Reboot Chapter 6, a sherlock fanfic

A/N: Again, I'm so thrilled by the lovely reviews. Thanks again for reading!

This chapter is dedicated to dohimdraco, who commented that they were looking forward to Mycroft's reaction and I realized I hadn't even planned to write a chapter about Mycroft's reaction. Which was totally silly because Mycroft is awesome. And I just learned that he's *really* fun to write. So thanks for putting the idea in my head!

The sleek, black car was waiting at the curb when John came out of the surgery. He stopped dead in his tracks and sighed. "Oh, for fuck's sake …"

His phone pinged. Again. Sherlock had been texting him all afternoon. He was bored. And horny. A very dangerous combination.

Hard

Harder

Bloody hard

I loathe your job. Come home.

And the latest:

You should be halfway home by now if you are using the shortcut I devised for you.

He approached the car and the door swung open to reveal the lovely Anthea, who looked up at him with a look of cool expectation.

"Anthea, really?" John sighed. "This is really not a good time and —" he stopped speaking when Anthea smiled with amusement.

"There's never any choice, is there?"

Anthea shook her head minutely. "Nope. Get in."

John obeyed. His phone pinged again. He swore it sounded angrier.

John was driven to Mycroft's home and shown inside, where the doctor was treated to the sight of Mycroft Holmes seated regally in a leather armchair, sipping a cup of tea, the saucer cradled in one well-manicured hand.

"Ah, John. So glad you could come." Mycroft's eyes danced with amusement at his little joke. John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Do have a seat, John. We have a few things to discuss." Mycroft indicated the chair across from him. "Tea?"

John sat down, the leather creaking under his weight. "Please."

Mycroft poured the tea, added the perfect amount of milk and stirred the liquid delicately before handing the saucer and cup to John. John's mouth quirked slightly at the corner. Only Mycroft could find a way to exert power through the serving of tea. He knew exactly how John took his tea and fixed it up without asking to prove that he could find out anything about John that he desired to know.

"Thank you." John lifted the cup to his lips and took a sip. It was the perfect temperature and the perfect flavour. Of course.

Mycroft set his own cup down and crossed his legs, resting the ankle of one well-shod foot across the opposite knee. He leaned back into his chair and steepled his fingers in the same manner as his younger brother.

"So, it would appear that you have taken my brother's virginity."

John nearly spat out his tea, but managed to swallow with difficulty and he coughed faintly. "Blimey, you're not mincing words today, and excuse me, but what makes you think I am going to discuss this extremely personal matter with you?"

Mycroft made a small, huffy sound of impatience. "Oh, John, isn't this getting tiresome for you? It certainly is for me. This little dance we do. I ask questions and you act offended and outraged. But in the end we always talk about what needs to be talked about. And we are going to talk about this."

John's jaw tightened in anger. Mycroft was so bloody infuriating, but he knew that resisting him was futile. Best get this over with.

His phone pinged again in his pocket. Sherlock was probably in stage 4 of a complete meltdown. He was going to have to do a lot of cleaning up when he got home. "First of all, let's adjust our language, shall we?" said John. "We both know perfectly well that it is impossible to take anything from Sherlock that he is not willing to give."

Mycroft cocked his head and fixed John with a look of gentle amusement.

John rolled his eyes this time. "All right, fine, impossible for everyone else. I didn't take anything from him. He offered himself to me and I accepted. Happily so."

"Oh yes, I am sure he propositioned you," replied Mycroft, nodding. "In a charmingly clumsy and ham-handed manner. Entirely purposeful, too, I hope you know. Obviously the most effective way to procure the desired response from you."

John frowned. He hated it when Mycroft spoke this way. As if John were nothing more than a pawn in some twisted game between Mycroft and his brother. Making John doubt any moment he had with Sherlock that had seemed genuine. He recalled the image of Sherlock's trembling hands as he had confessed his desire for John. Was it all an act? An affectation to ensure my compliance? Does it even matter now?

"I suppose it's a stupid idea to even ask how you know about this."

Mycroft nodded, his eyes expressing pity. "Of course. The 'how' is not necessary, though it's not as though you are being terribly discreet about it."

"We're being as discreet as we want to be."

"I'm told you are able to make my brother howl like a deranged beast. So, at least I can rest assured that he is enjoying himself and has finally found an effective and legal outlet for his id."

John blushed scarlet. "Jesus, Mycroft."

"Oh, don't be such a prude," Mycroft scolded. "From what I understand, you don't appear to be that way in your home with Sherlock. We should be able to discuss sexuality without blushing like little schoolgirls. It is part of the human condition."

"What exactly is it that you want to discuss?" said John, frustrated. "We're having a sexual relationship, yes, ooh, you caught us, too bad. What of it?"

Mycroft's gaze hardened and he leaned forward, planting both feet on the ground and clasping his hands. "You are right, John. No one can take anything away from Sherlock that he doesn't want to give up except for me. And the only times I have ever taken anything away from him were when he was at risk of harming himself. Whether it was taking his small hands away from the stove as a child, or the syringe out of his arm when he went and got himself a cocaine problem." Mycroft held John's gaze with an iron grip. "What I want to know is if you are going to become a problem later on. A messy problem that I will have to fix for my dear brother."

"I don't understand."

"Oh, you do, John. I know you do. But perhaps I am being a bit too harsh. Let's try it from another approach. Mycroft's posture relaxed and he leaned back again, smiling softly at John. A dangerous smile. All of Mycroft's smiles were dangerous.

"Let's play a little game. Let's pretend we've gone, oh, say, one hundred years back in time. You are a new beau, a suitor, wanting to court my darling baby brother. And for the sake of the narrative, we'll look past the fact that same-sex entanglements fell outside of these social contracts at the time," Mycroft rested one elegant hand against his chest. "And I, as the eldest son, am the acting 'man of the house,' since our father's unfortunate passing. I have asked you here today to declare your intentions. This is how things were once done, and for the life of me I don't know why it isn't still done this way. It would prevent a great number of poorly made decisions."

"My intentions?" John repeated.

Mycroft scowled. "Oh, don't play stupid. Sherlock has told me of this irritating habit you have of repeating things people say when you are either buying time or being deliberately obtuse. Because you have to understand that my brother is not like other people."

"That's the understatement of the century," muttered John, sipping his tea.

"He may have propositioned you, but I would hope that you were aware of what you were taking on by becoming involved with him. The responsibility you have accepted by initiating him into the world of physical experience."

John paused for a long moment. Ah, now we're getting to the crux of the matter. "Yes, Mycroft. Believe me, I have considered that at length. I don't take this lightly. I have no intention of hurting Sherlock."

Mycroft gave John a pitying look. "Oh, but of course. No one really intends to hurt anyone else, do they?" And then the elder Holmes's voice turned harsh, his gaze steely. "But they do. They do every single day. And I need your assurance that you are in this for the long haul. If you are planning on merely experimenting with my brother; having a lark, taking your pleasure from removing the virginal veil; introducing him to the sensual pleasures of the flesh; gratifying your ego by being the first to make him lose control of himself; only to leave him so you can marry a nice girl and move to the suburbs to make babies — I'm afraid I can't let you do that."

"I don't want to do that!"

"Are you certain?" Mycroft's eyes were blazing. "Think about this, John. Think hard. This is not a light question I am posing. I am asking you to assure me that you will stay on the path you have selected. Because Sherlock has chosen you. You are the first and you are the only one. He won't have anyone else but you. He is emotionally underdeveloped and this makes him your responsibility." Mycroft paused for a breath and then relaxed minutely. "But it's not too late yet. I believe I've caught it in the nick of time. This can be reversed, though not without some minor collateral damage to my dear brother's psyche. But if you plan to leave him at some point, then I must insist you do it right now. I will make provisions to make the separation as easy as possible. A new job, a new place to live, a new city. Likely a new country. The separation must be absolute, complete, and irreversible."

At some point during Mycroft's diatribe, John's jaw had dropped. He was suddenly aware of his gaping yawp and shut it. But he could barely believe what he was hearing.

"Are you seriously trying to bribe me to walk away from Sherlock?"

Mycroft looked insulted. "Of course not. I am not trying to do anything, John. If I wanted you removed immediately, I would have bypassed this conversation and had you taken halfway across the world by now. As I said, I only wish to take those things from Sherlock that will harm him. I am asking you if you will be one of those things. Will you burn him like the stove? Poison him like the cocaine?"

"Absolutely not."

"Think, John. Really think before you answer."

John nodded and took a breath, delving into the question. He's right, this isn't a light request. Are you ready to give up the fantasy of having a wife and a little family someday? Is that something you wanted because you wanted it or because it's what people are supposed to want? Is this loss of this vision more or less painful than the idea of losing Sherlock? Do I want to be having these interrogations with bleeding Mycroft Holmes for the rest of my life? Could I really abandon Sherlock?

John's breath grew shuddery as he tried to imagine that scenario. Never seeing him again. Never hearing his marvellous voice, bearing witness to his brilliance, kissing his mouth and mastering his body. Holding him. Laughing with him. Being driven crazy by him. Going on adventures with him. Learning from him. Feeling utterly alive when I am with him. Having him think I wanted to leave him. Thinking that he wasn't good enough. Unworthy. Damaged. Disposable.

And finally, an even more troubling thought.

There's a good chance Sherlock will become obsessed with either finding me or figuring out why I left. He won't rest. It will consume him. And Mycroft knows that. "Minor collateral damage," my arse.

He took a shaky breath and looked at Mycroft, knowing that his decision would be read plainly on his face by the ever-observant Holmes.

Mycroft met his gaze, smiled, and nodded. "Good. I was hoping you would make the correct choice."

"There really is no choice. I think we both know that. But you can rest assured it's the decision I would have made no matter what. I am with Sherlock because there is no other place I would rather be."

"I needed to be sure you'd made the realization yourself and weren't planning to go off and doing something regrettable and stupid," Mycroft commented lightly. "Yes, you will stay with Sherlock. You will lead a highly unconventional life, but it will be an extraordinary one. This is what you need and this is what my brother can give you. You are already aware of the benefits you bring to him."

John nodded.

"One more question, John."

"Yes?"

"Do you love him?"

John blinked and paused for a moment. "Don't ask me that."

"Why?"

"I am certainly not going to say it aloud to you before I have said it aloud to him. Is that enough of an answer for you?"

Mycroft smiled and nodded. "Yes, John. That will do."

The moment was interrupted as their phones pinged almost simultaneously. They both reached for their devices. John looked at the screen.

Leave at once.

Mycroft looked at his phone and flinched almost imperceptibly. He raised his eyebrows, let out a sigh, and looked at John. "I have been informed — in no uncertain terms — that I am to release you immediately."

John smirked. "That isn't precisely what he said, is it?"

Mycroft gave him a smile that was almost friendly. Every now and then they shared a brief moment of commiseration over what it was like to have a man like Sherlock in their respective lives. "No, it was not. But the language my brother employed is definitely not worth repeating aloud." Mycroft stood and John followed suit. "Be good to him, John." He offered his hand to shake.

John gripped it, squeezing a bit harder than politeness would dictate. Mycroft didn't react except to smile more, gracefully absorbing the pressure and taking his hand back when John released it.

"See you soon," Mycroft said as John headed for the door held open by Mycroft's bodyguard.

"Not too soon, I hope," John called over his shoulder.

They both participated in the fallacy that Mycroft had released John at Sherlock's request and not simply because Mycroft himself chose to do so.

"What did he offer you?" Sherlock's voice and face were thunderous when John was dropped off at Baker Street. He had started yelling while John was still climbing the stairs. "Tell me what he offered you! Money? Political influence? A small island off the coast of Spain? Tell me!"

"Sherlock, calm down."

"I will NOT!" he shouted. Sherlock paced the flat like a caged animal, whipping an arm out and knocking over a pile of papers, sending them flying through the air like oversized snowflakes.

"He offered me a new life. New job, new flat, new country. Anything I wanted if I would leave Baker Street and never come back."

Sherlock stopped moving and his head turned slowly to look at John. "An escape hatch. Of course. Did you accept? No, of course you didn't — he would have taken you away immediately if that were the case. You'd have to start your jumper collection again from scratch."

John threw his arms up in the air. "Oh, and not because the idea is totally and completely insane?"

Sherlock sat in his chair, but his body was as taut as one of the strings on his violin. "It's not insane, John. A different kind of man would have seen this as an opportunity to have all he ever wanted in life. All provided for him at one small cost."

"Sherlock!" John stormed over and dropped to his knees in front of the chair, grabbing Sherlock by the upper arms and almost shaking him. "Shut up. Just shut. Up. You already know what kind of man I am. You knew in the first seconds you laid eyes on me. So stop saying these daft things. This is what I want in life. What you and I have right now. And losing you would be the hugest cost of all. That's why I turned your brother down."

"Why?"

John's brow furrowed. "I just told you why I turned him —"

"No," Sherlock interrupted, "why do you want me?"

"You know why."

Sherlock was passive in John's grip, neither fighting him off nor giving in to him. He sighed, eyes closing for a moment as if in great pain. "John, I never ask a question to which I already know the answer. It's why I ask so few of them."

It was John's turn to sigh. "For god's sake, you git, it's because I love you."

Sherlock's eyes opened again and he stared at John for long moment before asking, "What does that mean?"

John was thunderstruck. "Mean? What do you mean 'what does that mean'? It means I'm in love with you!"

Sherlock swallowed hard and this time he relented in John's grip, caving in somewhat. He leaned forward until his forehead was touching John's and he spoke quietly and with difficulty. "John. I don't know what that means. To love someone. To be in love. I have no experience with it. I need you to explain it to me." He paused and then added, in almost a whisper. "Please."

John felt like deflating himself. It was almost painful to hear Sherlock ask what was probably the most difficult question he'd ever had to utter aloud in his entire life.

"Oh, Sherlock," he murmured, releasing the other man's arms and lifting his hands up to gently cradle Sherlock's face between them. "It seems like people have been trying to define love since the beginning of time. All I can tell you is what it means to me. For me, love is acceptance. I want you around whether you are being completely brilliant or a stroppy mare. Love is passion. I've been besotted with the way you see the world from the day I met you. You challenge me and you brought me alive when I was dead inside. I want to spend my days experiencing the world with you. You give me what I need. That and the fact that you are bloody gorgeous and you have a big cock, a tight arse, and apparently no gag reflex. I want you constantly."

Sherlock chuckled very faintly at this.

"And finally, love is sacrifice. I would do anything for you. Anything at all that you needed. I put your safety and well-being before my own. I've killed for you once and I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

Sherlock's hands came up to hold John's forearms very gently. "That sounds like a very acceptable definition, John. Makes one wonder why all of humanity has struggled with it for so long. Based on those terms, I would have to say that I love you, too."

John smiled, laughing very softly. It was such a very Sherlockian way of proclaiming devotion.

Sherlock tugged on John's arms, urging him up until he was straddling Sherlock's lap, allowing Sherlock to wrap his long arms around John's body and rest his head against the doctor's chest. John smiled again, slipping his arms around his lover, and petting his hair soothingly, letting his fingers trace the shape of a jutting cheekbone.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

"I'm feeling vaguely nauseous. And inexplicably anxious. Is this part of being in love, as well?"

"God, yes. That's the 'Oh, fuck, what am I getting myself into?' part."

"So this is normal."

"Completely."

"Right … John?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

"How does one make that part stop? I don't care for it at all."

"Well, this usually helps …" John tipped up Sherlock's chin and gave him a long, slow kiss.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered and he sighed softly. "Yes," he murmured when the kiss broke. "I think you're right."

"Come to bed, Sherlock."

"Yes. Yes, John, I will."

John took Sherlock to his bed and made love to him. No reboot needed this time. He undressed the detective reverently, and they kissed and touched until they were both aching with need, then John lifted Sherlock's legs and pressed into him so slowly, and they kissed deeply as John rocked his hips, letting Sherlock feel the slow, sweet slide of his cock moving inside him.

John loved the urgent, frantic sex they had while working on cases, but he loved this, too. He could practically feel Sherlock's pulse from inside, their bodies so deeply connected that it felt like Sherlock was everywhere, even in his mind. John stroked Sherlock's curls and claimed his mouth again, moving a little faster, moaning softly in pleasure. He reached down and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's erection, feeling his lover shudder in response as Sherlock arched up against him, his hips rolling smoothly to meet each thrust.

"Are you going to come for me?" John murmured sweetly in Sherlock's ear, stroking the other man's cock, already slick with precome.

"Yes," Sherlock moaned. "I'm close, John — ahhh!

John had chosen that moment to drive inside, hitting Sherlock deep, causing the other man to tremble beneath him, wrapping his legs more tightly around John's waist. They moved urgently together, gasping and moaning, until Sherlock let out a groaning cry and came. John forced himself to stay in control so he could watch. The sight of Sherlock coming apart never ceased to amaze him. It didn't gratify his ego — it just made him feel extremely lucky.

"John …" Sherlock whimpered, his hands sliding down John's bare back to cup and squeeze his arse, pulling him in deeper. John shuddered and buried his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck as he came, groaning deeply. Sherlock made a rumbling sound of satisfaction in his chest and wrapped his arms around the doctor, holding him close. For once he had no need to immediately leap out of bed and get to his phone.

"Blimey," John murmured faintly.

Sherlock chuckled.

John smirked and kissed Sherlock just below his ear before carefully pulling out and rolling onto his back, still breathing hard. Sherlock stretched languidly and slipped one arm under his neck, the other over his belly, not really caring that it was sticky and smeared with ejaculate.

"You didn't answer my question, you know," he murmured quietly.

John turned his head to look at his lover. "Hmmm? What's that?"

"When I asked you why you wanted me."

"I did too answer that."

"No, you just said that you were in love with me. Which just begs the question of why are you in love with me?"

"Are you fishing for compliments here, mate?"

Sherlock snorted. "Please. I can do without such cheap sentiment."

"Bollocks." John chuckled. "You eat it up every time. But why are you asking me this?"

"Well, I'm told — by most people — that I'm something of a nightmare. And I know I am. I am difficult, John. I've never been in a relationship before and there are obvious reasons why. It's entirely possible that I will be totally pants at this entire endeavour. And if you are harbouring any illusions of 'changing me,' I suggest you put those aside right now."

"Sherlock, in the entire time I've known you — even before all the shagging — have I ever tried to change you?"

A minute shrug. "You do try to get me to buy milk and put my dishes in the sink."

"Which has been an abysmal failure."

"Because you always do it if I just wait long enough."

"Yet I'm still here."

"You are either a masochist, a terribly patient man, or perhaps you are deranged."

"A bit of all of the above, I reckon."

"You think?"

"Definitely somewhat deranged." John looked over at Sherlock and smiled, reaching over to hold his hand. "Maybe you're a nightmare, but it's been a dream come true as far as I'm concerned."

Sherlock smiled, then laughed softly. "That was horrible, John. Atrocious."

John gave Sherlock his best impression of a blinding movie-star smile. "BAFTA material?"

"Hmmm, hardly. You better keep working on it."

"You're an idiot. And I love you."

"And I love you, John. But that was still atrocious."

"I wonder if Mycroft would move me to Maldives? Surely they need doctors there. All those rich old men having heart attacks and such."

"What did I tell you about uttering that name in this bed?"

"Not good?"

"Bit not good." But Sherlock squeezed John's hand and smiled anyway.