I was barely conscious of what was even happening at the time."
Mycroft snorted. "That must have been terrifying, for you."
Sherlock sobered up at that.
"Why for me?" he demanded.
"Well, you. And sex. Doesn't exactly go together, does it?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "You think I'm a virgin, don't you?"
"Well, aren't you?"
He smirked. "You're only about to turn 24 and you're already slipping."
"Huh," Mycroft said, soaking in the new information as he took. "Why do you do it, though? The drugs, I mean."
Sherlock paused as he considered the question.
"My mind is a sports car driving in a school district. Everything else is so slow, but I need that rush, the exhilaration. Drugs are an easy temporary fix."
"You don't have to tell me how it feels living in a world of goldfish. But that just sounds like giving up. Like breaking yourself down to try to reach the world's level when they should be trying to reach yours."
The younger man shrugged. "Sure. But I also don't really care to find myself growing old here. What do I have to worry about cutting my time a little short?"
"You're not going to grow old here."
"What makes you say that?"
"Because... you're too brilliant for this town."
"You used to always call me an idiot."
"Only compared to myself," Mycroft said simply. "This place is suffocating for people like us. You're gonna go places. It's only a matter of time."
Sherlock considered what he said. "Would you come with me if I leave?"
"No," Mycroft looked down at his hands, picking at the label of the wine bottle. "I don't think so."
"Why? You just said this town is suffocating for you, too."
"Yeah, but I just... I need to be here."
"Oh," Sherlock said softly. He brought the bottle to his lips and paused. "But Darla's been working for your family for, what, five years now? And Perry and Liv are still living at home. And you're the eldest! It isn't fair that your life has to be ruined just because hers is coming to an end."
"Hey," Mycroft snapped, "Not fucking cool."
"Sorry, sorry. Probably shouldn't have said that last bit."
Sherlock had the decency to look a little sheepish, taking a large swallow of drink.
"But your other brothers just left. Without discussion. Why should you get the short end? Why can't you leave either?"
Mycroft shrugged. "Sense of responsibility, I suppose. It comes with being the eldest."
"Hmm," Sherlock scrutinized him. "Is that why you feel so inclined to manage me?"
"Managing you implies that I have a certain level of control over you. I merely... watch out for you."
"Fine, but you worry about me. More than my mother does, I'm sure. See, I think you worry because you want to manage me, but you know you can't."
"Yeah, well – " Mycroft chanced a glance in his direction and faltered under the intense stare Sherlock held him in. He coughed, getting his voice back under control, feeling his face grow warm.
"Trying to manage you would be like trying to manage a wild animal. They're much better off learning for themselves, even if they're likely to get themselves killed in the process."
His younger cousin's eyes glinted as he looked at him. "So you think I'm like a wild animal?
Mycroft's mouth went dry and he tore his eyes away. "I think you're drunk."
"Please. It's half a bottle. Probably less, considering the amount you guzzle down per sip," Sherlock teased, complete with air quotes.
"It's my gift, I can drink if I want to," Mycroft said, finishing the bottle in four large swallows and setting it down with finality, his head buzzing not too unpleasantly.
Sherlock stood up to push open the window directly in front of them. He fished out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, pulling out two, holding one out to his cousin. Mycroft leaned over and grabbed it by his teeth and let Sherlock light it before he lay on his back across the bed.
Sherlock laid down on his side, facing him. Mycroft could feel him staring, but didn't respond to it. He could feel Sherlock move closer, the warmth of his body heat reaching him, the mattress shifting slightly.
A shiver ran through Mycroft that had nothing to do with the night chill drifting through the open window. He mirrored Sherlock and rolled to his side to face him.
"You really are drunk, aren't you?" Mycroft whispered.
"No. I see you real clear," Sherlock breathed, bringing a hand and carefully taking hold of Mycroft's hand, his cigarette dangling precariously.
He should have pulled away. Flinched. Brushed him off. But Mycroft could only feel his heart beat rapidly as Sherlock pulled his hand and brought his cousin's cigarette to his mouth, wrapping his lips around it gently as he would a kiss, taking a deep drag. Holding it in, he leaned closer, their mouths inches away. Mycroft caught on and opened his mouth and inhaled as Sherlock exhaled smoke slowly into it.
The flavour of Sherlock was laced through the tobacco, and Mycroft let it escape slowly. He craned his neck forward and leaned his forehead against Sherlock's, already craving another hit.
"You know why I stay here," Sherlock said in a low voice, lightly stroking his hair line. "There's nothing that any other city has that I want if you're still here."
Mycroft's face twisted in anguish and he pulled away from him, mood and moment ruined.
"Why would you even say that?" he said, angrily crushing his cigarette in Sherlock's makeshift ashtray. "I don't want to be the reason you're still here, the reason you're held back from fulfilling your potential, Sherlock."
"Potential?" Sherlock spat, sitting up, his face stung with rejection. "Fuck potential. You've got potential. But it's worth nothing if you keep it here, stored away for nothing. You could run countries with your fucking potential, but you chose to waste it on your pill addicted mother and your complacent father."
"Shut the fuck up," Mycroft shot out in anger.
"No! They don't fucking need you. Let someone with less fucking potential take care of them. You only do it because you've got a martyr complex and you like feeling needed. And you know what, fine. Kudos to you if you want to do that. But don't you dare fault me for refusing to leave because I'd rather stay in this piss poor excuse of a town than go anywhere without the only person I've ever–"
Mycroft stared at him incredulously.
"Ever what?"
"Nothing, never mind," Sherlock shook his head and ground his own cigarette out. "You should go," he mumbled, moving to get up.
Before he realized himself, Mycroft reached out and took Sherlock's hand to stop him from leaving, pulling him closer.
"Ever what?" Mycroft repeated.
"You know what," Sherlock said, accusation in his eyes, mingled with the terror of exposure and rejection.
Mycroft's thought process shut down, and all that mattered was his sudden desire to find out what Sherlock's lips tasted like, and he pulled him closer and pressed his lips against his.
It'd been so long since Mycroft had kissed anyone. Not since Philip left four years ago. A distant reminder of the sheer wrongness of this hovered at the back of his thoughts, but it was overshadowed by the warmth of Sherlock's hands on his sides, the taste of the wine shared between them mixed with the fresh flavour of cigarette smoke.
They finally pulled apart after what seemed like an age, breathing heavily.
"We're cousins," Mycroft whispered.
"I know."
"First cousins."
"I know."
Sherlock's hands moved up and gripped the back of Mycroft's head to draw him closer, touching foreheads.
"I don't give a shit. I've known how much I wanted you since I was thirteen. Watching someone else touch you, I just," Sherlock's grip on him tightened, making Mycroft gasp, "I had to find out what it'd be like to touch you, too."
Impatience took hold of Sherlock and he quickly claimed control of the kiss, holding Mycroft's head still as he plunged his tongue into his mouth, devouring him whole. Mycroft groaned as he drowned in it, bunching up Sherlock's shirt for something to grip on.
But not to be upstaged, Mycroft swung a leg over him and Sherlock moaned with satisfaction, canting up his hip to press his growing arousal against Mycroft's own. Sherlock's hands traveled down, reaching for Mycroft's belt. Quickly unbuckling it and undoing the zip, Sherlock thrust a hand underneath the elastic of his boxers and wrapped his hand around him. Mycroft froze from the immediate contact.
Sherlock pulled away. "Is this okay?"
"Yeah. Yeah, it's fine. I just need some adjusting," Mycroft breathed. "Let's take it a little slower."
"Oh," Sherlock said, a little begrudgingly but in understanding. "No, you're right," and he took back his hand and backed away from him.
"I didn't mean it like that," Mycroft rushed to clarify, pulling him back. "I literally meant to take it a little slower, or else I'm going to embarrass myself far too quickly tonight."
Sherlock smirked at him and leaned close again, claiming his lips, planting soft, gentle kisses on his lips, swiping his tongue slowly through him.
"I can't believe I used to think sex alarmed you," Mycroft chuckled.
" I can't believe you're bigger than I thought."
Mycroft stared at him. "Was that a pass at my penis or a jab at my weight?"
"Can it be both?"
"Fuck you," Mycroft groaned, dipping his head into the crook of his neck, biting harshly at his neck.
Sherlock elicited a drawn out moan, sending a shiver down Mycroft's spine.
"Do it. Fuck me," he whispered hoarsely.
Mycroft leaned away to get a look at him, reading the seriousness in his face.
"You haven't done this before."
"Yes, I have," Sherlock insisted.
"Not like this."
"Not with my cousin in my bedroom, no."
"You know what I meant."
Sherlock flushed.
"No, not like this. I mean, I've used fingers and other devices. Never with anyone else."
He turned back to look hard into Mycroft's eyes. "But I want to. Oh, God, I want to."
Lunging at Mycroft, he successfully pinned him down, grinding his hips against his.
"Please, Mycroft," he whispered roughly. "I want to feel you."
Mycroft visibly shuddered at his words, and he took a deep breath to regain some sense of control over his body. Instead, he was rewarded with an onslaught of smells that were so decidedly Sherlock.
Alcohol, tobacco, and gasoline. Utterly destructive.
"Do you have lube?"
Sherlock shook his head, his face falling.
"I've got some in the car," Mycroft whispered.
"Wait here, I'll get it," Sherlock dipped his hand into Mycroft's pocket to snatch his keys and scrambled up, running off without giving Mycroft a change to protest.
"It's in the glove compartment," he called out, but Sherlock was already out of sight.
Mycroft stole another cigarette and lit it, grinning stupidly after every inhalation of tobacco.
He considered the sheer wrongness and bizarreness of it all, but couldn't find himself caring a single bit. He rarely empathized with anyone. Even to his immediate family, he felt no more than the customary care he felt was due.
That's why it never worked out with Charlie or Philip. The passion was fueled mostly by the necessary secrecy, but that sort of excitement inevitably dissipates. Once they'd figured out Mycroft was only ever in it for the companionship, they left, and it was no harder on him than throwing away old photos. A sting of nostalgia soon forgotten.
Sherlock was different. The only person he ever felt genuine sentiment toward. Was it really so surprising that he was the one person he'd end up feeling like this for?
It wasn't long until Mycroft heard Sherlock's footsteps tracing back. He didn't turn around, only finished his cigarette with one last drag and crushed it into the tray. Arms snaked around his waist from behind, pressing the tube into his hand before wrapping around and holding him tight. Mycroft leaned into him, relishing the warmth and the feeling of his pounding heart, beating hard against him.
"Don't ask me if I'm sure," Sherlock whispered, planting a small kiss at his earlobe. "I've always been sure and I'll always be sure."
Sherlock relaxed his grip as Mycroft turned slowly to face him. Without losing eye contact, he gathered the material of Sherlock's shirt from the hem, pulling it up and over his head. The early autumn air was even cooler at this hour, making Sherlock shiver slightly. His nipples stood to attention at the breeze. Mycroft shifted his weight to press Sherlock into the grass gently as he leaned down to lick at the hardened buds.
Fumbling with the buttons on Mycroft's shirt, Sherlock pulled it off his shoulders. Mycroft shuddered and he sank into the warmth emanating from Sherlock's body. His pants were still undone from earlier, and he shucked them off quickly, helping Sherlock squirm out of his own. Their lips met with excitement and they didn't resurface until everything else was tossed aside, every inch of their skin exposed.
Mycroft's fingers shook as he reached for the lube. He uncapped it and squeezed it to warm in his hand, hesitating as he reached underneath Sherlock.
"Hey," Sherlock brought a hand to his cousin's face to make him look at him. "It's okay."
Mycroft nodded and tentatively pressed against his cleft. Sherlock's eyes fluttered close as he circled the hole, letting it get accustomed to his finger before he let it slip in.
A wince of slight discomfort showed on Sherlock's face, but he nodded eagerly for Mycroft to continue. He made shallow thrusts, stretching it until he could accommodate two fingers, then three. Sherlock's breathing grew quicker and he kept a hand gripping Mycroft's free arm, the other fisting the sheets.
The moment Mycroft found it, glancing over the soft bump of glands, Sherlock's hand tightened and his eyes shot open.
"Oh, fuck," he gasped. "Do that again."
Mycroft obliged, grinning as he hooked his fingers to press gently against it, slowly, then faster. Sherlock started squirming, unable to contain his moans as the whites in his knuckles showed as he gripped onto the blankets.
"Mycroft," he pleaded, now pulling him closer. "I need you. Please."
Taking a deep breath, Mycroft slowly pulled his hand out. He grabbed the tube and squirted another generous amount onto his hand. He took a hold of his already hard and leaking cock, giving is a few strokes to coat it liberally. The man beneath him stretched his legs a little wider, bending his knees higher to accommodate Mycroft as he positioned himself closer.
Lining up to his hole, he sought his eyes out for the okay signal.
Sherlock's pupils were blown wide open, dark as an abyss about to swallow him whole, and he nodded. Mycroft pressed forward, slowly, but without pause.
"Shit, shit, shit," Sherlock gritted his teeth, his eyes now scrunched tightly closed, sweat gathering on his brow.
The tightness was overwhelming, and Mycroft gripped Sherlock's hips to keep himself from moving yet, waiting for Sherlock to accommodate to the fullness. He leaned down and kissed him hard, wanting to consume all of his groans of pain and turn them into pleasure. Sherlock's face was scrunched tight, but he hummed with gratification and he kissed back with desperation, tongues swirling with fervor.
Sherlock pressed his hips up, hinting at what he wanted without words while his mouth remained busy. Mycroft withdrew, then thrust forward hard, and they both shouted aloud.
Worried he'd gone too hard too quickly, Mycroft faltered, trying to slow things down.
"Don't... stop," Sherlock grunted, scrabbling at his back, scratching aimlessly until he gripped Mycroft by the hips and thrust up, impaling himself further.
"Fuck," Mycroft gasped, "You're trying to kill me, aren't you?"
He gripped Sherlock's hips and kept him still, thrusting slowly, trying to find a balance in their uncoordinated rhythm.
"This isn't how I'd kill you," Sherlock said impulsively, losing breath in between words. "I'd asphyxiate you in your sleep. Much easier and less messy."
Mycroft stopped pumping his hips and nearly lost his balance, doubling over with laughter. A whine of complaint escaped from Sherlock at the loss of friction.
"You've planned on how you'd kill me?"
"Simple mental exercise. Always a good idea to be prepared for any and all circumstances. And if you don't fucking move right now, I might have to put it to – oh my G–!"
Mycroft rammed deep into him at a precisely calculated angle. He surrendered himself to it, diving over and over into that tight heat, drawing out cries of pleasure deep from Sherlock's throat.
Suddenly the sound of a car driving up to the house reached their ears.
They both swore frantically. Mycroft could feel himself nearing the edge and Sherlock was seizing up, muscles tense. He wanted to bring Sherlock off, but he couldn't support his weight and reach down to tug him at the same time.
"Touch yourself."
Sherlock shook his head, his eyes scrunched tight in concentration. "No, I'm almost there, almost."
He angled upward and lifted his leg a little higher. Mycroft took that as an invitation and his thrusts gained momentum, aggressively hitting him right there.
"I love you, too," Mycroft whispered.
With a strangled noise, Sherlock climaxed untouched, spurting across both of their chests. The constriction became too much, and after a few more thrusts, Mycroft plunged in hard one last time and released deep into Sherlock.
Breathing hard, they wasted no time. Mycroft carefully pulled out and Sherlock grabbed a tissue from his nightstand, hastily cleaning themselves off as Mycroft dressed himself.
"Sherlock? Are you home?" Mycroft's aunt called out from the front door.
"Yeah, I'm in my room," Sherlock called out, trying to keep his voice steady.
Mycroft promptly took a seat on his chair as Sherlock pulled on a shirt, covering up the rest of him with his comforter, just as his mother turned the knob of his bedroom.
"Oh," she said, looking at Mycroft with surprise. "You know, I thought I saw your car outside. Are you staying over tonight, Mikey?"
"If it's not a problem," Mycroft said in his perfectly honey tone, catching Sherlock's rolled eyes from his peripheral.
"Not at all, dear. Just got back from your parents, glad to know things are going well."
Mycroft nodded amiably.
"Alright. Let us know if you need anything. We'll be right upstairs."
Once she closed the door, they both relaxed. Sherlock closed his eyes and slumped back.
"Why aren't you back in bed yet?" he said sleepily, reaching out blindly. Mycroft crawled over and let Sherlock peel off his clothes, both of them already aching for the feel of each others' skin after only a few minutes apart.
They lay there. Looking out of the window into the darkness. Matched breathing patterns. Shared a few lazy kisses.
"I meant it when I said I'd rather stay here than go anywhere else without you," Sherlock said softly. "So what do you think we should do now?"
What were they supposed to do? Stay here and hide their relationship for the sake of their families? Run away and abandon their supposed loved ones to discover their untapped potential?
"Stay together."
Family is an overrated concept, thought Mycroft. A few similarities in DNA and you're supposed to commit your life to these people?
The extended Holmes family only ever came together out of obligation or the prospect of money, never out of sentiment. In this case, it was both.
At least he didn't have to plaster on a smile and fake geniality this time. They just assumed he was still grieving. He knew he should be, but his father had been sick for months, and he'd accepted the inevitability of his departure for a while now.
Sherlock considered skipping the reunion entirely, but when he saw look on Mycroft's face at the suggestion, he kissed him firmly and held him tight, promising that he'd be there for him. To deal with it all while every distant relative crowded into his home was making him absolutely miserable, but it was made less miserable by Sherlock's constant presence. Never too close and always in the background or at the corner of his eye, but he was always there, and Myroft could always see him.
At the end of the day, after most of their family members had left and the remaining few had adjourned to their designated bedrooms, Mycroft collapsed onto the couch, emotionally exhausted.
Sherlock double checked for any relative who may have lagged behind before following him and curling up beside him. Mycroft leaned over and tucked his head onto his shoulder. Sherlock started combing his fingers through his cousin's short ginger hair absentmindedly, and Mycroft closed his eyes, relishing the feel of fingernails scraping gently against his scalp.
"They might come down and find us like this," Mycroft whispered, but he made no move to distance himself.
"There won't be much point keeping up pretenses by tomorrow."
The older man hummed, both in agreement and in contentment. "Luggage is in my closet, carry-ons are in yours."
Sherlock nodded. "Did you tell anyone?"
"Just Livitha. My brothers wouldn't even try to understand."
"What she'd say?"
"She disagreed with it, obviously, but at least she didn't harp on about it. Just wished me the best and reassured me they'd take care of mom. And there's always Darla. Might consider giving her a raise, having to carry more of the burden to deal with her."
"Well, she's got two less mouths to cook for and two less messes to clean up after, at least."
"True," Mycroft murmured.
Sherlock continued stroking his hair before he spoke again.
"Are you going to tell your mom?"
Mycroft tensed. "I need to. I can't just leave without telling her."
"It'll be fine," Sherlock's hand stilled and moved down to cup the back of his neck, bringing him into a tender kiss. Soft swipe of tongue and burning heat, Mycroft felt a little dazed as they pulled apart.
"I wrote a song for you," Sherlock whispered against his lips.
Mycroft groaned, but his heart fluttered pleasantly. "We're going to start exchanging sappy poetry and sickening declarations of love now, are we?"
"Just this once," Sherlock grinned. He stood up and grabbed his cousin by the wrist, pulling him up and closer to the piano. "It's just something that's been helping me keep the edge off. You know, without substance abuse."
"Are you telling me that song writing is now your drug of choice?"
"I'm saying you're my drug of choice."
Mycroft grimaced at the sickening sentiment as he took a seat beside his cousin on the piano bench. "I might have to consider sending you to rehab."
"Shut up and just listen to it, okay?"
He lined up his hands on the keys a little awkwardly, trying to remember the correct placement, and a simple tune played out softly.
"Well, I've never been a man of many words"
Mycroft snorted, but Sherlock nudged him and continued.
"And there's nothing I could say that you haven't heard.
But I'll sing you love songs til the day I die.
The way I'm feeling,
I can't keep it inside."
Something warm and comforting settled in Mycroft's stomach, and he leaned his head lightly against Sherlock's shoulder. Closing his eyes, he let the sound of Sherlock's voice wash over him.
"I'll sing a sweet serenade whenever you're feeling sad
And a lullaby each night before you go to bed.
I'll sing to you for the rest of your life –"
A sudden creak stopped them in their tracks. Sherlock took his hands off the piano and they both stood up from the bench and distanced themselves, looking extremely guilty. Mycroft was the first to realize that the creaking was coming from outside, and he spotted his mother sitting in a chair out on the deck.
Mycroft swore aloud, raking his hands through his head in anxiety. There was no way she could have gone down the stairs and out the back door without passing by the two of them and witnessing their intimacy.
"Look, you said you were going to have to talk to her, at least about leaving," Sherlock said, biting his lip nervously. "Just get it over with."
Mycroft nodded but didn't move.
Sherlock stepped toward him and invaded his space until he looked up at him.
"You can do this."
Nodded again, he took a deep breath and stole a quick kiss for good measure.
He made his way to the back door. His mother made no sign of acknowledgment except for a passive glance his way as he stepped onto the deck.
"Hey, mom. I need to talk to you about something."
"Hmm," was all she said, as if she was barely there.
He walked over to the bench and sat down steadily, taking a deep breath. She was sitting upright and stoic. The picture of cold imperiousness, swaying gently in a rocking chair.
His mother wasn't an affectionate woman and he admired her all the more for it. She taught him to remain above it all, how to figure out your place in the world and use it to your advantage.
He never blamed her for giving up on herself when she was first diagnosed. Only understood and tried as best he could to ease the pain.
In return, she gave him her respect. She never ordered him about or demanded anything from him. She never told him what she thought he should do or try to sway his opinion. She never decided anything for him, trusting him to decide for himself.
Mycroft steeled himself and took a deep breath. "I'm leaving tomorrow. I'm going to London. Sherlock's coming with me."
His mother nodded, as if to say Yes, that information correlates with my observation.
"There's something going on between you two," she spoke flatly. A statement, not a question.
"We're close," Mycroft half-admitted.
"Don't lie to me."
He swallowed. "Yeah. There's something going on."
"What is it exactly?" she said, giving nothing away in her tone.
She knew. She must know. But she wanted him to say it.
"We're – " Mycroft hesitated. He couldn't say lovers, partners, boyfriends. Those terms were reserved for couples with at least an ounce of normalcy.
"... together."
She stopped rocking, looking over at him.
He looked at his hands as he braced himself for her reaction. He didn't know what to expect. He couldn't remember her ever showing disappointment in him, or anger, but perhaps this was the tipping point.
"Sherlock's your brother."
Mycroft raised his head sharply and stared at her. He laughed nervously. "What are you talking about? He's my cousin."
"He's not your cousin, he's your brother."
The smile slid off his face. He got up off the bench and bent to her eye level, holding her face carefully and checking her eyes for constriction or redness, but he only found watery, but otherwise perfectly normal, eyes staring straight at him.
"I'm not on anything," she said gently, taking his hands from her face and gripped them tightly in hers. "I promised your father –" Tears were pouring steadily now, her voice quaking. "I haven't for six months. He would never forgive me if I relapsed when he's only been in the ground for ten hours."
Mycroft pulled away from her, staring at her with disbelief.
"What – what are you saying? He can't be my brother, we – no, we can't be," he said, the words catching in his throat.
She wiped her eyes roughly and looked at him straight, speaking clearly now.
"He's you're half brother. Your father and your Aunt Fae. I knew the whole time it was going on. Fae had been telling me that Charles was shooting blanks for ages, and suddenly he wasn't?" She scoffed, bitterness staining her voice. "It took your father 21 years to finally find the courage to tell me that he was Sherlock's father. To be honest, it was probably his guilt that allowed him to overlook everything I've done."
Mycroft said nothing as she rambled, but he couldn't hear this anymore. No, it wasn't true, it couldn't be true. His father and Aunt Fae? No. No. No.
He ran inside in the middle of her sentence and found Sherlock sitting at the bottom of the staircase in wait. He looked up at Mycroft's appearance and gave him a once-over.
"You're upset," he said, rushing over to him. "What happened?"
"We're leaving," Mycroft said firmly. "Now."
Sherlock searched him, needing more information, but he nodded and ran upstairs to get their bags. Within five minutes, they were driving on the dark open road, Sherlock behind the wheel and Mycroft staring silently out the window.
Their bus wouldn't leave for another 7 hours, but Sherlock parked at the bus station and played the radio to cut through the quiet, neither of them able to fall asleep. He tried to take Mycroft's hand, but the older man pulled away and shook his head.
The tense silence carried on into the morning, save for a phone call Mycroft made to his sister to tell her where to pick up the car. They boarded the bus and took a seat toward the back, Mycroft by the window and Sherlock at the aisle.
Consciousness began to evade Sherlock, and he found himself jolting up whenever he'd lean over too far. Mycroft sighed and pulled him over, letting him curl up in his seat and rest his head on Mycroft's lap.
The bus jolted terribly over every single bump that they happened across the deserted road, but it didn't seem to bother the younger man.
"Don't ever go on a diet. You are the perfect shock absorber," Sherlock mumbled distantly.
Mycroft snorted.
Sherlock looked up at him. "That's the first response I could get out of you all morning."
Mycroft clenched his jaw and returned to looking out of the window.
"You're upset at something your mother said," Sherlock started. "You'd have expected if she responded with disappointment or anger, so that's not it. If she was accepting, you'd be happy. Only other option is that she must have said something that couldn't be foreseen."
Mycroft said nothing, but he let him continue.
"Something to do with me, obviously. And it would have to be new information, something shocking about me that would make you suddenly reconsider us. Something your mother would know but we would not, so it's either something that happened when we were young or before we were born. You can barely stand to look at me, even if you won't push me away, so it's something that makes you feel shameful about our relationship. And the only thing you've ever felt shameful about was that we're cousins."
Tears welled up in Mycroft's eyes, and he shut them hard, wanting to stop Sherlock from figuring it out, but he knew he would.
"We're not cousins, are we?" he said softly.
Mycroft bit his lip. "No."
Sherlock stared into the space ahead of him.
"Same mom or dad?"
"My dad."
He took a shaky breath as he processed this. "Alright."
Mycroft looked at him, really looked at him for the first time since yesterday.
"Is that all you have to say?"
"What is there to say?" Sherlock said dismissively. "Just because the man who raised me wasn't involved in my conception doesn't mean he's not my father. And I'm not just saying that because of my overwhelming sentiment for the man," he added drily.
Guilt pulsed through Mycroft. The entire time, he'd been stressing over the earth-shattering discovery, failing to realize that it meant two earth-shattering discoveries for Sherlock.
"I know you weren't really thinking about that," Sherlock continued, as if reading Mycroft's mind. "You're more concerned with the fact that we're actually brothers. But we were already treading ambiguously amoral waters. This doesn't change the way I feel about you."
He shifted, hiding his face even further from Mycroft.
"If you want to part ways when we get to London, that's your choice," he said with a hard voice.
Mycroft was a meticulous man. He wasn't prone to bursts of affection, familial, romantic, or otherwise. So instead, he slid his fingers underneath Sherlock's head and lifted him up as he bent down, pressing his lips tightly to his, trying to convey everything he wanted to say in this kiss.
The squeeze of his fingers in Sherlock's curls said, Never leave me.
The soft nip of teeth against Sherlock's lip said, You're the most important person in my life.
The soft brush of tongue against tongue said, I don't care who you are to me. I love you.
Sherlock pulled away and looked deep into his eyes, and for a second, Mycroft could see that he understood.
He promptly shoved Mycroft back against his seat.
"I love you, too. Now shut up. Pillows aren't supposed to talk when I'm trying to get some sleep."