Mycroft tensed. "I'm not sure I follow."

Under ordinary circumstances, Sherlock would have gleefully pounced on this admission and flogged his brother with it. ("Not so perceptive this time, are you? Too many carbohydrates slowing you down?") But in this instance he merely looked defeated.

"John is attracted to me," he said slowly, eyes on the floor and voice flat. "And I am attracted to him."

"Yes, yes, it's obvious."

"It is?"

"Well, of course. The way you look at each other, the way he risks everything to keep you safe, how content you've been since he came into your life. I'd say it's more than a case of attraction; you're in love."

"You're right," Sherlock said. "I never thought I'd say this about anyone, but I love him."

"That's a big step for you, brother."

"It is. And I have a problem that will ruin it."

"Problem?"

"Yes." The younger Holmes inhaled deeply. "It's rather personal."

"Go on."

"I'm trusting you, Mycroft. Perhaps for the first time ever." Panic flashed briefly in those pale eyes. "You can never mock me for it. Ever. Because if you do, I swear I'll tell Mummy about your pink-"

"Sherlock." Mycroft leaned forward and clasped his brother's hand. "I know we've had our –disagreements. But I would never intentionally hurt you."

Sherlock looked down at the fingers gripping his. They had not touched each other in any manner that might be described as loving or supportive for so long that he wasn't sure how to react. Finally he said, "It's sexual."

"You're a virgin, you mean."

"Yes, but that's not the problem." Colour faintly infused his cheeks. "Oh, hell, I'll just say it. I can get erect but I can't ejaculate."

Silence. If Sherlock had said he'd blown up the Tower of London or kidnapped the royal heir, Mycroft would have known what to say and do. The functionality of his younger brother's penis was entirely new territory, and one he did NOT want to set up camp in.

"John will take it the wrong way, and think he's not enough for me," Sherlock continued, voice rising in pitch. "He'll feel terrible, and I'll-" He got up and began to pace. "I can't lose him, I can't."

"Wait. Wait." Mycroft stood too and took him by the arms. "Sherlock, slow down. I think you're underestimating John's regard for you. If you're having problems of that nature, he'll understand. He's a doctor. He'll help you through it."

"Of course he will!" Sherlock snapped. "But I want to spare him that. I want this Christmas to be special for him, for both of us. I'm ready to give myself to someone, and my problem won't let it happen."

Mycroft cleared his throat. The room was suddenly too warm, but he resisted the urge to loosen his collar. "I'm sure it can be fixed."

"Before tomorrow though?"

Sherlock looked so distressed that Mycroft swallowed his discomfort and gestured for the younger man to sit down again. When Sherlock obeyed, he said, "When's the last time you had an orgasm?"

"Maybe twenty years ago."

"What? When you were fourteen?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You know how I've always regarded the body. Transport."

"Good God."

"Mycroft."

"You mean you never wanked in all that time?" Mycroft glanced toward the closed door, for once relieved that his PA wasn't hovering in the background.

"No. I did try again last week, when I decided that John would be the one, but I just can't make myself come."

"What about wet dreams?"

Sherlock looked confused. "You mean nocturnal emissions?"

Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Trust his younger brother to know the scientific term. "Yes."

"I used to, but not anymore."

A memory pierced Mycroft's consciousness: he was sixteen, and pleasuring himself in bed while a porno magazine he'd stolen from a friend was open on the mattress beside him. Excited by the glossy photos and frustrated by a girlfriend who wouldn't let him past second base, he was coming all over his rapidly moving fist when nine-year-old Sherlock barged into the room, bored and seeking attention. There was no time to cover up, so his younger brother saw everything. Mycroft had shouted and thrown a pillow at him, and Sherlock ran back into the house, crying, "Mummy! Mycroft peed the bed!" The entire fiasco had mortified the elder Holmes at the time, but he'd soon forgotten it…until now.

God, what if I'm the one who put Sherlock off sex?

No, that was impossible. Sherlock had been nine back then, and just admitted that he'd been able to climax at fourteen. But an arid spell had followed, and now the younger Holmes was growing desperate.

"Sherlock, what do you think I can do for you?"

Sherlock flushed again, but his voice was steady. "I want you to show me how to properly get off."