The dark haired man at his feet cast a disbelieving look first at his injured right palm and then at the plaster cast on his left. "Don't be obtuse brother" he stated simply before reaching up and unbuckling his brother's belt. The luxurious fabric slipped satisfying over the older man's hips to pool at his feet. "Oh yes" Sherlock vocalised his appreciation and Mycroft's breathing picked up in response.
Injured!Mycroft, Incest, Sherlock/Mycroft
A/N - the plot bunny just hopped up and I had to type this out... its really not my fault at all... honestly! Reviews appreciated.
Enjoy!
"Brother" Mycroft looked up from his desk towards the door of his darkened office. The man who had just let himself in through the locked hardwood hung back in the shadowy recess by the west window and remained mysteriously silent.
The government official sighed quietly. His brother had been visiting him more often since the incident. Slipping into his office at odd hours, seemingly just to check he was, in fact, still breathing. Sentiment. Mycroft mused, although he couldn't bring himself to mind Sherlock's sojourns nor could he bring himself to mention the unusual display of concern from the detective lest his acknowledgement caused its cessation.
Usually, his visitor followed a particular pattern – lurking in the shadows of his office, presumably until such time as he became terribly bored, and then starting an argument with the 'minor' official before sweeping out in a whirl of coattails.
Today, as Mycroft took stock of his injuries; of the pain radiating through his broken left ulna and fractured ribs, of the tight uncomfortable burn of the stitched gash across his right palm and of the organ-deep ache pulsing from his lower back he didn't think he had the strength to complete their normal routine. He lowered his head, eyes shut against the pounding inside his skull borne of exhaustion and stress, before exhaling slowly and raising his head once more. He locked eyes on his brother's face through the gloom of the office. "Sherlock-"
The detective stepped forward into the dim glow cast by the desk lamp and interrupted his brother "You're looking old Mycroft."
Mycroft took pause before replying "Indeed. Thank you for your astute observations Sherlock. Will that be all?"
When the younger Holmes failed to respond the elder continued "If that's all I must ask that you leave – I have business to attend to before morning."
Sherlock merely narrowed his shrewd eyes until Mycroft, exasperated, said "Regrettably, brother, I find that I do not have the constitution for our games this evening."
"Obviously" the younger man drawled.
With another, this time almost pained, sigh Mycroft stood and moved around to the front of his desk with the intention of ushering his brother towards the door.
"Another time brother, not tonight" he muttered as he warily stepped in front of the solid oak. He stopped short of actually saying the word please but the plea seemed to permeate his words anyway. Sherlock he knew, attentive as he was to detail, would hear it. This might generally concern the older man, after all pleading with Sherlock gave the younger man power over the situation, but on this occasion he couldn't seem to care.
Besides, whether hearing the pleading in his tone would actually have any effect on the detective was a matter up for debate; though it would likely do little to aid Mycroft's request to be left in peace.
"Quiet" the younger man stepped forward into his brother's personal space and snatched up his right hand, carefully studying the swollen, stitched palm, before appearing to come to some conclusion and dropping to his knees at the elegantly suited man's feet.
Mycroft, used to his brother's bizarre behaviour and lack of consideration for personal space merely fixed his sibling with a questioning gaze and a carefully raised eyebrow. Suffice to say Sherlock's strange behaviour didn't surprise him. However, Sherlock suddenly turning his head to the side and rubbing his cheek against Mycroft's crotch like an oversized cat certainly did.
"Sherlock!" the government official exclaimed "what on earth are you doing?!"
The younger man stilled momentarily "You're stressed Mycroft"
"Yes" Mycroft responded sounding confused.
"You need some… relief" His meaning and intentions instantly became clear to the older man.
"I..." he tried to respond. The detective was now mouthing at the zip of his flies in an entirely distracting manner "Sherlock, stop! You can be sure that I appreciate the… gesture… but I am more than capable of relieving myself should the need arise"
The dark haired man at his feet cast a disbelieving look first at his injured right palm and then at the plaster cast on his left. "Don't be obtuse brother" he stated simply before reaching up and unbuckling his brother's belt.
Mycroft's hand closed on the fingers now grasping his zipper and stilled them "Fine. You're right, I'm currently in no position to…" he drifted off unwilling to be crude "but be that as it may this would be wrong Sherlock, very wrong"
"Nonsense" Sherlock shook off the damaged hand immobilising his own and dragged the zipper down "you are in need of release, I am in a position where I can provide it. This will make you feel better. It's remarkably simple and straightforward"
"Sherlock really! I know you're not that socially inept – you know this is not a plausible solution"
"Why must you insist on making everything so complicated brother?"
"Because this is wrong!" Mycroft stressed, voice rising.
"Says who? Says them?!" Sherlock all but spat the last word "since when have we been concerned with what the plebeians think?" his words infused with distain.
Mycroft said nothing, conceding that his brother may, in his own unique way, actually be right. They were different, the two of them, they were – more – than the people around them. They had neither of them ever particularly concerned themselves with the rules of the common man; unless doing so would be beneficial.
"There, I see you have come to the only sensible conclusion" the detective made to continue when Mycroft's voice interrupted him again.
"Brother, if this is simply some sort of power play or perhaps some sort of sexual experimentation or practice for yourself-"
"-Pfft!" Sherlock cut off his sibling's words "I have given you my reasons Mycroft or has your addled brain already forgotten?! I have no need for power and as there are perhaps only two people in the world I would even consider kneeling for, one of whom is straight and the other being you, I really don't think I need bother practicing." Mycroft realised that this admission spoke volumes about his importance to his often antagonistic and unsociable younger brother.
"Besides which, brother dearest, I'm not quite so innocent as you choose to believe" Sherlock stated, a sly smirk extended across his upturned face "based on previous reviews I can assure you that you will find this enjoyable."
Sherlock popped the button on the expensive black trousers unhindered by his now-immobile brother and the luxurious fabric slipped satisfying over the older man's hips to pool at his feet. He wore no undergarments and with all barriers removed Sherlock was finally left looking upon his brother's member.
The younger Holmes had seen it before of course. Summers spent skinny dipping in the lake behind the house. Winters spent challenging each other, and battling off hypothermia, in foolish competitions to retrieve stones from bottom of the frozen, disused millpond. He'd seen it before but not like this.
Half hard already, swollen and engorged with the rush of blood. Soft skin flushed a delicious shade of red and radiating heat. "Oh yes" Sherlock vocalised his appreciation and Mycroft's breathing picked up in response.
Mycroft bit back a groan as the detective leaned forward and slowly ran the tip of his tongue from base to head, before carefully blowing warm air along the damp trail already laid on his skin. Sherlock paused, seemingly enraptured for a moment, as his brother's prick grew heavier and at the same time more buoyant; seemingly defiant of gravity. Then he began to lay open mouthed kisses and nips across the exposed skin of his pelvis.
"Sherlock-" Mycroft's strained plea eventually brought his brother's attention back to his now fully erect cock; straining upwards, its tip beaded with shimmering droplets. The older man looked down at his siblings face and read his reactions as Sherlock studied him intimately. He saw appreciation and desire flit across those sharp features, and then he saw a plan unfolding behind the detective's blue-grey eyes.
He had barely a moment to register what was coming before the violinist's fingers wrapped around the base of his erection and the warm, wet slide of a tongue along his leaking slit almost undid him.
Mycroft cried out; urgent and harsh and uncontrolled, his voice uncharacteristically free. Unable to support himself on his damaged arms he fell back into the support of the oak desk behind. His bruised kidneys flared with a burst of pain at the shock of hard wood against his back, but in an instant the pain was overlaid with pleasure as his brothers hot mouth closed around his dick.
Looking down the older man saw Sherlock's eyes fixed on his face, intensely watchful, reading him and working out exactly how he needed this to go. After a moments indecision he relaxed his vice-like grip on his facial expressions – Sherlock could see them anyway with enough effort, could deduce them from the tiniest flinch in his usually unreadable mask, and in this case Mycroft wanted to make it easier for his brother. He wanted him to see exactly what each and every movement did, exactly how successfully he was taking his big brother apart.
The instant the mask dropped he was rewarded. Sherlock released the hand at the base of his member and slowly slid forwards until he had taken him in entirely. The heat and pressure of his mouth and throat were almost unbearable. He swallowed and Mycroft heard himself give an undignified cry of pleasure and submission.
Dark waves contrasting beautifully with his own pale gingery curls. Mycroft watched in wonder as his younger brother built a rhythm sliding up and down his sensitive flesh. Angular cheekbones set in his exquisitely sculpted face, unmarred alabaster skin and sea-storm eyes fixed on his own. His brother, his intellectual equal, kneeling before him and hungrily swallowing his cock.
Breath coming in harsh gasps interspersed with moans Mycroft wondered at the unfathomable yet incredible movements his brother's tongue was preforming along the underside of his dick. Sherlock, seemingly sensing that he was still cognizant enough to wonder anything at all, responded by hollowing his cheeks and setting a punishing pace.
A deliberate scrape of teeth over the tingling nerves in his throbbing prick and Mycroft was thrusting forwards deep into his sibling's throat. He tried to still his movement but long fingers digging into his hips urged him on.
The pressure, the heat and the intensity built on one another until Mycroft was thrusting wildly into Sherlock's eager mouth. Damaged hand fisted in dark curls, hold tight enough to be painful for both of them, he held his brother in place as he fucked him. And Sherlock knelt there below him, taking it all, swallowing around him and making hungry, wanting sounds.
With a final flick of his tongue the younger Holmes began to hum, waves of vibrations finally pushing his tightly controlled brother over the edge. The fingers on his hips anchored him in place as with a wild, animalistic cry the older Holmes gave in to his ecstasy, hips jerking uncontrollably as he emptied himself into his baby brothers warm and willing mouth.
It was all Mycroft could do to watch, near boneless and panting like a race horse, as his brother, blazing eyes still locked on his, swallowed down his offering.
Finally, Sherlock pulled back, relinquishing his siblings softening member to the cool air with a slick and obscene pop. He stood and took a step back regarding the older man slumped against the hardwood with a critical eye "how's the headache?"
"Gone" the dishevelled man managed as he tried desperately to regain control of his breathing.
"And I trust the other pain you were experiencing has also subsided?"
"Yes… yes it has"
"Good" the detective turned and strode towards the door.
"Sherlock wait-" he paused and spun back to face his brother "what about…" Mycroft's eyes strayed from the younger man's face; roaming down to the prominent bulge in his tailored slacks before returning northwards.
The detective glanced down as himself before answering "you needn't concern yourself."
The expressions of confusion and concern chased each other across Mycroft's still unguarded face. "Let me?" he asked quietly.
"There's really no need" was the equally quiet response. Mycroft perhaps would have pushed the matter, but Sherlock caught his eye and communicated with him in their unique Holmesian way -without the need for spoken words. This was about you brother, not me. Let me have given you this. There's no need for your concern.
Mycroft closed his eyes and dropped his head in acquiescence as his brother strode to the door and flung it open with his usual wild abandon.
"Sherlock?" the older brother called quickly, before the man in question disappeared. He raised his head again to look at the younger man, poised on the threshold of the office, and met his grey-blue gaze.
Thank you.
And in a swirl of coattails he was alone once more.