So why would I try? When you're not even remotely, remotely kind?
Chapter Fifteen:
Sherlock tried to talk John out of dinner with Mycroft, but John was determined to go. Even being caught flat on his back didn't seem to discourage him, though he had certainly turned a very pretty shade of scarlet during the encounter, despite his later attempts to claim otherwise. If Sherlock hadn't had any reason to resent his brother beforehand, he certainly did after he had so helpfully frightened John back to the guest room.
But if John was determined to go to dinner, Sherlock certainly wasn't going to let him go alone. He could only hope that after spending an entire evening with his brother John would understand just why Sherlock had had to get away from him.
There was a quiet knock on his bedroom door.
"Yeah?"
John sheepishly peered around the door at him. "Hi."
"Well, come in then," Sherlock snapped, turning and stalking across to the wardrobe.
"Oh, come on," John said, closing the door behind him with a soft snap. "Are you going to be like this all night?"
Sherlock sighed noisily and pulled out a coat from amongst the mass of black and navy blue. "You think he's nice."
He heard the bed springs groan behind him. He turned to find John sitting with his back to him on the bed. He appeared to have a new shirt on, by the look of the tag still sticking out at the base of his neck.
Sherlock sighed and took a pair of scissors from his desk. "You think he's charming."
John jerked his head towards him as he knelt behind him. "The last time I check I'm allowed to think what I like about people," he said sullenly.
"I'm well aware of it," Sherlock replied drily, taking the tag between his finger and thumb and cutting it off with a swift snip. "I don't complain about your nauseating choice of friends, do I?"
John rubbed at the back of his neck. "Thanks," he grunted.
"Just be careful," Sherlock said, not able to resist pressing his lips to the soft flesh beneath John's ear. "He's good at manipulating people."
"Good" was just about the understatement of the century.
John said nothing but tilted his head slightly to one side. Sherlock made the mistake of snaking his tongue out to tease him further and recoiled with a splutter.
"What the hell do you have on your neck!" He stumbled backwards off the bed, scraping his tongue with a finger.
John turned around with a determinedly unamused look, though the edges of his mouth were twitching. "Cologne. Couldn't you smell it, you idiot?"
"I thought it was your bloody shampoo," Sherlock said crossly, unable to get the taste of metal pencil sharpeners out of his mouth. "Why the hell are you wearing cologne? Why do you own cologne?"
"So what if I do?" John stood up and faced him, placing his hands on his hips in a vaguely threatening manner. The gesture was dampened by the fact that his cheeks were still pink from the shower. And his height.
"I don't know why you think you need to make an effort for Mycroft," Sherlock said, thinking with distaste of his brother's pretentious suits and leather shoes and hair oil.
John took a step towards him. "It's not for Mycroft."
He ran a hand up Sherlock's cheek.
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him. "Don't tell me you dolled yourself up for little 'ol me?"
John dropped his hand with a glower. "You always have to ruin it, don't you?"
"Ruin what?" Sherlock asked, watching him to the door.
John paused in the doorway, with a decidedly coquettish glance over his shoulder. "You'll probably never know now, will you?"
Sherlock frowned after him.
At twenty minutes to nine he and John were still waiting for Mycroft in the hallway. Sherlock couldn't seem to stop himself pacing up and down, while John watched him with a frustratingly calm expression.
"We're going to be late," he remarked finally.
"Tell it to him!" Sherlock retorted, jerking his head up towards the ceiling.
John rolled his eyes and didn't reply. Sherlock forced himself to stand still.
He glowered at the ceiling overhead.
"That's it. I'm going up to find the idiot," he snapped over his shoulder, stalking towards the stairs.
He burst into the library without knocking and found him buttoning his cuffs with decided ease.
"What the hell is taking so long?" he demanded, eyeing his brother's smart suit with narrowed eyes.
"Such language," his brother replied, raising his eyebrows. "I don't know where you pick it up from. That nasty school of yours?"
"Will you just hurry up?" Sherlock snapped.
Mycroft gave a dismissive gesture between a wave and a shrug and turned to the mirror on his desk to put a comb through his hair, which had been oiled flat to his head. "Go and wait with your..." he cleared his throat, "friend."
"Oh, just say it," Sherlock said venomously. "Get it off your chest."
Mycroft turned to him with an infuriatingly uncomprehending expression. "That's how you referred to him in your email, isn't it? Your friend. Well, your friend seems very friendly." He turned back to the mirror with a smirk. "Especially on his back."
Sherlock's fists had somehow balled up into painfully tight curls either side of him again. "You're such a-"
"John Watson," Mycroft said over his shoulder. "Sounds just like the son of a banker, doesn't he?"
Sherlock went rigid where he was. "How did-"
"And his mother is unemployed. Homemaker apparently. Though what you can make out of a home in Portswood I shan't attempt to enquire into."
"Have you been running a background check on my b- friend," Sherlock asked lividly.
"I have merely been glancing into a few trifling particulars of your b-friend," Mycroft replied.
"I swear, Mycroft," Sherlock said, watching his brother polish his two front teeth with his tongue and flatten a few flyaway strands of hair to his head, "if you do anything to-"
"You really should watch that paranoia of yours," Mycroft interjected calmly. "It's not attractive."
"Just stay out of my business!" Sherlock snapped, a little shrilly.
Mycroft raised his eyes to the ceiling and said nothing. Sherlock followed him downstairs, far from comforted.
John straightened up from the wall when they reached the hallway, hastily smoothing down his cardigan and turning faintly pink at the sight of Mycroft. "Hey," he said clumsily.
"Nice to see that someone made an effort," Mycroft remarked, looking him up and down with amusement.
Sherlock saw nothing to mock in John's neat presentation but no doubt Mycroft was drawing his own conclusions about who he was trying to impress with the addition of cologne.
He took his umbrella from the umbrella stand and his coat from its usual peg, while John gazed at him with mixed awe and embarrassment, clearly the afternoon's mishap not far from his mind.
Sherlock rolled his eyes to himself.
...
Mycroft's choice of restaurant was decidedly more modest than John had expected. It was not the kind of place that he would have found himself in with his own family, but he wasn't sorry for the appearance of fish and chips on the menu, amongst the caviar and stuffed olives. He already felt underdressed and uncultivated next to Mycroft Holmes as it was.
The waiter seemed to recognise Mycroft, though his expression could not be said to express any great amount of joy at seeing him. He hurriedly led them to a table in the far corner of the restaurant, almost tripping over one of the large porcelain vases that had been placed, somewhat haphazardly, as decoration in the centre of the large, rectangular room that made up the dining area.
The table was rather intimately placed beneath a small wooden canopy with curtains tied back on either side. Which, they were told by the waiter, could be loosened "at their discretion". He then left them with the menus and a sweating wine bottle of water.
"Order whatever you like," Mycroft said, plucking a menu from the centre of the table. He glanced towards John with a small smile. "It's my treat."
"We can pay for our own," Sherlock said irritably, before John could reply.
He would have pointed out that he was capable of speaking for himself, but Sherlock seemed to be perpetually tense around his brother so he refrained. Sherlock snatched up a menu, sending his brother a resentful look that was acknowledged only by an amused glance.
John ordered fish and chips and Coke, Sherlock ordered ravioli and nothing to drink, Mycroft ordered soup and red wine. He tried to order a bottle for all of them, but Sherlock wouldn't hear of it.
"We're underage," he said snappishly, as soon as the waiter was gone. "We can't drink in a public place."
"You can't buy cigarettes either," his brother replied mildly, "but you still manage to plough through a three packs a day."
"Three pack a day?"John said, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock. "I thought you said you only smoke one at most?"
Mycroft looked at him too, a small smile playing on his lips. "He always was a good liar." Sherlock glared at him. "Or are you trying to kick the habit-"
"He barely ever smokes these days," John interjected hurriedly. "I've noticed."
Mycroft's smile widened slightly. "He doesn't? My, my. What an unexpected surge of self-restraint."
Sherlock sent him a very dirty look and remained silent. John got the uncomfortable feeling that he had made things worse.
The conversation before dinner was painfully stilted. John was too conscious of Sherlock watching him to speak freely to Mycroft and Mycroft seemed more than at his ease to just sit there and watch them, contentedly sipping his water.
John could have taken the tension in his hands, it was so thick. It was hard to imagine that siblings who were so alike could be at such odds. Perhaps that was the problem. They were both brilliant, both sharp, both able to read people like books. Perhaps it was little wonder that Sherlock was a little jealous of his older, more experienced, more charismatic brother.
John couldn't help feeling a rush of fondness for Sherlock. It was strangely endearing that his apparent infallibility could be penetrated by something so human as jealousy. The fact that he could feel such natural sensations at all was almost surprising.
When their food was served, Mycroft finally spoke.
"Are you sure I can't convince you to have a tipple?" he said, nodding to his glass of wine as it was set in front of him.
"Ah..." John glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock didn't interrupt this time, though he was watching him with an expression that blatantly expressed his displeasure. John looked at Mycroft. "Yeah. Why not? I'll go half-"
"No. I insist," Mycroft said smoothly. "It's the least I can do."
John avoided looking at Sherlock. He felt he had blatantly defied Sherlock's wishes and played into his insecurities concerning Mycroft, but there was a small, self-indulgent part of John that was interested in testing the boundaries of the brothers' strained relationship.
Mycroft ordered a bottle of the house wine and poured John a glass when it came. John could feel Sherlock's eyes boring into him as he took a swig of white wine. He had never been keen on wine and was careful to control any unintentional contorting of his mouth that might betray his distaste.
"Don't sit there scowling, Sherlock," Mycroft remarked, taking a small sip of his own. "Have a glass."
Sherlock ignored him. John took another sip. It got easier the more he drank. The taste seemed less bitter when mixed with salty fish and chips. He finished his first glass and had another, despite a look from Sherlock that told him expressly that he did not approve.
"Sherlock mentioned you're from Southampton, John," Mycroft said suddenly, after his third glass and at least twenty minutes of total silence besides the chinking of glasses and plates.
"Yes, I am," John replied, thankful for something to fill the stifling silence with.
"You don't say," Mycroft said, with a vague glint in his eyes. "And what business are your parents in?"
"My father is the manager of a bank," John said, distractedly following Mycroft's gaze to his brother. "My mother stays at home."
"Oh, I see," Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow. "I always found monetary matters intriguing-"
Sherlock gave a contemptuous snort, which Mycroft chose to ignore. John shifted in his seat, beginning to feel like he was being sealed in the centre of a silent but intense competition between the two brothers.
There was a rigid silence. John played with a piece of fish on his plate, without having any temptation to eat it. He could almost feel the resentment and rage radiating from Sherlock.
Mycroft gave a small cough. "So, John," he said, his eyes no longer darting towards Sherlock. "How long have you been at Redverse?"
"A little over a year," John replied, feeling an uneasy pang at the mention of the school.
"Oh?" Mycroft said, raising his eyebrows. "You changed high schools then? Whatever for?"
"I was accepted for a scholarship," John said uncomfortably.
"Is that so?" Mycroft said. He glanced at Sherlock. "Very impressive."
John looked away, his face hot. "A football scholarship," he said in a low voice.
He heard Sherlock shift in his seat beside him. John felt his cheeks flare at the possibility that he had embarrassed him. It seemed painfully likely that Sherlock would be embarrassed that his boyfriend was just an average student who was struggling to get his schoolwork done and was coaching a team that seemed to be losing its edge.
"I never was any good at sports," Mycroft said thoughtfully, after a brief pause. "It must take a lot of endurance, a lot of patience."
John looked at him quickly. "Yeah. I suppose-"
"And stamina," Mycroft added, with a strange look at Sherlock.
John frowned at him confusedly.
Sherlock's fork landed on his plate with a clatter. "That's enough," he said coldly. "Leave him alone."
"I'm fine, Sherlock," John said irritably, looking at him. "You don't always have to speak for me."
Mycroft laughed. "Sherlock's always been a little possessive of his things."
John felt a twinge of irritation. "Well, I am not one of his things," he snapped, throwing down his napkin and getting up from the table. "I'm going to the bathroom. Try not to kill each other before I get back."
He stalked away without a backwards glance at either of them.
...
As soon as John was out of sight, Sherlock turned furiously to his brother. "Will you back off?"
"I was only asking him a few, simple questions," Mycroft replied, leaning back in his seat and swirling the wine around in his glass in an infuriatingly complacent manner.
"Just drop this whole fucking innocence act," Sherlock spat, the frustration that had been building up inside of him throughout dinner finally getting the better of him.
"You were never this aggressive before you went to that school," Mycroft said, shaking his head.
"Shut up!" Sherlock said crossly.
"And you've given up smoking?" Mycroft said, as though he hadn't spoken. "I can't say that I'm sorry, but you are aware of what's happening, aren't you-"
"I have not given up smoking," Sherlock seethed, resisting the urge to slam his fist on the table. "And even if I had, it's none of your damn business!"
Mycroft placed his glass down with narrowed eyes. "Don't be such a petulant child," he said coldly, finally betraying a shred of genuine emotion. "Do you think I have nothing better to do than meddle in your life?"
"Clearly you don't." Sherlock was clutching the table so tightly that he could feel the wood becoming embedded beneath his fingernails.
"I have to admit that I didn't know brainless footballer was your type," Mycroft replied cruelly.
"You're sick," Sherlock snarled. "You just pumped him full of alcohol so you could play your little mindfuck games."
Mycroft laughed softly. His features relaxed back into their usual composure. "As fun as it is to watch your plaything dance on a string for me, I am interested in your wellbeing, not his."
"Don't you dare pretend to be interested in my wellbeing," Sherlock breathed.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, studying his face. "My God. This one has really gotten to you, hasn't he?"
Sherlock stared at him, the anger hot and thick inside of his veins. At that moment he would have done anything to feel his brother's nose break under his fist.
John returned moments later and Sherlock had nothing more to say to his brother in the meantime.
"Do you want another glass, John?" Mycroft said, almost as soon as he sat down.
John glanced at him. "No, I think I'm alright."
"We can take the bottle home no doubt," Mycroft replied crisply. He drained his own glass and placed it down, clearing his throat with satisfaction. "Are we ready to go?"
Mycroft insisted on covering the bill himself, despite John's attempts to convince him to split it three ways. The cab ride passed in silence, though Sherlock could see Mycroft occasionally sending John a shrewd, searching look. John was staring out of the window and didn't seem to notice.
Mycroft bade them both goodnight as soon as they got home and disappeared into the library, where Sherlock hoped he would stay for the remainder of the night. John had been silent since they had left the restaurant. Sherlock had a suspicion that Mycroft's behaviour had bruised his opinion of him. He couldn't say he was sorry.
"Are you alright?" he remarked, when John returned from brushing his teeth.
He was dressed in a distractingly tight t-shirt, but Sherlock forced himself to concentrate on the issue at hand. John shrugged and dropped his clothes over the back of Sherlock's desk chair.
"I have a bit of a headache," he replied, rubbing his forehead in a corroborating fashion. "I probably shouldn't have drunk that much wine."
"Probably," Sherlock said drily, leaning against the bars of the bed.
The temptation to talk about Mycroft was overwhelming, but he held his tongue. He had made a promise to himself that he wouldn't bring up the subject of his brother with John. He didn't want to complicate an already complicated situation with the even more complicated relationship between him and his brother.
John gave a resigned shrug. He knelt on the end of the bed, treating Sherlock to a lovely view of his football toned stomach through the thin material of his t-shirt and the bulge between his thighs.
"Your brother doesn't like me, does he?"
Sherlock could almost have laughed at the solemn expression on John's face. "What? Why would you think that?"
"I don't know," John said. He crawled up the bed a few inches, sitting just out of Sherlock's reach. "It's just a feeling."
He hesitated, and bit his lip in a way that Sherlock found wildly alluring. He moved uncomfortably against the bed bars, pinning his legs together.
"I just..." John made a frustrated sound between his teeth. "What if he thinks I'm not good enough for you?"
Sherlock couldn't help snorting at that. "Trust me, that is the last thing on his mind."
John just looked at him. He seemed so wretched and confused. He clearly trying to work out what he had done wrong when he had just been his usual likable, uncomplicated self.
Sherlock sighed. "He's just like that." He gave a humourless laugh. "He's always been like that."
John exhaled tiredly. "Maybe he's not ready to see his brother with another boy."
Sherlock knew for a fact that that was not the case and that Mycroft's attitude had little to do with John, and much more to do with him but he thought that they'd spent more than enough time agonizing over the inner workings of Mycroft's mind.
He leant forward and pressed a kiss to John's lips. "Don't worry about it. He's a bastard. It didn't take me seventeen years to work that out."
John smiled wanly and allowed himself to be enveloped in Sherlock's arms. "Sorry," he grunted.
"For what?" Sherlock said, his nostrils filled with the smell of John's cologne.
"I wanted tonight to be special," John said, flushing.
Sherlock's heart beat a little faster in his chest. "What do you mean?"
John said nothing, instead he pressed his lips against his neck. They were damp and stuck to Sherlock's skin. Sherlock's hands tightened around John's torso on their own accord.
He felt John's leg slide over his lap and then he straddled him, his crotch pressed flush against Sherlock's and nothing but soft fabric separating them. John gave his neck a gentle bite.
Sherlock's own ability to stay gentle was severely tested by the gentle gyrating movement John was making with his slim, barely clad hips. His hands wandered up John's figure, sliding up the firm curve of his stomach and running his thumbs over his still soft nipples.
John gasped against him and arched up to kiss him. Sherlock eagerly took his mouth, his arms curling around John's waist and laying flat against John's back. He loved the sounds John made. Even after all their time together, he still emitted the most delicious needy sounds. Sherlock couldn't help smiling against John's lips.
All his concerns about Mycroft evaporated. When he was with John, when he had him close to him and could feel his body pressed against his and could sense that the anxieties that plagued him had loosened and fallen away from his mind, there was nothing and no one who could have penetrated his consciousness. It was in moments like these that his feelings of gratitude to some unknown source of this undeserved good fortune reached almost foolish heights.
He cupped John's face in his hands, feverishly pushing his tongue between John's lips. John's mouth tasted like toothpaste and wine. It was a strange, heady combination. John let out a whimper that went straight to Sherlock's crotch. He pried John's lips open wider.
John broke away. His mouth and cheeks were pink. His blonde hair was a mess. It made Sherlock want to ravish him. He threaded his fingers through John's hair, his hands were clammy and John's hair stuck to his skin in tangles. John smiled in a dazed, bashful fashion and moved his fingers to the hem of his t-shirt.
Sherlock gave a groan of anticipation. He leant back on his palms on the bed. The front of his pyjamas was protruding. He watched with urgency as John tugged the t-shirt up and over his head. When he emerged, his hair was even more unkempt than before. It stirred an almost animalistic instinct inside of Sherlock to see John in such a perfect state of dishevelment. He gripped John's hips and forced him down onto the bed.
"Sherlock!" John blurted out, as he found himself pinned on his back by Sherlock's hips.
Sherlock smirked wickedly and rocked his hips purposefully against John's. His desperate moan was mingled with John's impassioned cry of his name. The thought that they might be overheard was a distant and unimportant detail that Sherlock couldn't care about at that moment. Not when he had John like this.
He knelt between John's splayed legs and gently pushed his hand against the telltale bump of John's tight boxer briefs.
John bit his lip. "Ah!"
He curled a hand around Sherlock's shirt and yanked him roughly down on top of him. Sherlock gave a shiver as every inch of his body was pinned against John's. He carefully slid a knee between John's legs and rubbed it teasingly against John's sex.
John gazed up at him dazedly, a hand still tangled in his shirt. He rolled his hips against Sherlock's knee.
"I..." John broke off, blushing. "I'm-"
Sherlock struggled up a few inches so he could see John's face. "John," he said softly, touching his cheek gently with his damp palm.
John spread his legs an inch wider. His grip tightened around Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock shivered against him. "I'm ready."
Sherlock gave a helpless groan and almost collapsed on top of him. John smirked.
"Let's do it while your brother's downstairs," John said with a titter.
Sherlock stared at him with a wretched pulse of regret. Aroused and dishevelled and free of all the constrains that Redverse forced on him, John was perfect. Sherlock shook his head and, though it almost physically hurt to do it, pushed himself up and off of John.
John stared at him in confusion. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock sighed. "Are you sure you're ready?"
John stared at him and Sherlock was dismayed to see a flicker of hurt cross his expression. "Wait a minute. You're the one who's been telling me that you'll be ready whenever I'm ready."
"I just don't think tonight is a good choice," Sherlock snapped, without meaning to. "You've been drinking and after all this crap with Mycroft-"
He broke off. John's eyes were narrowed at him. There was an uncomfortable silence. There was so much more that needed to be said, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to say it.
John snatched up his t-shirt and Sherlock watched wretchedly as he pulled it back on. "Don't," he said. "Come on, John. Stay, please."
John shook his head wordlessly. He shrugged off Sherlock's hand on his leg and went towards the door without a look back. The door snapped behind him and Sherlock heard his footsteps disappear along the hallway.
He didn't move from his place on the bed. Half of him still expected John to return. When, ten minutes later, no such thing had occurred he crawled up the bed and flopped down onto his back. He stared glumly up at the ceiling.
They'd been home for one day and it already felt like an utter disaster. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to sleep with John and have that closeness and intimacy with him. He wanted to feel him move against him; he wanted to hold him and know that this was what John wanted. But he couldn't. Not tonight.
He parted his legs and stared unenthusiastically down at the erection left by their brief activities. He sighed and curled a hand around it.
End of Chapter Fifteen