Mycroft had been thirteen when it first happened. At school, watching the game of rugby he was supposed to be taking part in. Of course, Mycroft's idea of taking part in any sporting activity was to stay as far away from the ball as possible. His white shorts were still pristine and only one single fleck of mud adhered to his red and white hooped socks. The other boys would never pass the ball to him. It was an unwritten rule. So Mycroft watched, with bored detachment before eventually retreating into the one place where the mud and cold and the blank faces of his fellow students couldn't reach him. His mind.

The games-master looked across at the tall boy, standing alone on the very edge of the rugby field. Mycroft was one of the tallest boys in his year, but unlike his fellow giants, he hadn't outgrown his coordination and moved with a careful grace and economy. The boy had quite a good athletic build and if only he'd apply himself he might have excelled at sports the way he seemed to excel at everything else. They'd tried to get him interested of course, but Mycroft was having none of it.

He was a quiet boy. Almost too quiet. He never showed off, or gave any hint of the brain power he possessed, until he turned in yet another perfect piece of class-work. It was easy to overlook a boy like Mycroft whose talents had no obvious application. Especially when there were other boys, with bright, burning talent, such as William Colby, who was currently tearing down the wing leaving his fellow players standing dumbly.

A shout went up. Someone yelled at Mycroft to stop him. Mycroft, barely registering the existence of the world outside of his head made no move to intervene. But even so, William Colby ran into him. Both boys went to the floor, Colby as though he had just run into a brick wall, Mycroft more gracefully until he was sat in the mud, those clean white shorts now smeared with playing field.

William Colby, despite his abilities on the sports field, was a bad loser. Immediately he was up and on Mycroft, angrily shouting at what he called clearly thought was a bad tackle. When Mycroft's only response was to stare at him blankly, Colby snapped and rained down punches on him, until the tall, pale boy's face was a mess of blood.

The school sanatorium was bright and warm and matron, in her clean white uniform looked with some concern as she cleaned up her young patient. It seemed his nose had borne the brunt of the attack and was broken quite badly. Mycroft stared quietly ahead, his brow furrowed with pain, but making no noise. No tears. Just the bright blue eyes registering something. She assumed the boy was in shock. Otherwise, he was bored. And that was slightly unnerving.

He had politely declined any pain relief, his voice low and gentle and already broken. Matron left him to put on clean pyjamas and get into bed. She went to call the School Doctor.

Mycroft removed his filthy games kit, placing each item carefully in the laundry basket and pulled on the pale blue pyjama trousers. His nose hurt. And so did his ribs. But there was something else.

Mycroft knew what an erection was, of course, but he'd never experienced one. Or at least not whilst he was awake. Now, however, the evidence was plain to see. His penis was thick and veiny, jutting out of the dark red curls of his pubic hair, curving gracefully upwards, the tip perhaps an inch above his belly button. A single drop of gooey fluid dripped from the end. His balls felt tight and heavy and swollen. He slid into bed quickly.

He fingered his damaged nose gingerly, sending little sharp sparks of pain into some inner part of his head. The pain did nothing to diminish his arousal. If anything, the feeling in his groin intensified.

Interesting.

He placed a hand experimentally over his groin. The flesh was hot, solid, tingling. He pushed against the broken bridge of his nose with his free hand. Bright flashes of pleasure went off behind his closed eyes. Synapses and chemicals he had been unaware of began firing and mixing. His groin stretched, his hand clamped tight around the hot length and thick, milky fluid gouted from the end of his penis.

He collapsed back against the pillows. One hand clutching his still swollen cock, the other not quite daring to touch his painfully smashed nose again. He looked downwards, wiped his hand on his sticky belly and smiled.

Xx

Finally, finally, Mycroft was able to relax. James Moriarty was dead. Sherlock was dead. Or at least everyone thought Sherlock was dead. And now he was safe. Mycroft ignored the strange looks he had been getting at work. The swift glances side wards. He had ignored the boring headlines in the tabloids and the lyrical waxing of the broadsheets. But now, as he sat in The Diogenes Club, he was unable to ignore the pressure that had been coiling up in him for some months.

Any normal man would have hired someone. An escort, he believed the diplomatic term for it was. He could, he supposed, even have found himself a partner. The word partner made him shudder slightly. But he doubted very much if any partner would have tolerated his hours, moods and other predilections. And besides, a partner might have expected him to care.

He stood, silently and went to his office. Quiet. Soundproofed. In a backstairs corner of the club away from everyone and everything. He removed his jacket, waistcoat and tie. He carefully placed his cufflinks in the valet tray on the desk, with his pocket watch and mobile phone. He slipped the braces from his shoulders and undid his trousers. He poured himself a large brandy and made certain he had a towel, for afterwards.

He looked at the heavy wooden cabinet behind his desk. Smiling to himself as he opened the door. His cock had begun to harden in anticipation. And with no more thought than if he had been selecting a book from the shelves; Mycroft Holmes slammed the door's hidden metal edge on his left hand.

For a moment there was nothing. Then a delightful, warming bloom of pain began to creep up his arm. Mycroft sighed and settled into his chair. Cock in his right hand, flexing the broken bones of his left.

Mycroft had never forgotten his first time.