This fix was written by one of the nicest people I've ever know, lary, from archiveofourown
The first time Sherlock has an erection is when he's twelve. He touches himself sleepily, having just woken up, he's not really thinking about it. The sensation takes him by surprise. He likes it.
He grows irritated with the whole thing by the time he's fourteen. It's still pleasurable in terms of the physical sensation, but it's distracting and there are no redeeming features. There's nothing to occupy his brain, nothing interesting, just a mindless physical need that he's compelled to fill – like sleeping or eating which, although annoying, at least serve some useful purpose. He does experiments with all three, stopping one after another, but is always defeated by his body after a while.
Mycroft catches on and admonishes him, which makes him more irritated because his stupid brother is right like he always is. He redoubles his efforts out of spite, but no matter how hard he tries, he's unable to stop entirely. In revenge he needles Mycroft for stuffing his face, and for the sex he's obviously having with at least three different people in Cambridge, although to his annoyance Sherlock is unable to find out who they are. His remarks still get to Mycroft, who replies condescendingly that Sherlock will feel differently about sex when he's older. Mycroft will later turn out to be right about that too, but not in a way either of them could have foreseen.
He's fifteen when a girl in his class tries to kiss him. Most of the people he has to put up with at school are dull and stupid, but he's considered her one of the least offensive ones. She excels at physics, and they've partnered up for a project in which she hasn't been completely useless. That partnership ends when Sherlock pushes her away and she leaves in tears.
Later, thinking about it makes him distressed, he can't make sense of it. He's seen, of course, how obsessed most people are with their little trysts, barely capable of thinking about anything else. His brother at least hasn't begun to act like a simpleton, but even he chooses to waste his time in such pursuits. Sherlock doesn't see the appeal, feels at best indifference and at worst revulsion at the thought of letting anybody near his body in that way.
He doesn't expect it, is caught off guard the first time he feels something else, something more complicated. He's seventeen, about to go to university in two months. He's followed his brother upstairs and stands quietly behind the door of the bathroom. Since starting in his new government position, Mycroft's visits have become less frequent and he's more closed off than ever. Sherlock has been observing discretely to unearth the secrets his brother has no business keeping from him. He's just about to take the chance to have a quick look around in Mycroft's room, but he's glued to the spot when he hears Mycroft retching.
He knows immediately that he's succeeded in finding out one of his brother's best kept secrets. This, then, is how Mycroft has lost the weight during the last eight months, by making himself throw up. That fat, lazy bastard.
Sherlock steps carefully closer and leans against the wall, so that it'll look as if he's waiting to use the facilities. He hears Mycroft retch again, feels suddenly restless, his heart beating faster. It's so indecent of his prim, proper elder brother to be doing this, to be pushing his fingers in his own throat, so deep that he regurgitates. Sherlock can imagine the picture Mycroft makes, on his knees and bent over the toilet, vomit forcing its way up his throat and out of his mouth, making his body tremble. Perhaps he's not kneeling, he wouldn't want to leave evidence on his trousers. He must have rolled his sleeves up, too. Sherlock feels his skin heat at the thought of Mycroft preparing for the act, efficient and pragmatic as he is with everything. It must make him sweat when he vomits, must make him flushed and dishevelled and out of breath.
Mycroft's cough snaps him out of it and makes him realise his own physical state. His blood is surging, his breathing is shallow, and his cock is hard, straining against his trousers. His fingers are itching, moving almost on their own towards his crotch.
This is how it feels, then, to be truly aroused.
For a brief moment he's fascinated, before it hits him just why he's feeling it. Fuck. The sounds of vomiting, picturing it – what it must look like, what it must feel like. And worse, it's Mycroft. His stupid, smug brother. Who he's suddenly afraid will know, especially if Sherlock is lingering at the door when he comes out.
He steps quietly away from the door, giving it a final glance as he hears the flushing of the toilet. He takes the opportunity provided by the noise to walk hastily across the hall and down the stairs to his own room, closing the door securely behind himself.
Leaning against the door, he lets it happen, has little choice, opens his trousers with shaky hands and palms his erection through his pants. The cotton is damp and warm under his fingers, his cock full. He needs to touch himself, to push his hand inside his pants and wrap his fingers around his flesh, rock-hard and slick as he's never felt it before. God, it feels so good.
He tries to not think about it, but his brother's sounds come to him and with them images fill his mind – what Mycroft must look like in his suit, fingers down his throat, heaving over the toilet. How often does he do it? It feels almost violent, Mycroft taking control of his reflexes and forcing his body through that unnatural process over and over. What does it feel like? The thought inspires instinctive apprehension and disgust, but makes his hips twitch, his hand move faster on his cock, slippery with precome. What it must feel like, that control, that lack of control. Coming undone, throwing up until nothing more will come up. He holds his breath, feels his balls tighten before his cock is pulsing in his hand, white streaks of come over his fingers and on the carpet. He can't even be arsed to care, slumps against the door with his eyes closed, trying to catch his breath.
He sneaks back upstairs hours later when he expects everybody to be in bed, doesn't want Mycroft to notice him going into the bathroom he doesn't normally use. He's disappointed that there's not a sign of it, not an item out of place, no smell. He wonders how Mycroft would react if he knew. The thought fills him with shame and terrified excitement.
He finds out eight months later, soon after he drops out. He doesn't bother to do it properly, doesn't tell anybody, just heads from Cambridge to London by train. Mycroft's help opens the door for him. She probably wouldn't let him in if his brother had anticipated his visit and bothered to warn her. Sherlock lounges on Mycroft's bed until the middle-aged Polish woman leaves, and then proceeds to rifle through the flat. It's useless, he only finds Mycroft's personal papers, all uninteresting, nothing to do with his work.
"Good evening, brother dear." Mycroft greets him when he gets home and finds Sherlock leafing through books in his library.
"Mycroft."
"I see you have made yourself at home." He bends to pick up the coat Sherlock dropped in the middle of the floor earlier and folds it neatly over his arm.
"I see you have gained yet another six pounds."
"Lost six, in fact." As if Sherlock couldn't tell by the lines of his suit. As if the knowledge isn't burning low in his stomach, a mixture of unwilling anticipation and arousal. "To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?"
"You wound me, brother dear. Haven't you missed me at all?"
"No. I cannot imagine why," Mycroft says, as he collects the books Sherlock's strewn all over the desk and goes to set them on the shelves, rearranging them into the exact places they were before. He always has to control everything.
Sherlock springs into action, collecting his coat from Mycroft and taking the last book out of his hands, deliberately setting it two spaces left of where it's supposed to go. "Come, let's have dinner!"
Mycroft raises an eyebrow, but follows Sherlock towards the kitchen, leaving the book in the wrong place. "Student diet must agree with you, I used to have to drag you to the dining room kicking and screaming."
"And I used to have to drag you out of it," Sherlock retorts. He picks a wine – white, just to annoy Mycroft, who doesn't approve of it with red meat – and pours himself a glass as his brother takes the prepared roast out of the oven. He doesn't want to get drunk around Mycroft, doesn't want to let his guard down, but just seeing his brother is making him unexpectedly jittery.
"You could at least wait to sit down," Mycroft comments, watching him gulp down the wine. Sherlock ignores him and empties the glass.
Mycroft goes through the motions of serving dinner and making polite conversation. It's all so boring. Sherlock hates who his brother has become, this dull creature who'll insist on social norms even when it's just the two of them, even though he knows Sherlock couldn't care less for trivialities. When they were younger, Mycroft at least had some spark in him. He always presented a front to outsiders, something Sherlock never bothered with, but he used to make cutting comments to Sherlock about the children he went to school with and about the guests of their parents' dinner parties. But that was before he left for university, and before he started in his job. Nowadays any glimpses of a personality in his brother are few and far between.
Sherlock picks at his food idly, preoccupied with Mycroft emptying his plate and trying not to be obvious about it. He ends up drinking more than his share of the wine, scowling at his brother's silent disapproval. As if Mycroft has any grounds to it. That secret he knows, it makes him feel powerful, allows him to see through this facade of propriety Mycroft insists on. But it also gnaws at him like a disease, impossible to shake, each bite Mycroft takes tightening the coil of anticipation low in his stomach.
A part of him fears his brother won't do it. A part of him fears he will.
When Mycroft excuses himself, Sherlock is almost too wound up to follow him, but his sock-clad feet take him to the door of Mycroft's en suite bathroom like he's magnetised to it. He's nearly hoping Mycroft has merely gone to relieve himself, but then he hears that sound again, unmistakable, Mycroft vomiting. Desire slams into him, makes him flush with heat, rapidly filling his half-hard cock. He touches himself this time, needs to, after so many times he's imagined it. Fuck, he wants to see what Mycroft looks like, but even hearing him is so much better than the memory that's fuelled his fantasies whenever he's masturbated in the past eight months, frustrated and aroused and chocking on his shame. He feels ashamed now, too, but it's not enough to stop him. He fists his cock with quick, efficient strokes, bites his other hand to keep quiet, presses his teeth deeper into his skin with each retching and gagging sound he hears through the door.
It takes him practically no time at all to come, such an intense shock of pleasure that it leaves him trembling. He thinks he's careful enough when he sneaks out of Mycroft's bedroom and goes to clean himself in the guest bathroom.
He's wrong.
Two weeks later he's accosted by a nondescript black car near Elephant&Castle tube station. The window rolls open. "Get in, would you?"
"Why are you following me?" Sherlock scowls at his brother. It's not as if Mycroft would end up in the area by coincidence. Not his part of London.
"I would like you to join me for dinner at Diogenes."
"And why do you imagine I'd want to do that?" He's spent the past weeks avoiding Mycroft, which hasn't been difficult. London anonymous crowds and alleyways are calling to him, and Mycroft spends most of his time at work, sometimes days on end. Avoiding thoughts about Mycroft hasn't been as easy. Sherlock has found himself fighting another losing battle with his libido. "I'm not as obsessed with eating my body weight as some."
"How very original." Mycroft says drolly. The car door opens. "Come now, brother dear. I do some of my work at the club, as you know. You should be able to find out something of interest if you focus."
Sherlock is annoyed by the blatant manipulation – patronising, no less – but he's too tempted to resist. Mycroft seems unbothered by his irritable mood, simply watches out of the car window looking self-satisfied and smug in his three-piece suit. It fits him perfectly and Sherlock finds his eyes drawn to it inevitably.
"Enjoy descending from your Ivory Tower and seeing how the masses live?"
"Quite, as long as I am not forced to interact with any of them. I do so despise legwork."
Meaning he is at least sometimes forced to do it. Interesting. "You're too lazy for it."
"I rather prefer to think of it in terms of efficiency. My time can be better spent."
Sherlock looks out the window as they cross the Westminster Bridge and pass the Houses of Parliament, where he's sure Mycroft spends at least some of his time, sucking up to people in power. The driver takes a turn towards Trafalgar Square, and the car passes more clean, pretentious buildings.
Sherlock likes his London better than Mycroft's.
They stop in front of Diogenes. At least Mycroft isn't too lazy to open his own car door yet; Sherlock gives it a year. He follows his brother inside, and raises an eyebrow at him as a heavy silence envelopes them. A doorman takes their coats and they're led to a spacious dining area and seated in a table for two. There are only three other people eating, all by themselves. Sherlock can easily imagine Mycroft doing the same. He feels like an outsider and it makes him irrationally self-conscious, even though he's certain nobody can tell. He is, after all, wearing one of the high-quality suits somebody in Mycroft's employ had left out for him the day following his arrival – his irritation at the patronising gesture wasn't going to stop him from taking advantage of his brother's resources.
At first Sherlock feels rather glad of the silence, for it saves him from the small talk and inanities. But when their food arrives – fish and potatoes and wine Mycroft must have ordered in advance – there's little to use as diversion. He feigns focus on his own meal, but he's painfully aware of every bite Mycroft takes.
It soon becomes clear that his brother can tell. He pauses unexpectedly, fork held in the air mid-way to his mouth, and when Sherlock glances towards him, he finds Mycroft's gaze locked on him. Mycroft finishes the motion deliberately slowly, a challenge in his eyes, and Sherlock can't look away. He finds himself holding his breath, compelled to follow avidly as Mycroft washes the food down with wine. A slow, knowing smile spreads on Mycroft's face, and Sherlock wants to look away, embarrassment flooding him, but he refuses to give his brother that victory.
The dinner proceeds in the same vein. At some point Sherlock gives up any pretence of being interested in his own food and focuses exclusively on Mycroft. The only thing that threatens to disrupt them is the waiter, but the man doesn't even make it to the table before Mycroft sends him away with a signal.
By the time Mycroft is finished, Sherlock is fully hard. He's still unsure if his brother knows the rest of it, but when Mycroft stands up and gestures him to follow, Sherlock suspects he does. He walks after Mycroft, soft steps on the heavy carpets, and he swears he can hear his own heart pounding. God, he's never been nervous like this, not even the times he's sneaked onto police crime scenes, not wanting to get caught before he's collected all the relevant data. It tends to help that the police are all idiots. Mycroft isn't.
Mycroft opens a wooden door to a small office. He gestures Sherlock inside, and when he closes the door, even the little sound there was in the public areas dies down.
"You are welcome go through my desk drawers." Mycroft removes his suit jacket and hangs it up, which leaves him still looking perfectly put together in his shirt and waistcoat, red tie smoothed underneath it, before turning to look at Sherlock. "Or you may join me."
Sherlock should have anticipated it; if Mycroft was disgusted with him, he would have chosen a different approach, would never have brought Sherlock here. Yet it comes as a shock to his system. He can't help the sharp surge of arousal, can't help the hitch in his breath, the want. Mycroft, of course, reads it all off him, from a hundred little tells on Sherlock's body. His lips curve into a smug, knowing smile. Oh, he is hateful.
There's no question about it – when Mycroft turns to go to the toilet, Sherlock follows. He perches awkwardly in the doorway as Mycroft rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands, diligent in his motions. The silence is heavy between them, he hates that Mycroft makes him feel this self-conscious even though he's acting as if Sherlock isn't there.
He does kneel on the floor, his back to Sherlock, and Sherlock's feet take him further into the room to stand by the sink. He avoids looking in the mirror, doesn't want to see on his face what Mycroft was able to see, and it isn't difficult because Mycroft is drawing his gaze inescapably. Mycroft is matter-of-fact, he's done this time and time again, but Sherlock watches with his heart in his mouth, sees Mycroft brace his free hand against the cistern and push two fingers in his throat. The reaction isn't immediate – Mycroft must have caused damage to his gag reflex with the frequent abuse – Sherlock finds himself holding his breath, but then Mycroft's whole body convulses – once, twice, before he pulls his fingers out, bends over the toilet, and vomits. Sherlock is hit by the sight and the sound, which make some deep part of his brain rear up, alight his every nerve and make his cock throb with desire. The smell reaches him a moment later, and it's simultaneously revolting and arousing.
Mycroft convulses again, expels more of his half-digested dinner. His body has to be used to it, but he's still shaking, mild tremors visible on the tensing muscles of his back. And then he does it again, pushes fingers in his throat, and this time the reflex is triggered immediately and Mycroft heaves thick liquid into the toilet. Sherlock's nails are biting into his palms, he can hear his own shallow breath and his erection is aching but he's not going to touch himself right now, not about to give Mycroft that sort of leverage.
There's a palpable tension in the air between them as Mycroft waits out the rest of the tremors, then reaches for toilet paper to wipe his mouth. He flushes the toilet and stands up, eyes sweeping over Sherlock, effortlessly cataloguing every detail of the damning state his body is in. Mycroft has to gesture for Sherlock to realise he needs to move out of the way. He feels himself flush with embarrassment as he steps away from the sink to allow Mycroft space, clumsily like his limbs don't want to obey his brain's commands. His eyes refuse to leave his brother, even though by now he's simply rinsing his mouth and washing and drying his hands, then pulling down his sleeves and reattaching his cuff links. Nothing that warrants attention, yet Sherlock is mesmerised, captured by the precise movements of Mycroft's fingers.
Mycroft turns around. His gaze trails slowly down Sherlock's frame, taking in the signs of arousal – the most obvious of which is the bulge his trousers fail to hide. Mycroft's eyes return to his face, and Sherlock hates being so unable to tell what his brother is thinking.
"I'd best step out and give you some... privacy."
Sherlock scowls, but stays still as Mycroft brushes past him, refusing the instinct to reach out. For whatever reason he doesn't want Mycroft to leave, but wants to ask him to stay even less. As soon as Mycroft closes the door behind himself, Sherlock fumbles his trousers open, freeing his erection, relief coursing through him at his own touch. He strokes himself fast and tight, eyes closed, wonders if Mycroft can hear the sound of flesh on flesh or his laboured breathing through the door, if Mycroft wants to hear him. He bites his lip and swallows the moan as his cock pulses in his hand, spilling ejaculate on the toilet floor.
He has to wait a moment to feel like his legs will hold his weight, but once the euphoric rush of hormones starts to dissipate, a vague sense of annoyance takes its place. He washes his hands perfunctorily and dries them on the towel, throwing it over the mess on the floor. He rather hopes it's found by somebody who will attribute it to Mycroft. His brother would be horrified at the mere thought.
Neither of them mentions it, yet it becomes a habit. Sherlock has no reason for pretence, when Mycroft can read desire in his eyes. So he joins Mycroft for dinner more often, and joins him after dinner. Mycroft never stays and Sherlock can't bring himself to ask. He still isn't sure.
But he gets his confirmation six weeks later, on a night when Mycroft drinks too much. Sherlock doesn't know the reason, but Mycroft has already passed tipsy when he gets home, and continues with more wine than usual over dinner. Sherlock follows him again, too used to their routine at this point to feel too much embarrassment at his obvious arousal caused by watching Mycroft vomit. Usually, Mycroft is quick to put himself together afterwards, but this time his eyes fix on Sherlock.
"Just look at you, brother dear. Such a mess." For a split second Mycroft's eyes dart to his lips, and Sherlock feels like all air leaves his lungs. For all he suspected, he didn't really believe Mycroft-
For once in his life Sherlock lacks a response, doesn't want to find out what would come out of his mouth were he to open it. His brain is static buzzing and white noise. His brother huffs a humourless laugh, murmurs, "Such a pretty mess."
"Mycroft..." Sherlock's voice comes out chocked, like he hasn't spoken in days. Mycroft's glancing at his mouth again, and Sherlock can see the movement of Mycroft's throat as he swallows. He meets Sherlock's eyes again.
He twitches, makes to turn away, but Sherlock is quicker. His hands grasp at Mycroft's shirt, incite a sharp gasp from Mycroft as Sherlock pulls him closer.
"Mycroft. Please."
Mycroft stills, his every muscle tense. "You do not even know what you are asking for, Sherlock."
Sherlock scowls, never appreciative of Mycroft condescension, pushes his crotch artlessly against Mycroft's thigh, his arousal unmistakable for even the most dimwitted person, which his brother certainly is not. "Then show me, brother dear."
Mycroft's eyes flash, his hands clutch Sherlock's hips and still them. "Stop that."
"You don't want me to stop. Otherwise you'd never have begun this."
"I shouldn't have."
"It is too late for that now."
Mycroft closes his eyes on a pained expression. Sherlock hates it. Fight is much safer, but when Mycroft pulls him closer it's tender, and Sherlock doesn't know what to do with it. He can feel Mycroft's soft cheek on his face, the slight rasp on his jaw where he's shaved early in the morning, Mycroft's scent a heady mixture Sherlock wants to spend days picking apart. Mycroft's voice is throaty enough to be nearly inaudible. "It has been too late for far too long."
"How long?" Sherlock demands, thrown by the surge of emotion, desire and arousal that meld with indignation at not having known.
Mycroft doesn't answer, not with words, but any coherent thought leaves Sherlock when warm mouth traces along his jaw and then finds his lips, presses against them in a soft, warm kiss that bears no resemblance to the single one he was subjected to as a teenager. There's a whimper that Sherlock doesn't recognise has his own as he feels the tip of Mycroft's tongue touch his bottom lip, lick at the seam of his lips, makes him open his mouth and-
For someone who protested only moments ago, Mycroft kisses him like Sherlock's the best thing he's ever tasted. He lets Mycroft manoeuvre them so that Sherlock is trapped against the tiled bathroom wall, his thoughts tumbling on themselves as Mycroft's tongue explores his mouth. He can still taste an acidic hint of vomit, which by this point merely serves to increase his arousal.
"You truly do want me to touch you," Mycroft murmurs against his lips when his fingers find the bulge of Sherlock's cock.
"Stating the obvious, brother mine," Sherlock responds scathingly, feels his cheeks heat up. He's rewarded by a nip of teeth at his bottom lip, by Mycroft's skilled fingers working his trousers open and freeing his erection from his underwear, curling around it. Sherlock gasps, his hands fist into the back of Mycroft's shirt tightly.
There's no reason it should be so, but Mycroft's touch on his cock feels completely different than his own, and a hundred times better. Pleasure courses through his body, arousal and desire pools in his groin, builds tension in his muscles, and he's panting, helpless sounds escaping him as his hips thrust on their own, seeking the tight warmth. Mycroft changes the angle and speed, stroking him faster, seeming to read cues effortlessly from Sherlock's body even though Sherlock doesn't think he could even express what he wants moment to moment. He's sweating, his legs are trembling, Mycroft is looking at him like he's devouring him with his eyes, and nothing has ever felt like this. Sherlock is flying, coming over Mycroft's fingers and messing up both of their clothes, chocking on his brother's name until Mycroft kisses it from his lips.
Sherlock hates the guilt he sees in Mycroft's eyes after, and he tears into his brother mercilessly. The fight that follows is stretched over days and days.
In the end Sherlock wins, for once he's seen the want in Mycroft's eyes, nothing his brother says or doesn't say can rid him of that knowledge. He makes no secret of what he's offering – everything, show me, take me brother – and the desire pulls taut between them until Mycroft snaps, takes Sherlock into his bed and fucks him in the midst of the shattered pieces of his self-control.
Sherlock moans against his lips, claws at him, pushes back into his thrusts. He lets himself drown in pleasure and sensation and need, and drags Mycroft down with him, secure in the knowledge that neither of them will surface.