An exploration of the relationship between the Holmes brothers, from their childhood to adulthood, and linking into canon. Warnings for incestuous thoughts concerning a minor. It is Holmescest, after all.
Dedicated to Lex, without whom this story would not exist.
Sherlock Holmes was thirteen when Mycroft, his elder brother by seven years, realised his emotions towards the teenager were not strictly fraternal.
The realisation was quiet and nondescript. Sherlock had grown about four inches in a month and a half, as far as Mycroft could work out; Mycroft had been briefly home for Christmas, then returned home at Easter to find that his brother was practically the same height as him, and a fraction of the width. His intellect, too, had developed to a formidable level, and while he was still trying too hard to prove it, he was awe-inspiringly brilliant.
"Well done My, you've lost six pounds," was one of Sherlock's earliest comments, to a sibling he hadn't seen in several months. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. He had a certain suspicion Sherlock could give his weight loss down to the nearest ounce, but had no inclination to test the theory.
Sherlock, with his intensely dark curls, juxtaposed with eyes that seemed to kaleidoscope through shades of ocean, was beautiful. Not just from Mycroft's perspective; the boy was an aesthetic marvel, far outstripping his slightly portly elder sibling in looks alone.
His intelligence was what Mycroft revelled in. Sherlock had always been precociously intelligent as a child, but was now gaining refinement and focus to his constant observations, age making his deductions more astute and accurate. He was not at the same level as his brother. Mycroft could read stories in a breath. Sherlock still required the words that were carried on that breath.
The conscious realisation struck while Mycroft was having a shower. A surprisingly mundane place to make such a revelation, and something he usually considered 'normal people' capable of doing. He expected to be in a meditation, or at least in his mind estate, when having a realisation of such importance.
He had taught Sherlock about memory storage over Christmas, describing his sprawling estate and how he inserted thoughts and memories into it. He would never forget the still-childish face slip into what could only be described as a pout, as Sherlock thought.
Eventually, he said firmly: "A mind palace. I want a palace."
Mycroft had laughed out loud; of course Sherlock, with his unerring talent for hyperbole, would select a palace as the location for all his memories and secrets and strings of information.
A more refined teenager had told him after a year or two passed, when they had been left alone in the library after dinner, that he was beginning to fill the rooms properly. He was studying, depositing thoughts and fragments of information, in what was probably a Sherlock-esque haphazard manner across every available surface. Mycroft liked that thought, the strewn mess so characteristic of his brother, everywhere within this massive palace.
His own estate mimicked many things he had seen in his life; he didn't require imagination, just instant association. Near the back of the house, in the East Wing, was Sherlock's old nursery; all thoughts or memories concerning his brother were stored there.
After his adventure in the shower, Mycroft sat in a towel, water dripping slowly off him, mind wandering the corridors to the nursery. When he opened the door, a constructed Sherlock bounded up to him, somehow capturing every age Mycroft had known him at in one incarnation. It was only when he morphed back his current age, puberty hurtling him through inches of growth and colossal degrees of intelligence, maturity that far surpassed his physical age, did Mycroft feel that surge once again.
How intensely inconvenient. Mycroft paid little attention to sex, enjoying the indulgence without ever becoming victim to the act. Considering his brother's lean form, his mind, his wit and elegance, he discovered how one might become passion's slave.
Sherlock was his brother, he was under legal age, and had probably had very few sexual leanings in any direction, let alone towards his elder brother. There was no possible way in which this could work. Mycroft took a steadying breath. He could not allow himself to consider this any further. He locked the thought away in the nursery, and tried to ignore its persistent whines through the keyhole as he dressed in a dark grey suit, foregoing the tie.
Sherlock was overwhelmingly, unavoidably present. He was just a constant apparition, darting through doorways and occasionally windows, perfecting espionage on a level the secret services would be proud of. Mycroft had never been inclined towards the practical arts of intelligence; his brilliance was cerebral and internal, while Sherlock – quite simply – liked showing off.
"Mycroft," Sherlock said from the doorway, languishing in dark shirts and jeans, his emotional age obvious despite his intellectual maturity. He seemed to find it 'cool' to have external displays of emotion prevalent even in his clothing; perhaps trying too hard to illustrate that he could, in fact, feel.
Mycroft looked up from his oaken desk, his work splayed out dramatically as he wrote essays and read books and studied a million things at once while supposedly concentrating on his degree. He had invested in a wheeled, spinning chair; he pushed himself around to face his younger brother.
"Yes?" he asked coolly, his façade perfectly intact, the nursery door creaking quietly under the strain of the memories he kept there. Sherlock's gaze was intent and focused, crystallising on Mycroft with absolute surety.
"I have reached a plateau in my knowledge," Sherlock replied, his voice now the rich, lustrous baritone he would still have in his adulthood. "I believe I require your help."
Mycroft tilted his head slightly. Sherlock did not frequently ask for help, and if he did, it was begrudging. His tone was, at present, bizarrely close to shy – not something Mycroft had ever associated with Sherlock. He also found it amusing how Sherlock attempted to mimic Mycroft's deliberate speech patterns and inflexions of language, rather than simply saying "I need help" like any other teenager.
Mycroft was intrigued, and that was sufficient for the time being. "Please, do expand," Mycroft offered, arms wide, inviting Sherlock in. Sherlock crossed over to Mycroft's double bed, throwing himself on it and bouncing as he found a comfy position.
Legs crossed, posture open but guarded, arms free and emphatic in gesticulation. There was a moment of silence. "I don't know how to kiss," he said, the words bouncing out like scattered gunfire.
The nursery door gave a muffled wail. Mycroft shook his head slightly to distract from the sound. "It's hardly nuclear physics," Mycroft said carefully, his own posture calculatedly calm.
"My, I'm not very good with things like that," Sherlock said, a little embarrassed. It was true; Sherlock's social skills were literally non-existent, with a resulting deficit in tact and timing. "When… if… I get to that point, I don't want to come across like an utter moron."
Mycroft sighed. Sherlock looked very small in the context of the enormous bed; Mycroft crossed from his desk, perching on the edge of the bed. "What do you want to know?" he asked gently, shifting himself away from Sherlock, sitting up against the headboard facing his brother.
"Everything. Teach me," Sherlock said firmly, trying to look very serious. Mycroft wasn't sure what emotion he was hiding beneath his severity, but he expected it was giggles, and Mycroft was too emotionally fraught by the situation to put up with that.
Mycroft opened his mouth, and shut it again. He had managed a series of relationships across his younger teenage years, a mad defence of his sexuality, embracing said sexuality again, and to top it off – he knew better than anybody how to manipulate others. He found it absurdly easy. He could touch someone in the right way, and know it was the right time and place, and they would crumble in his hands.
Sherlock knew that. Which was, presumably, why he was asking.
Sherlock suddenly darted forward, trying to press a kiss against Mycroft's lips. Mycroft's eyes widened as he saw Sherlock move, and batted him away, holding him at arms length with a strange, staring expression.
"What are you doing?!" he yelped, voice high and tight. Sherlock relaxed down to sitting again, looking mildly confused as Mycroft released his grip on Sherlock.
"Kissing you," Sherlock said bluntly. "You weren't saying anything, so I thought I'd try it and see what happened."
"I… Sherlock, I'm your brother," Mycroft tried. Sherlock raised an eyebrow; he didn't need to say anything, Mycroft could already hear the sarcastic response. He groaned slightly. Sherlock was not making this especially easy. "Okay. Fine. You need to understand some things first."
"Like what?" Sherlock asked, a little belligerently; he never liked anybody implying he didn't understand something, even when asking for help.
Mycroft sighed again, and gave up on trying to make sense of any of this. "Picture somebody. A girl, boy, who you want to kiss."
"I'm not gay, Mycroft," Sherlock said lividly, in teenage defence. Mycroft decided not to press the point; after all, Sherlock had attempted to out him at age thirteen and it hadn't worked – a seven-year-old Sherlock loudly called out, in front of parents, that 'Myc likes boys'. Mycroft had gone an intriguing shade of scarlet, yelled at Sherlock, and vanished. It had taken another three years before Mycroft had come to terms with, and admitted, his sexual orientation to his parents.
That was beside the point. Sherlock was staring at him with pouting, surprisingly large lips, looking like he could spring forward and attempt to kiss Mycroft again at any second.
"Fine. Girl," Mycroft said wearily. He was still more than a little concerned that this was an elaborate trick; his brother was a spectacular actor, after all. "Take this seriously, alright?"
Sherlock nodded fervently, eyes wide and earnest. Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Don't overdo it either," he said quietly, and Sherlock's face fell back to normal. "Think of that girl."
"Okay," Sherlock said, and barrelled towards Mycroft again.
"Sherlock," Mycroft cried, pushing his baby brother away again. "For God's sake. Take it slowly. Think about it. If you were going to be kissed, what would you want?"
Sherlock looked at Mycroft like he was exceptionally stupid. "… to be kissed?"
"Yes, but how?" Mycroft asked gently. Sherlock might as well have been asked what shade of yellow he'd like painted on his coffin; he looked bemused, and a little disturbed. Mycroft tried a different tack. "Alright. People like to be looked after. If you want it to be special, make them think you want to be with them forever, not just for brief fornication."
Sherlock nodded sagely, and made to move; Mycroft stilled him hurried before attempted to assault his mouth again, which had the potential for devastating repercussions on his dwindling self-control.
"Imagine this girl," Mycroft told him, keeping his heartbeat as steady as physically possible. "Tell me what she's like."
Sherlock thought carefully for a moment. "Clever. Really clever."
"That would be a good idea, given your burgeoning intellect. I dread to think what would transpire were you dating a plebeian. What else?"
Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know. Tall. Elegant. Independent. I don't know!" he said, tone becoming slightly stroppy.
"Alright, that's enough to go on. She won't want to be patronised, with simpering words or the like. Try and get the timing right – try and take her by surprise, if she's intelligent she might like being side-stepped."
"I don't know, doesn't like surprises much," Sherlock blurted out, still staring with impossibly pale eyes at his elder brother. Mycroft once again struggled for words as his mind started to play tricks.
"Okay, so wait until it's quiet, and calm. Relaxed. Give physical signs to warn her, so she has the choice to stop if she needs to."
"Why would she want to?"
"She may not," Mycroft conceded. "The choice is important though, for her independence."
"Okay. So how would you do it?"
Mycroft took a very long, very slow breath. The nursery was shrieking like a banshee, the door rattling on its hinges. Sherlock was asking, actually asking. There was no problem with giving Sherlock a kiss. Siblings kissed. It wasn't that odd. Unless, of course, the elder sibling was battling with a relatively obvious physical impediment that was about to tent his trousers.
Mycroft wet his lips, and reached towards Sherlock. Sherlock watched the hand carefully, deliberately still as it landed on the side of his neck, fingers following round to nest in the curls at the back of his head. "Intimacy," Mycroft said quietly. "This… girl. She wants to be loved, she wants to be needed."
"Shh," Sherlock said petulantly. "Just show me."
Mycroft shut his eyes, and leaned forward. The first touch of lips made his heart stop, and will the blood a very long way away from his groin. Sherlock was incredibly soft. Mycroft felt the downy hair on the back of his neck, the slightly needy push forward of his head, pushing Mycroft back towards the headboard.
Sherlock's hand mimicked his brother's precisely, keeping their heads drawn close, both of them forgetting where they were and revelling in the simple, physical sensations. Mycroft's hand played in Sherlock's curls, rewarded by the move copied exactly, his kisses matched like for like.
Mycroft's lips parted slightly, inviting the escalation, inviting Sherlock in. He felt the sudden, tentative invasion, and remembered where and what and, most importantly, who he was with.
Sherlock beat him to it, pulling away fast enough to make Mycroft gasp. "Thanks My," he said brightly. Mycroft could only nod. "I even kind of get where the tongue gets involved, although I have to say, it sounds horribly unhygienic."
Mycroft, still mute, still nodded. Eventually, after what seemed like forever, he told Sherlock: "It makes sense when you're with the right person."
Sherlock paused, suddenly caught in suspended motion. He nodded back, the pair of them oddly mute, uncharacteristic for both. "Thank you," Sherlock said, with a renewed note of sincerity.
Mycroft smiled. "It's alright. Now go find the right person."
"Yeah," Sherlock echoed, thoughtful. Not for the first time, Mycroft was left wondering what on earth was going on in a mind like his, in the mind of a Holmes. Sherlock turned back, smiled at him. "I'm trying to manufacture a base. I really am wondering if I have the right equipment."
Mycroft couldn't help but laugh, Sherlock's expression clouding over in pouting anger. "I'm not laughing at you Sherlock," he said, still grinning. "Come on, then. Let's have a look."
"Don't you have work?" Sherlock said, his tone expressing exactly what he thought about Mycroft's 'work'.
Mycroft shrugged. "It can wait," he assured his brother. Sherlock beamed, positively beamed. It was a strangely sweet contrast to the dark clothes and hair; he was still a child, beneath the façade of a grown up.
It was surprisingly easy for Mycroft, in the end. Mycroft simply allowed Sherlock to take his hand, and lead him away.
To be continued in "Touch".
Any reviews or concrit would be extraordinary.