Author's Note: Hey there! This is my first attempt at writing in the Sherlock universe, so, please, be kind. Mycroft and Sherlock together are my absolutely guilty—yet not so much—pleasure.
Anyway! This story is based on the history of the Mongol leader Genghis Khan, as well as the Miike Snow's song with said name. There's a bunch of references along the story, so I won't waste time pointing every each one of them out, but if someone gets any, do let me know. Hope you all like it. Xoxo.
It was a rather tedious party.
A gathering to celebrate the success of the alliance between Belgium and England to dismantle a terrorist organisation that had been causing significant damage over the past three years. The combined work of the two Intelligence Services had been unprecedented in such a scale, which seemed to now justify the pleased faces of the Belgium vice-president and the Britain Prime Minister, who sat together on a table drinking expensive whiskey and congratulating one another.
If Mycroft hadn't trained himself out of the pedestrian habit of rolling his eyes, that would've been the urge he would be resisting from complying to. It had been his extensive hours of work that had made such a feat possible, alongside some carefully selected help from his little brother—the patting of backs happening around the room was possibly nauseating in its insignificance, although Mycroft understood the necessity of it.
Lawfully—legally—his position within the government didn't exist. Ninety-nine per cent of his work happened under tight wraps, never to be spoken again once it was completed, so it made sense that instead of walking around the room felicitating the other highly important people in the room, he remained seated at the bar, nursing a half-empty glass of an unremarkable scotch.
When minutes later a security guard approached him to inform that he had a guest claiming to be his plus one at the door, Mycroft was almost thankful for the interruption. There was only one person who would have the nerve to do something like that, and he couldn't help but tense in preparation to deal with whatever problem his little brother had managed to get himself in the last couple of hours since he left the office.
What he saw, however, failed to come close to whatever it was that he had deducted in his mind.
Sherlock stood at the entrance, surrounded by no less than three different guards, with his expression settled in a boredom mask, even though Mycroft could see the way his eyes flickered to the exit points of the room as he mentally catalogued each one in his precious mind. That was not what brought his line of thought to a screeching halt, however. No, what almost made Mycroft stumble while walking on the smooth, polished marble was what Sherlock was wearing. The tailored tuxedo was obviously new, and it hugged Sherlock's body in a way Mycroft himself wished to be able to.
That also wasn't it, though. It was never quite so simple with Sherlock. The shocking factor was wrapped around his neck, in plain sight to all who wished to see. The pale column of flesh—abruptly interrupted by the stripe of beautiful dark leather—only looked more delicate and exquisite in contrast with the black collar tight around Sherlock's neck.
Not any collar, though. That specific piece, in its velvet inside lining, had Mycroft's initials engraved in gold, marking the wearer as his. It was his collar, and Sherlock was wearing it outside of Mycroft's house, out in the open, proudly displaying it by leaving the buttons of his collar open and the convenient absence of both his preferred scarf and a bowtie.
His head turned to face Mycroft, and his mouth curled upwards in a satisfied smirk. It was a show. One could place a stack of books on the top of his brother's head, and they would remain still, such was the straightness of his back. Sherlock stood proud and cocky, correctly deducing that Mycroft was reeling in surprise.
He opened his mouth to speak—to say something, he was sure—yet nothing came out, and, instead, he came to a halt in front of his little brother, trying to make sure his expression gave nothing away to the people near them.
It shouldn't have been a struggle.
Mycroft wasn't an amateur. Quite on the contrary—in their game, he was a professional. Mycroft didn't hesitate, he didn't struggle. Actually, he very seldom devoted all his focus to one task or individual. It was both unnecessary and ill-advised—someone in his profession learned the hard way that timing, more than all else, was the key element to all plans. Rushing was a mistake best left for the... ordinary folk—those whose errors caused no more damage than a miss—information or, at most, the death of a handful.
Yet, there he was, speechless in front of his brother.
"Sir," one of the guards thankfully interrupted his faux-pas. "Do you know this man?"
"Don't you?" Sherlock asked the man mockingly.
"What?"
"Yes, I do have the unfortunate luck of knowing him quite well. He's my brother," he assured the perplexed men close to him. "You may leave us, thank you."
When they nodded in agreement and left without another word, he turned to his brother. Sherlock stood in front of him, and Mycroft calculated. There was always a reason beyond the obvious.
It was the almost imperceptible tremor in his brother's right hand that finally got the words out his mouth.
"Presumptuous," he said, allowing a tinge of his displeasure to colour his voice. His eyes, of course, lingered on Sherlock's neck.
"I thought you might enjoy the company while you pretend not to be dying of boredom from the stupidity lingering around the air here," Sherlock explained, and Mycroft could tell he was trying to sound aloof; however, the way his tongue wrapped around the words sounded closer to uncertainty, to a plead, than anything else.
"You broke into my house." It wasn't a question.
"It barely constituted a challenge. Your security is lacking."
"I'll make sure to improve the levels of security as to prevent your entrance next time, shall I?"
"If you think you can."
He could. They both knew he could, just as they also knew Mycroft would not, in fact, move forward with his threat. The last thing he wanted was to keep his brother away.
"You could have a key—"
"Dull," Sherlock interrupted. "Don't be so lame, Mycroft."
He winced. "Oh, brother dear, lame? Someone's been dabbling around the new social media again, I see."
Sherlock ignored the teasing, and he looked half-serious when he repeated. "Your security could use the improvement."
"Oh, don't worry," Mycroft dismissed, not ready to allow his brother to steer them into serious conversations. "I'll make sure to do so, so that next time you may waste more of my money and your time destroying my security equipment."
"It's a risk to your safety," Sherlock insisted, his gorgeous blue-green eyes sparkled with a hint of concern, and Mycroft felt his irritation mellow slightly in response.
"No one else would ever guess my codes correctly, Sherlock. There's no one else," Mycroft said, and this time he wasn't talking about codes.
There it was. The dilation of his brother's pupils in response to his words. "I would hope so."
"What are you doing here, Sherlock?" Truly. What was he truly doing there, dressed as he was and wearing the collar he had refused to touch for months on end.
Sherlock stepped closer, leaning just a wisp forward to whisper. "You should know. If you had not committed great sins, God would not have sent a punishment like me upon you."
And that was it. The familiar sentence softened his entire demeanour. "I thought I was the flail, brother mine."
Mine. Mine.
"I have no doubts you are capable of many acts of atrocity. You've always been prone to unnecessary displays of violence," Sherlock joked, all smile and seduction.
"Must you?" Mycroft finally asked, exasperated.
Sherlock grin only grew bigger. "What are you on about, brother mine?"
"This is a work gathering, Sherlock. I still need to soothe some ruffled feathers tonight. Must we do this now?" He insisted, despite knowing that his brother would persist on his game and he—like always—would indulge him.
It was rather pointless to pretend otherwise.
"I simply came to keep you company in this tedious affair of yours, Mycroft. Some gratitude would be appreciated."
"And since when do you make a point to keep me company in political matters?" He couldn't help but ask, despite the clear signs laid in front of him.
"You haven't figured it out yet?" Sherlock challenged, taking another step forward. They were almost crossing the barrier of politeness of public behaviour.
Yet Mycroft smiled back at Sherlock, indulging his whim, like he knew he would. He had never said his brother couldn't wear his collar wherever he desired—that he would do so in Mycroft's house only had been left unspoken, even if heavily implied by the nature of their relationship. And yet, Mycroft couldn't find it in himself to be anything other than exasperated and aroused at the sight in front of him.
The truth was that Sherlock needed to have very clear boundaries in his life. He craved them, even though he would rather commit suicide than to ever admit it. Still, it was clear to the both of them that his little brother wanted—expected—Mycroft to lay the boundaries to which he would have to adhere, whether or not he agreed to them. Not because Sherlock followed them to the letter, of course not, but because he liked toeing the lines, blurring the edges, tricking his way in and out of Mycroft's good graces—just to prove he could.
It was a delicate balance, like everything was with Sherlock. He relied on the safety nets Mycroft provided, living even more dangerously because of them, safe in the knowledge that his older brother would do whatever necessary to keep him protected. However, as the years passed and Mycroft's power stretched further and further into every segment of the country, those safety nets became more extensive than ever before, allowing the detective to basically get away with murder.
Which meant that, whenever possible, Sherlock liked to step outside the carefully drawn lines surrounding him, all while calling for Mycroft's attention, just to see what that would mean—what were the consequences of putting himself in danger or, in that case, risking exposure.
Sherlock pushed—it's what he did. He had always been that way. He pushed and pushed, in hopes of finding someone who would push back, needing the stimulus, the thrill, yet too controlled to ask for it. Only the world failed to push back, and his little brother had never quite forgiven it for the betrayal, walking around with a perpetual frown marring his features as a demonstration of his displeasure with the stupidity of humanity.
Except, of course, Mycroft.
And yet…
His eyes flickered to the leather collar once more, and he couldn't help but feel the same old sadness overcoming the happiness Sherlock's presence caused. How long would he last this time?
"Let's go, then," Mycroft said, turning to walk back to where he came from, without looking back to see if his brother would follow.
"Mr. Holmes," The Prime Minister greeted, doing a rather poor job at hiding his surprise with his brother's presence at their...gathering. "I was unaware you would be gracing us with your presence tonight."
Far from ruffled by the mildly insulting tone, Sherlock's expression remained unusually amenable, his lips tugging upwards with a pleased smile. "Prime Minister," he greeted, with a nod. "I couldn't miss the opportunity to celebrate my brother's success. This was rather the accomplishment, wouldn't you say?"
Mycroft struggled between pinching his brother and grinning in satisfaction. It was the sort of comment only Sherlock Holmes could get away with uttering in the presence of such high-standing members of the government, and Mycroft could hardly deny the pleasure he derived from the few occasions in which his dear little brother had contact with the higher-ups—even if he was forced to do some control damaging afterwards.
It was quite alright, though. One couldn't make an omelette without cracking some eggs, and Sherlock's omelettes were always worth it.
And so, before the wrinkles in the Prime Minister's forehead could deepen, he interjected. "You flatter me, brother dear. Although your praises are sadly misplaced in this case, I'm afraid. It was the joined effort of several people in this very room which made the operation possible," Mycroft soothed, but his eyes met Sherlock's, and he allowed the amusement to shine through in his eyes for the briefest moment. "I am, of course, delighted by your presence, nevertheless."
Those exquisite blue-green eyes narrowed ever so slightly at his last words, knowing a mocking when he heard one. Mycroft felt he deserved that one. It obviously flew right over the other man's head, who settled back into his satisfied glow as soon as Mycroft had corrected his brother's proclaiming, sipping his ever-so-full glass of whiskey.
"Ah, of course. Any family member of Mycroft's is more than welcome as far as I'm concerned. It is, indeed, a celebration night," he announced, as though he was the prophet of the new age in person announcing the second coming of Jesus. He even went as far as to wink to his brother. "The food is particularly good tonight. Do make sure to taste the oysters."
"Oh, I could go for something to eat, now that you have mentioned it. Oysters…I can barely contain myself," Sherlock said, angling his upper body and plastering on a smirk that was meant to agree with his words perfectly—the picture of involvement.
"I wasn't aware you could contain yourself at all," Mycroft couldn't help but tease, although he resisted the urge to smile. Enough was enough.
"Why control myself and prevent the world from enjoying my lovely personality?"
Mycroft narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. "Why, indeed?"
They sat on the backseat of Mycroft's car, heading to his house. Sherlock had yet to say anything since they sat down, and the silence hovered heavy between them, filled with hundreds of unspoken words they didn't dare to utter. Mycroft couldn't stop himself from analysing every single movement coming from his brother, while knowing his own body language was being equally as scrutinised.
Caring was not an advantage. He knew that precisely because he cared so much for someone.
He doesn't form attachments to anyone, doesn't do emotional bonds—only he is beyond attached to Sherlock, bonded to him in an unshakable pledge, which went so much deeper than their blood connection. They were opposite sides of the same coin.
Sherlock was deductions, speed, sharp words, penetrating stares, and antisocial behaviour. Mycroft was manipulation, precision, sly tongue, perfect timing, and multiple facades.
They played with that, utilised it to their personal gain. It didn't mean Sherlock wasn't a liability. It didn't mean he didn't care. Mycroft cared far too much, and it was a heavy reminder that he needed to be careful at all times. He was allowed no other pressure point than the huge, gaping one he already had. Sherlock was his Achille heels—the pressure point surely to destroy him if pressed in the right way.
However, Sherlock needed Mycroft alive to protect him. That's the way it had always been. In that way, loving his brother in the way he did, extrapolating all possible brotherly affection, was safer than getting entangled with a stranger.
If he thought about it coldly and distantly enough, Mycroft could almost argue with himself that he had any say over the affections he felt for Sherlock and that he wasn't, in fact, desperately clinging to his brother's presence beside him, even knowing it probably wouldn't last. Even knowing that it would hurt that much more when he left.
"Sir, we're here." It was his driver, telling him that they had reached his house. They were no longer moving. How long had Mycroft been daydreaming?
"Thank you, Richard. I won't be needing you until tomorrow morning," he informed, grabbing his umbrella and trying to gather his wits back as he exited the car.
Mycroft ignored his brother as he walked to his front door, as he disarmed his alarm system, as he put his coat and umbrella away. However, the second he turned to face him, he suddenly had an armful of Sherlock, who pressed against him as though he was trying to merge their bodies together.
Sherlock kissed him, brushing their lips together for a sweet moment before diving in with gusto. Sherlock kissed him like he had no doubts Mycroft would reciprocate, like he knew just how badly Mycroft craved every touch that came from him. It was presumptuous, once again, and still, once again Mycroft proved him correct, kissing back without a moment of hesitation. He had waited far too long to hesitate.
Sherlock groaned, pushing his tongue inside Mycroft's mouth, demanding more. Always demanding more. Mycroft cupped his brother's chin, slipping his other hand around his back to keep Sherlock hot against him, grinding their erections together.
When Sherlock released his mouth for a moment to draw a shaky breath, Mycroft traced a downwards path with his mouth, chasing his brother's pulse. He nibbled and nipped at the soft flesh of his throat, suppressing a satisfied grin when Sherlock moaned.
Suddenly his little brother pushed back, and they locked eyes, and Mycroft felt his heart lock between one beat and the next. Sherlock's green-blue eyes were so dilated it was almost impossible to see their gorgeous colour. Instead, a pool of black abyss met his stare, and for a second Mycroft feared he might get lost forever in them. There was an undisguised hunger settled in Sherlock's expression, one which Mycroft was certain mirrored his own look.
Mycroft pulled at his brother's curls, dropping his body onto the chair behind him.
"Mycroft," Sherlock groaned, and it was needy and wanton, and that tone coming from his brother never failed to bring out his weirdly protective side, which made him want to give Sherlock whatever he might ask for.
He grinned. "What?" He asked, knowing it would infuriate the other.
"C'mon," Sherlock rushed, his hands grabbing Mycroft's shirt to bring him closer. "I need—I—"
"I've got you," Mycroft said, trying to ignore the soft voice in his head telling him that what he was doing was a bad idea. He would savour the time he had and deal with whatever later on if he had to.
Mycroft's hand found the button of Sherlock's trousers, and he popped it open, pulling the zipper down to fish his brother's erect cock from its confinement, instantly wrapping his hand around it.
"Yes, more," Sherlock hissed, tilting his hips to chase Mycroft's touch. "Shit."
Mycroft buried his head in the crook of Sherlock's neck. God, Sherlock was moving under his ministrations, and Mycroft wanted to squeeze, and bite, and touch until he could no longer hear his own thoughts running through his mind. There was a drop of sweat running down Sherlock's pale neck, almost touching his collar, and Mycroft couldn't resist, he leaned and licked it, biting at the juncture of flesh and leather just as he tightened his hold on Sherlock's cock.
His little brother's breath hitched and faltered. "Ugh, harder. Please."
Mycroft instantly squeezed even tighter on the upstroke, twisting his wrist just as his fingers touched the sensitive head. "As you wish."
His brother's head fell back to rest on the chair, his whole demeanour one of satisfaction and pleasure. It was a slap to the proverbial face.
Mycroft couldn't. The moment Sherlock decided it was the end, the second it stopped being enough to satisfy his never-ending need to chase adrenaline, he would get up and leave, no more than a couple of words in his stead. Mycroft's mind kept playing the past on a continuous loop, warnings flashing all over his brain. He was toeing the edge. The mix of relief at getting the chance to be touching Sherlock once more and caution at not understanding his true motives was enough to halt his movements.
He couldn't.
"I—I don't think I can do this," he admitted, his voice but a whisper as he drew away from his brother's body. "Forgive me."
Mycroft turned his back, going straight for the kitchen to pour himself a triple dose of scotch, drinking it in one go just to instantly pour himself another, ignoring his shaky hands. The whole situation was fucking him up. How many times had he wished for Sherlock to be precisely where he was, eagerly displaying himself for him, begging for more, and yet, the moment his wish came true, Mycroft's mind refused to let him enjoy it.
"Perhaps we should talk," Sherlock suggested from his place leaning against the doorway of the kitchen.
Mycroft winced. "I don't believe I'm in the best state for a conversation today, Sherlock. This was a mis—"
"Don't say that," Sherlock interrupted, closing the distance between them with a few steps. "I should have started with the conversation. There are things you need to hear, I suppose."
As he spoke, Sherlock's hand landed on the back of Mycroft's right hand, tracing his skin with the tip of his fingers, going up his wrist, grabbing it and gently turning so he could press into the vein and search for it, counting the pulse that thud beneath the surface. His pulse. Mycroft's heartbeat.
The gesture was so familiar it ached. "Stop," Mycroft said, his protest weak on his lips.
And Sherlock did. He released Mycroft's wrist only to trace the back of his hand, going down his ring finger until it stopped on his ring. Their ring.
Originally made out of bones—bones of a golden eagle to be precise—they were now coated with a shiny layer of gold, which made them appear nothing more than ordinary rings, if only a little rougher than expected.
Mycroft had never taken his off his finger since the day Sherlock presented the object to him, a shy look on his younger face as he showed Mycroft the matching rings he made from the dead animal he found near their houses.
'A golden eagle, Mycroft. It fits you." He had said. 'Did you know Genghis Khan had an eagle?' And yes, by then Mycroft had made sure to know anything he could about the Mongol emperor who his brother insisted on comparing him with, so he did know of the eagle. However, he said nothing, choosing, instead, to hear the story coming from his brother's mouth.
The other one belonged to his brother—of course—Mycroft thought as he struggled to keep his breathing even. The smaller ring had once sat on his brother's hand, as another layer connecting them.
However, a year ago the world's only consulting detective sold it to a drug dealer for a couple of grams of cocaine in one of his episodes. He had already been high for days on end, always toeing the line facing the precipice. Two days later, Mycroft had found him overdosing in the living room of his apartment, and after making sure that his brother was in a stable condition in the hospital room, had gone personally to retrieve the ring. Paying more money for it than he was comfortable admitting to anyone—at the time, it hadn't mattered to him the price, only the knowledge that it needed to be once more in the hands of his baby brother, where it belonged.
When Sherlock woke up from his crash, in a hospital and painfully sober, going back to his place only to find it empty of all his hidden stash, Mycroft had been his target. He lashed out at the person he felt was responsible for the horrible feeling he felt and had thrown the ring in Mycroft's face when he had dared to offer it back to its owner.
After that, Mycroft left, understanding that his presence was hurting far more than it was helping, even though it pained him to believe the signs lying right in from of him. He picked up the ring on his way out, however, sliding it next to his, although it was ever so slightly tighter than comfortable for him. It Sherlock would not wear it, then it should be with him.
The weekend before Sherlock's overdose had been the last day Mycroft had held him in his arms, touched him intimately, seen the expression of unrestrained pleasure crossing his face. Sherlock had been crystal clear when he explained he needed space from Mycroft's overbearing presence, and Mycroft would never disrespect his brother's decisions, so he made himself scarce, showing up only when John entered his brother's life, to assess the situation and make sure Sherlock was being safe, and, even then, only on a strictly brotherly capacity.
Sherlock snarled, and mocked, and provoked, and flailed. Mycroft refused to respond in kind, keeping his hurtful feelings and spitting mad comments to himself. Still, he kept the ring in his home office's safe, hoping one day Sherlock would want it back.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock apologised, meeting his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Mycroft. I needed time to get on my own two feet, to find out what I wanted to do with my life and how to do without the drugs. You have always seemed far too composed… someone who had four hundred steps planned ahead, destined to rule the world."
Mycroft was unsure what unsettled him the most, the sincere apology or the content of it. He wanted to say many things, and still, no words left his lips. What could he say to that?
Fortunately, his brother was not finished yet. "I couldn't be who you wanted me to be, at the time. It was never you, Mycroft. It was my problem that needed fixing."
Mycroft could hardly believe his ears. "Are you truly giving me the 'it's not you, it's me' speech?" He asked, incredulous.
"Don't be absurd, brother mine," Sherlock said. "I'm merely explaining myself, as I trust to be necessary. In any case, was I not driving all those around me insane and overdosing on cocaine in my own house?"
"And I suppose my presence prevented you from getting clean?" Mycroft asked, even if he would rather run from his own house than to hear the answer to his question.
"I don't believe anyone could've helped me, Mycroft. I was beyond of even your reach."
Oh.
Mycroft had known the words were coming, had had many months to come to terms with his inability to provide the care necessary for the only person alive he cared about. However, despite having mentally prepared himself for the truth, it was still unbearable to hear those words being spoken out loud.
"I understand you are angry."
Did he? Did Sherlock understand the depths of his feelings?
"Say something, Mycroft!" Sherlock insisted, although he never moved from his place right in front of him.
What would be the appropriate response to give in that scenario? He could see plainly that his brother expected some sort of reaction from him, but Mycroft felt unable to think, let alone respond.
Sherlock frowned his brows. "For the love of God, Mycroft! Spill it out!"
"Is this what you want?" Mycroft finally exploded, backslapping the barely filled glass in front of him. It went flying across the room, hitting the wall with a sharp noise before it cracked into pieces, sending glass shards all over the floor. A track of scotch painted his white wall.
To his credit, Sherlock barely flinched at the outburst, acting as though that had been the reaction he hoped for. "If it's what you feel like doing," he said.
"Eleven months, twelve days, sixteen hours," Mycroft spat out, cringing internally at the unnecessary preciseness of the time-count. "You made me wait for eleven months, Sherlock, and now you show up in my workplace with my fucking collar and tell me it's because you wanted a bit of free life?"
"Cursing suits you," his brother pointed out, insisting on remaining clear-headed. "I needed the time, My. I couldn't explain it myself, or I would've tried. I was lost and high and desperate and only hurting both of us in the process. I needed to get my shit together—that was rock-bottom for me, was it not?"
The shortage of his name clogged something in Mycroft's throat, blocking the precious air from making its way properly into his body. How many years had it been since Sherlock called him that?
"Leave," Mycroft ordered, sitting back down onto a stool.
"No."
"Leave," he repeated, shifting his expression until a mask of indifference fell over his features.
Sherlock blinked. "I refuse."
"I said," Mycroft said, fisting his hands, "leave."
"I heard you perfectly, brother mine. My hearing has not deteriorated since we last spoke. I simply refuse," Sherlock explained, each word carefully wrapped around his tongue. He unbuttoned his cuffs, one at a time, rolling both of his sleeves until his elbows, revealing four nicotine patches glued to his skin. "I'm clean. One-hundred per cent clean. For two months now. I'm ready, Mycroft. If you want to remove me, do so yourself."
And the British Government folded like a poorly stacked house of cards. "Why?" He questioned, even though it was unclear what he wanted to hear exactly.
"I needed to know, Mycroft. I've lived as your shadow my whole life—you must understand that."
How come Mycroft had always felt like he had been the shadow, constantly watching over Sherlock. "And how was it? Was freedom all you expected it to be?"
"I'm here, ain't I?" Sherlock contested. "Hellish, I suppose. Can I have my ring back?"
Mycroft didn't ask how his brother knew he had it. "It's in my vault. Go. If you can crack the code, it's yours."
"Will you come with me?" Sherlock asked, offering his hand.
It wasn't a tough question. "Always."