This story was originally written for a kink meme prompt, but my partner ( u/3756521/Our-Worst-Nightmare) and I decided to extend it. There will be more chapters to follow as we further explore the relationship. Warnings for dub-con, bondage, masturbation and incest.
Mycroft Holmes woke up.
The first thing he became aware was the quality of the sheets beneath him. He conventionally insisted on a four hundred or higher thread count, and these felt to be nothing near. By virtue of being able to analyse the sheets in such detail, he understood he was naked. He had worn pyjamas at night since early childhood; being fully undressed was almost unfamiliar sensation.
The dull, slightly bitter aftertaste of sedative lingered in the back of his throat. This was a somewhat less promising development. The sheets, and the softness of the surface, indicated a bed. He was bound to the headboard with cold, steel handcuffs, bringing his arms harshly above his head. His legs were spread uncomfortably wide; he tested the strength, feeling a slight give; handcuffs around the ankles, then looped around the bedposts with rope.
He felt repulsively exposed. He was not wearing underwear, either. The chill in the air across his naked form had been what awakened him; the draft, the air quality, implied underground. The very slight dampness in the air, the dense, musky flavour; undoubtedly a cellar. The above information had been gleaned without needing to open his eyes.
He opened his eyes. Concrete, mould in the corners, minimalistic and artificial light. Nondescript in terms of ascertaining where he was, or the identity of his captors. The bed was iron, very slightly rusted, structurally sound or he would not be attached to it; whomever had made the rather colossal effort of breaking into his house, a veritable fortress by anybody's standards, would not suffer him escaping without difficulty.
Mycroft's personal training had involved various torture techniques, although he had doubted that he would ever have need of them. Whoever had taken him had been well prepared, well-funded, and very intelligent. He had current workings in many countries; the Russians, perhaps Americans, had orchestrated this. In any circumstance, removing himself seemed unlikely, if not impossible.
Naked, strapped to a bed. Implied some very new-age torture, or sexual assault. There would be people looking for him; however, it was likely to be far too late by the time they tracked him down. He may well be dead, in fact. How irritating.
"Have you worked it out yet?" asked a distinctively familiar voice from behind him, mocking him.
Ah.
Mycroft rolled his eyes wearily. "You are aware that you may call, or indeed visit me, without such latent hyperbole?" Mycroft asked, sounding deliciously bored.
"Isn't this far more diverting?" Sherlock spat lividly, stalking into Mycroft's line of sight. Mycroft sighed very slightly; he had missed his younger brother, despite everything he had done over the years, including being tied naked to a bed in a cellar.
"Are you going to kill me, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked lightly, looking at his little brother with a remarkable level of contempt for a man who was naked and strapped down. Mycroft had never liked being nude; he wore well-tailored suits for a reason, mostly concerning his physique. It was difficult to be imposing when nude, in general. Unless one was Irene Adler.
"Sadly not. Don't tempt me though," Sherlock said, quite seriously. It was far from an idle threat; Sherlock had never been able to control his mind, his urges, the way his brother had. It was quite possible that Sherlock would lose control, and kill him.
He had begun with questionably ethical experiments. The drugs had begun shortly after puberty hit. By the age of fourteen, he had committed his first murder. They were becoming more and more extravagant as time went on; Sherlock had been dabbling in torture by twenty-two, and he tortured a man to death on his twenty-third birthday. The body had been sent to Mycroft. He had supposed it was significant.
In any case, Mycroft had been following his progress with marked interest; it was his younger brother, after all. Despite himself, he managed to care for Sherlock. He neglected to point out the errors in policing when they somehow glossed over the obvious evidence that Sherlock had been involved.
He couldn't understand if it was hope, or sheer stupidity, that kept Mycroft praying his brother would remain undiscovered by the police. The two were so very similar, after all.
"Wouldn't dream of it," Mycroft mused, a belated response to Sherlock's threat. He would attempt mild diplomacy, keep Sherlock satisfied for the time being, try to avoid a rather undignified death.
"So, have you?" Sherlock asked, standing directly in front of Mycroft, looking down at him. Mycroft tuned out the whine of his own discomfort in favour of sarcasm.
"Have I what?" Mycroft asked flatly.
"Worked it out," Sherlock repeated, lip twitching angrily. Mycroft looked back at him expressionlessly, trying to read him. His brother required something from him, something he could not simply hack out of one of Mycroft's computers. It could be simple case of revenge – that was Sherlock's style – but why in this fashion? There were far subtler ways of exacting revenge.
"Oh you are so slow!" Sherlock cried, infuriated. Mycroft smiled; he enjoyed revelling in the one thing his brother couldn't stand – waiting. He had absolutely no patience. One of Sherlock's few weaknesses; if there was something he wanted he never saw the point of savouring it, enjoying the anticipation. He simply took it. A man of instant gratification.
"Want me to give you a clue?" Sherlock asked; his eyes were alight, bright and ferocious, as he watched Mycroft's mind working. His intellectual equal, perhaps even senior.
"Go on then," Mycroft said slowly, conceding defeat.
"Your twenty-third birthday," Sherlock said, watching, waiting for Mycroft to finally understand. Mycroft took a breath, casting his mind several years, landing on his birthday so many years ago. He had returned home, had a family dinner, he had… Ah.
Sherlock smiled delightfully. Mycroft remembered.
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