An exploration of the relationship between the Holmes brothers, from their childhood to adulthood, and linking into canon. Warnings for explicit sex and incest. It is Holmescest, after all. Most of the previous plot is self-evident, but references and context are linked through the series.
Dedicated to Lex, without whom this story would not exist.
Mycroft visited as much as he was able, given his work and Sherlock's university schedules. It was vastly less than either man wanted, but it allowed them time to continue their lives while continuing an illicit relationship. Mycroft was gaining momentum and contacts in government, meaning – amongst other things – that he was able to use his secretary and others to disguise his frequent trips without questions.
Ironically, given the repressed sexual tension both men had been harbouring, they didn't often have sex. They could rarely stay the night, and both were intermittently dismissive about sex in general. Occasionally, Sherlock would invite Mycroft back to his room, lock out his hapless roommate for an hour or so, leaving enough time to kiss and touch and taste. More often, they met outside the university, and stole brushes and glances and smiles in private, where nobody knew of their joint parentage.
When Sherlock returned home for the holidays, Mycroft attempted to make sure he too had time off. They lied to parents, Sherlock claiming he was staying with a friend while living at Mycroft's for weeks at a time. Mycroft's work hours were absurd, but it was eternally comforting to know that Sherlock would be there when he returned.
He had never expected to be such a romantic. Sentiment. A curious thing.
Other than occasional oral sex, there had been nothing penetrative. Mycroft didn't want to broach the subject, as it were, given his strong suspicions concerning Sherlock's discomfort around sex in general. He calmly waited for Sherlock to make a move, if he so wished. Mycroft was more than prepared to wait indefinitely. It wasn't the most important thing.
Summer holidays. The days were bright and gorgeous, the government were on recess so Mycroft was home more, Sherlock wrote essays in the sunlight and hid indoors when the English summer grew wet and miserable. Cambridge wouldn't want him back until October, and he had no cause for a holiday job given his familial income.
He and Mycroft lay side by side on the sofa. Mycroft avoided the sunshine for fear of burning, and just because he was generally not an outdoors type of person. He was far better prepared for rain than sun. Sherlock reluctantly stayed indoors simply to keep Mycroft near.
Sherlock rested his head on Mycroft's chest, fingers running through his hair. They watched TV and occasional films, Mycroft feeding Sherlock popcorn, Sherlock giving a sarcastic running commentary and Mycroft swiping at him to shut him up and let him enjoy the film. Mycroft was more intelligent than Sherlock in one important respect; he knew he had emotions, and he knew how to deal with them. Allowing himself to escape into fiction was one such way of expending emotion.
Sherlock was growing bored, and restless. He was very transparent when he did so. He started fidgeting, and soon moved onto actively distracting Mycroft; depending on his mood, this was either intensely irritating or absolutely adorable. Today, it was a little of both. Sufficiently distracting, in any case.
"Yes?" Mycroft asked with a mocking smile. Sherlock pulled him down by the collar and kissed him deeply, as though pulling out every part of Mycroft and exploring it, wanting it, using it.
The film was quickly forgotten; the pair breathed each other, twisting about on the sofa, exploring every part of one another as though they had never done so before. Every time felt like another first, and they exploited every moment they had.
Sherlock broke away, a curious expression in his eyes that Mycroft couldn't quite place. "Myc," he said slowly, taking any shadow of nervousness out of his tone. "I want to… I know you want to, in any case. And I'm ready."
Mycroft's expression remained impassive. His formidable intelligence, and knowledge of his younger brother, meant that he knew precisely what Sherlock was asking; he wanted to have sex, full penetrative sex.
"Are you certain?" he asked simply. Sherlock nodded slowly, keeping careful eye contact with Mycroft. "Why?"
Sherlock looked rather concerned at the question. "It is fabled to be a rather pleasurable experience."
"Yes, of that I am aware. You have a severe distrust of sex, however," Mycroft pointed out; Sherlock gave a little wrinkle of dislike, whether at sex or the mention of his irrational discomfort.
"I believe I can overcome that," Sherlock told him carefully.
"The question remains – why?"
Sherlock's face took on the defensive, almost angry expression Mycroft recognised so well. "I know you want to. It's obvious. I dislike feeling incapable, and I wish to experience it myself."
Mycroft was a little taken aback; in Sherlock's roundabout way, he had managed to explain that he wished to try sex because Mycroft wanted to, as well as wanting it for himself. Mycroft looked at him for a moment, trying to divine any ulterior motive, any reason that he may not be ready. Sherlock stared bluntly back at him, defiant.
"Alright," Mycroft agreed, enjoying the gleam of excitement that sparked in Sherlock's expression. "We take it slowly. I assume you've done research?"
"Naturally," Sherlock smirked. He always had, historically, always researched everything in nauseating detail before opening any form of dialogue. If it weren't for Mycroft's own research, and prior experience, Sherlock may well have known more. "I would like to receive. I have some – limited - experience of the other way around, and while satisfying physically, it was not… ideal. I have therefore been exceptionally reluctant to do it again."
"If you are concerned about feeling vulnerable, there are ways around that," Mycroft suggested, making Sherlock smile crookedly; Mycroft had very correctly landed upon the only aspect of sex Sherlock was uncomfortable with. It was rather spectacular that he trusted Mycroft enough to allow him this.
Mycroft nodded. "I must confess, your receiving would be my own preference too," he mused. Sherlock looked surprised; evidently, he had assumed Mycroft would be the stereotypical type of being, who enjoyed losing control in sex given the control he exhibited over every other aspect of his life. How predictable, Mycroft mused. "We will need to go through certain cleansing…"
"I've already done so," Sherlock said, very quickly, swallowing the words, flushing with soft embarrassment. Mycroft had to laugh; of course he had, of course Sherlock had instantly assumed that Mycroft would allow him this. Sherlock flushed slightly in embarrassment, allowing Mycroft to gently touch his cheek.
They kissed again, Sherlock injecting passion into it, Mycroft already half-hard at his brother's words. "I am quite serious Sherlock. We will need to be careful, and if you are uncomfortable in any way, we will stop."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, nodding, and kissed Mycroft again. The popcorn fell off the sofa - Mycroft gave a groan at the mess – and the film ran, unnoticed. "Shall we move to the bedroom?" Mycroft asked, voice low. On most people, it would have sounded caricature; somehow, on Mycroft, with his gravelled vowels, it sounded gorgeous and sensuous and sent shudders directly to Sherlock's groin.
Sherlock nodded, evidently excited, treading the popcorn into the carpet. Mycroft was forced to concede that he just didn't care about the damned popcorn. Sherlock grabbed his shirt collar, tugging him up and off the sofa, kissing him deeply, almost slipping over while doing so.
They kissed against doorframes, tables, sent the phone flying and came very close to breaking several things. A picture frame shattered at some stage. They nearly didn't make it to the bed, the pair utterly lost.
Sherlock tugged Mycroft down, pushing him to one side to avoid his brother crushing his far smaller form. Mycroft's hands ranged across Sherlock's body, Sherlock's own hands exploring Mycroft's hair, other hand cupping his length and squeezing gently; Mycroft gave a rather inelegant whine, as Sherlock gasped.
Sherlock started unbuttoning Mycroft's shirt, Mycroft pulling Sherlock upright to tug the T-shirt he was wearing off. Sherlock's skin gleamed in the semi-light; the curtains were shut, affording them some privacy, dim light through the room. Mycroft felt a twinge of embarrassment at his larger body, so obviously inadequate against the dips and planes of Sherlock's lithe form.
Sherlock lavished attention on every inch of his torso, hands grabbing Mycroft's thighs, touching every inch of him, loving him entirely. Mycroft felt overwhelmed; his brother, his gorgeous little brother, loving him so entirely. He kissed Sherlock again, slipping hands beneath Sherlock's underwear.
Sherlock gave a wanton whine, bucking into Mycroft's hands, biting his lips a gorgeous pink-red. Mycroft reached over to the bedside table, opening the second drawer down and rooting around for a moment.
"Will you let me?" Mycroft rasped, voice turning quickly ragged. Sherlock nodded, unbuttoning his jeans and pulling them off. There was no refined way of doing it, so he thrashed about a bit to get them off, before sitting upright, Mycroft also sitting up opposite.
Mycroft kissed him, one hand grasping the bottle of lubricant. "All fours would probably be the best for this," Mycroft suggested. Sherlock raised an eyebrow; of course he bloody well knew that, didn't need Mycroft to tell him. Mycroft kissed him, an apology for doubting his knowledge, and Sherlock shifted onto all fours.
Mycroft poured a little onto his fingers, and began circling Sherlock's entrance, Sherlock's arse in the air and doing truly obscene things to Mycroft's libido. "Fuck, that's cold," Sherlock swore; Mycroft smirked, teasing him, pressing against without breaching.
Sherlock began reaching incoherency surprisingly quickly. "My, Mycroft, come on," he panted. Mycroft obliged, slipping the tip of his finger inside.
Sherlock took a sudden, gasping breath. "Myc," he stuttered, Mycroft staying perfectly still.
"Are you alright?" Mycroft asked, his soothing, deep voice relaxing Sherlock's fears. Sherlock nodded, shifting himself against Mycroft's finger. Mycroft poured a little more lube onto his finger – deciding on balance it was better safe than sorry – and pushed a little deeper. He crooked his finger a little, very gently searching out his prostate.
He flicked a finger, and Sherlock let out an absolutely bizarre sound. He sounded like he had orgasmed on the spot, while being forced to eat a live tarantula. "Fuck," he swore loudly, making Mycroft grin. He did it again. "Oh my god, Myc."
Mycroft continued to stretch Sherlock out, a second finger pressing very slightly. He sensed, rather than heard, Sherlock's fear; he pulled out slightly, stroking a finger along Sherlock's perineum, distracting, pinching the skin between finger and thumb, deftly licking a sharp stripe upwards.
"What was…?!" Sherlock yelped, and Mycroft hushed him.
"Another time. Now relax. You're alright, you can take this," Mycroft soothed, fingers coated in lube as he pushed two fingers in. Sherlock gave a deep moan, pushing for more; his mind and body were rebelling against one another. His body desperately wanted it, his mind occasionally interfering and distracting him.
Mycroft paid attention to the body, keeping the mind at bay while pleasure spiked. "I've got you," he whispered to Sherlock, moving his fingers back and forth, brushing Sherlock's prostate repeatedly, using a moment of distraction to push in the third finger.
Sherlock whimpered, voice catching, hips stuttering repeatedly. "Are you alright?" Mycroft asked again. Sherlock gasped for breath, not managing to get any real words out, before suddenly exclaiming:
"For god's sake Mycroft, fuck me already!"
Mycroft had been wanted this for a very long while, as Sherlock had, for that matter. After six years or so, he was finally being asked to do what he had wanted, Sherlock whining and hard and leaking onto the bedsheets while repeating Mycroft's name almost pathetically.
Mycroft was aware that once again in his time with Sherlock, he was harder than he could ever remember being. He ripped open a condom packet with his teeth, interrupted by Sherlock saying in exasperation: "What in the hell for? We're both clean, and monogamous."
Mycroft rolled his eyes, slicking himself up instead, aware that Sherlock had a point. He shifted Sherlock slightly lower, spreading his legs a touch wider, lining himself up between Sherlock's legs. He rubbed a hand along Sherlock's bare back, moving to steady Sherlock's hips.
"Ready?"
"Yes," Sherlock repeated, in a tone that would have been exceptionally irritated if he wasn't completely dizzy with want. Mycroft knotted his fingers with Sherlock's, and slowly pushed himself into Sherlock's body.
The feeling was indescribable, on both sides. Mycroft's eyes came very close to rolling back in his head, as the heat and wetness and friction and tightness closed around him.
Sherlock breathed, the extraordinary feeling of being filled, being that close to another person, knowing Mycroft was deep inside him. Mycroft shifted slightly, brushing across his prostate, and the various physical sensations conspired together to make Sherlock damn near lose his mind.
"Move," Sherlock gasped out. "Mycroft, move."
Mycroft didn't need much further encouragement. He pulled back, setting a slow pace to start off with, ensuring he concentrated on Sherlock's pleasure.
Sherlock was losing control, and had to admit he quite enjoyed the feeling, something he hadn't expected. Sherlock began to calm, becoming more accustomed to the feeling, and started to play Mycroft at his own game; he clenched down, hearing Mycroft's gasp from behind him.
Sherlock felt the increased pace with a sigh of contentment; he wanted more, he wanted it more than he knew he could. He rocked back against Mycroft, trying to mimic his pace and not quite managing, but enjoying it nonetheless. He could feel his own orgasm building as Mycroft continued to thrust into him.
Sherlock could have sworn he hadn't said anything aloud, but Mycroft reached around to his cock and wrapped his hand around, rubbing him in time with his own thrusts. Sherlock noted, in the part of his head still managing coherent thought, that Mycroft was hitting his prostate with frankly merciless timing.
"Myc," Sherlock rasped out, trying to convey the sentiment that if Mycroft stopped what he was doing, Sherlock would find the most creative possible way of killing him. He managed to gurgle. It wasn't really his most alluring noise.
Mycroft didn't stop. Sherlock felt something from his toes, crawling up his legs, focusing in on his stomach, his groin, pulsing in shockwaves to his brain, Mycroft making equally inelegant noises and neither caring especially as Sherlock gave a terrific shout and finally came into Mycroft's grip. Sherlock came in waves, body completely out of any control, clenching spasmodically around Mycroft.
In turn, that was quite enough to send Mycroft over the edge. Mycroft's rhythm shuddered and stopped, coming hard into Sherlock's body, a sensation that made Sherlock gasp frantically.
Sherlock's eyes were incredibly wide and bright, darting about the room, everything more intense and immediate than it had ever been before. He repeated Mycroft's name, again and again, an absurd mantra that could keep him close forever, his Mycroft. He had given Mycroft everything, everything he was and could be, and Mycroft knew that he held his fragile brother in his hands.
Mycroft slipped out, Sherlock breathing with lips parted, the pair curling together. Sherlock leaned on Mycroft's chest, nuzzling into him a little, letting Mycroft hold him close.
"I've got you," Mycroft said gently, stroking Sherlock's damp, curly hair and kissing him gently.
"I love you," Sherlock breathed, almost inaudibly. Mycroft stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. Sherlock looked back, nonplussed. "What? I am capable of it. And yes, I happen to feel such emotions towards you."
"Sherlock… I…"
"Don't attempt to reciprocate, it would sound false in this context," Sherlock drawled. Mycroft kissed him deeply, Sherlock still gaping slightly and barely able to bring himself to reciprocate.
"I love you," Mycroft said, quite seriously. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"You never do what I ask," he whined, making Mycroft snort slightly. Mycroft whispered kisses across Sherlock's body, thumb rubbing repetitively against Sherlock's temple, the endorphins draining and sending Sherlock into a wave of exhaustion.
"Thank you," Sherlock murmured; Mycroft had given him so much, more than Sherlock had known he could have. He had never expected to have the scope, the attention, that would allow him to feel this acutely – Mycroft had allowed him to love. Not shown him how – he had always known, in some way, how. Mycroft had simply given him the space and the correct stimulus.
"You have no reason to thank me," Mycroft told him. "I must confess to it being a rather pleasurable experience from my perspective."
"You need to get laid more often," Sherlock mumbled.
"Really? Must you be so teenage?" Mycroft asked, a little condescendingly. Sherlock grinned; Mycroft was amazing fun to wind up, especially where sex was concerned. Mycroft was not naturally comfortable around sex any more than Sherlock was; he indulged in the urges because he knew he needed them to operate at maximum capacity.
And yet, he had waited so long to have sex with Sherlock. He would have willingly waited forever, to keep Sherlock from fear or pain or even discomfort. Sherlock joked, but he did understand what Mycroft had done for him, and he knew he would never be able to repay that debt.
He would never admit to a syllable of the above. It didn't matter much; Mycroft knew anyway.
Sherlock sighed out a warm breath, tickling Mycroft's chest. He allowed himself to be cradled by warm arms, and slowly drifted to sleep.
To be completed in "Take".
Any reviews or concrit would be extraordinary. I am so impossibly happy at the reaction to this series, it is a complete honour. Thank you.