Sherlock:

The game isn't off, and Mycroft knows it.

I'm out on the grounds (and after dark, Mummy would be scandalized if she knew; lucky for me she's fallen into a pharmaceutical-induced slumber and couldn't be roused by anything less than an air raid siren), stalking silently along the many footpaths that wind over our sprawling estate. I'm on my fourth cigarette of the evening, and the nicotine is making my fingers twitch but it's also lining my thoughts up in a way that no other chemical is capable of doing. (Or, at least, any that I've tried thus far. I don't like Mummy's prescription pills as they leave me feeling hollow and unsettled, but one of the brutish imbeciles at school had mentioned- not to me, never to me, I'm not to be trusted- the idea of crushing an opiate-based tablet and introducing the newly-made powder into the body via the nostril…a curious suggestion, and one I've been mentally toying with for months.)

My thoughts, of course, are on Mycroft. Mycroft is a four-cigarette problem, at the very least. This game of ours is making me sleepless (even more so than usual) and unable to think of anything else. Each experiment I've begun (including the one with the live cultures and the observation of decomposing animal tissue upon their induction, which should have been, by all rights, unerringly fascinating) has been abandoned, chucked aside because my attention has wandered, as always, to the problem of my indefatigably placid brother. I want to shatter that mask of his. I want to prove myself more clever than him (in some ways, I want to prove this to myself) while easily bringing him under my power. Anyone else would be toppled easily…but Mycroft is a challenge. Mycroft knows me, knows my methods, and it won't be an easy job, manipulating him. And that's even without mentioning the unbearably embarrassing moment behind the garden shed two weeks ago, my stupid tears cutting streaks through the dirt on my face. I lost control. It won't happen again.

There are bats in the woods; I can hear them moving, the noise similar to that of birds but not quite the same. I stop and listen to them, taking a last drag from my cigarette before flicking it the ground. Mycroft is driving me mad. Very well. I consider it my brotherly duty to return the favor.

x

I've convinced Mycroft to take me down to the pond that sits near the edge of our property. We took the horses, not wanting the ride such a distance on bicycles (and Mycroft being far too lazy to walk it). I like riding, when it suits me, but I hate caring for the beasts. Ordinarily I would drag an attendant along to see to them, but my plans for today require seclusion and besides, Mycroft seems to gain some measure of joy from them so it's probable that he didn't mind having them put in his charge.

We're undressing, the warm air balmy against our bare skin. Mycroft isn't fool enough that he doesn't realize this is part of the game; his eyes never leave me. Likewise, mine never leave him. He's gotten soft at uni, the flesh of his stomach pale and doughy. I don't mind, really. His physiology is irrelevant to me; it's his mind that draws me, his smug smile, the condescension in his voice. But: I recognize this is not the way Mycroft perceives me. I'm not so far removed from normality that I can't recognize aesthetic appeal, even if it does little for me. My features are pleasant to the eye, I imagine; Mycroft appreciates them at the very least. Good, let him look.

The day is cerulean: sky; pool; veins, in the wrist of the hand that Mycroft tentatively dunks underwater. "Cool enough," he says unnecessarily (of course I read it on his face, in the slow bend of his fingers underwater and the relaxation of his spine). Standing up straight, Mycroft looks at me, his expression bored but patient. "Well?"

We swim for as long as it suits me. Mycroft is clever, but too eager; he watches me constantly, on edge for the moment when my turn will begin. He doesn't realize I've already resumed play, that this torturous wait was not only calculated but, perhaps, more important than what awaits.

After a long while, Mycroft slides out of the water, leaving his feet dangling into the shallow depths at the edge of the pond. In my mind I see the little glass timekeeper we use when playing chess, the sand drifting rapidly now, almost spent. It's time to make my move. I swim up until I'm nearly on my belly, sliding in right between his legs and mirroring the smirk that's settled on Mycroft's lips. I run my hands up his legs (pale, dark hair slicked down with water that musses under my fingertips) and pause them on his inner thighs, my fingers kneading slowly.

"Sherlock," he says, a touch of protestation in his voice (as if he can fool me) as he puts his hands over mine and pushes them roughly away.

I shake my head. "It's my turn, Mycroft. You said so yourself."

"Most regrettably," Mycroft says, putting his fingers under my chin and tilting my face up. He forces me to meet his eyes, and already I can read too much in them: concern (for me, for himself, for Mummy and his career) and hunger quietly battling behind his irises. "You are still so young."

"I'm not." My voice is embarrassingly fierce; I need to regain my footing. I slip my hands back into his lap, groping higher now and noting with satisfaction the sudden tightness around his eyes. He doesn't stop me this time, though he does half-heartedly raise his hand when I press my palm against his erection. Still, he doesn't stop me. I keep my eyes on his as I drop my head and nuzzle against it, pressing my lips carefully to his frenulum.

"Sherlock," he gasps, but there's no warning in it this time. He's half-hard already, and I can feel the blood pulsing through his veins as I move my mouth slowly down his shaft, my lips parted and my tongue just barely touching his skin. "Oh, Sherlock," he sighs again, his hand coming up and tangling in my damp hair. It stings a little, the way he pulls, but his face is such a treat that I don't even mind. He's coming entirely undone, my brother, and when I slide the tip of my tongue along the underside of his penis (I can taste the pond water, and salty sweat, and something else, something musky) Mycroft's eyes flutter and he bites his lip and that's it: I've practically already won. His face is completely open, unguarded, flush; his cock is throbbing in my hand. I could have him, if I wanted him.

I'm already bored.

Heaving a small sigh, I push back into the water and slip under, and when I come back up Mycroft is staring at me incredulously. He looks rather ridiculous, his erection so stiff and red, the head of his cock pressing into the soft white flesh of his stomach. I'm not sure I've ever seen anyone look so flustered, and certainly never a Holmes. I laugh and brush my hair from my eyes. "Get dressed, Mycroft," I yawn, relaxing so that I'm floating on my back. "Prepare the horses. I've got something on at the manor, an experiment I've been working on. I think it requires rather more attention than this." I peek at him, and I'm glad to see my cool dismissal has been received as I meant it: You've lost, Mycroft. Game over. I'm positively beaming as he struggles to stuff his still-stiff penis into his riding pants, his jaw clenched and his eyes dark.

It's a sorry thing, when a good game ends, but I do so enjoy winning.

A/N: Don't worry, there are eight more chapters and an epilogue to come. This isn't the end!