It was Christmas again. Sherlock was about to turn 26; I was 32. Ever since Sherlock had moved out and my position in the government had become more influential, we had scrapped the old tradition of spending two consecutive weeks cooped up in our childhood home. We would visit our parents on Christmas Eve and stay until Boxing Day. That was it. This year, however, Mummy had gotten wind that Sherlock and I hadn't spoken to each other for several months (Don't ask me why. Sherlock was being petulant over an exceedingly trifling matter, so I let him stew about it.), and had decided we needed to spend time together to get past our differences. Sherlock couldn't find a case and the government was actually maintaining itself for a change, so neither of us had any excuse not to stay. We agreed to visit for the same duration we had done during Sherlock's adolescence. The first week we stayed as far apart as possible, barely speaking. The next couple of days, my little brother was starting to come around. He managed a few conversations with me here and there and would actually make eye contact. When his birthday rolled closer, he began acting strange. He smirked more than he usually did. He seemed to have a higher bounce to his step. He would intentionally brush against me as he did 8 years before. He was even so bold as to allude to our previous relations in front of our parents. Nothing too obvious, of course. Just a random euphemism inserted in a reply to a question. It was subtle enough that Dad and Mummy never caught on, but I knew what he meant all too well. The night of January 5th, I couldn't sleep. I was bored. The lack of work was getting to me. I stared blankly at the ceiling for an hour. I just couldn't drift off. I knew when I could expect Mummy to get up, so I set my alarm for ten minutes before then, and stripped off my clothes. Maybe being more comfortable would help. It didn't. I checked the clock. 12.02. Damn. 'Well, happy birthday, Sherlock,' I thought to myself. Why couldn't I sleep? I nearly jumped out of my skin when my door creaked open. It was Sherlock, wearing his pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt. He shut the door quietly behind him and stripped, letting his clothes fall softly to the floor. Without a word, he crawled in bed beside me. I didn't even realise I'd moved over for him. I was expecting him to make a comment about me already being prepared for him, but he never did. He just pulled me close and kissed me. I kissed him back more passionately than I intended, but I didn't care and he didn't seem to mind either. Our bodies pressed together and our lips did the same. As we became aroused, he kissed along my jaw to nibble at my ear, then down my neck, along my collar bone (leaving a mark just below it), down my chest, my stomach, my thigh. He moved back up, but only slightly. He took the tip of my erection in his mouth, sucking it and teasing it with his tongue. Then, he started bobbing his head, taking more of me in with each repetition. Soon enough, he managed to fit my full length. He was excellent. It felt amazing. As he moved his head, I had to keep myself from moaning too loudly. Lord knows what disasters would ensue should our parents discover what we were doing. As if the sensation wasn't pleasurable enough, I chose to glance at him. Not only did he return the gaze with the most devilish, ravenous, seductive look I'd ever seen, but he'd also begun stroking himself. He was the epitome of all things sensual. I couldn't restrain my volume. I let out a moan louder than I could have anticipated. Sherlock took his free hand and moved it to my mouth so I didn't have to try so hard to silence myself; I could just enjoy it. It wasn't long before he finished me off. I had to bite his hand to minimize the risk of waking our parents. He let go of himself and we switched positions. He tasted as good as he felt. He was far better at quieting himself than I was, but I could tell he enjoyed himself just as much. After he came, we realized just how much damage I'd done to his hand. We pulled on our pyjama bottoms and rushed to the bathroom before he had the chance to bleed on my sheets. I bandaged him up and we returned to my room. To this day, our mother still believes he'd managed to stab himself with a nail that had fallen on the windowsill. Once back to my room, we stripped again, snuggled up in my bed, and fell asleep within seconds. We both slept better that night than we had in a long time. When my alarm rang in the morning, we put on our pyjamas and Sherlock rushed silently back to his room. Our parents never knew he was even gone.