Mycroft was so stunned that Irene pushed him off easily. He didn't even flinch when she tugged his blindfold away.
At any other time, he would have paused to admire the bathroom's unique and sensual decor. Crimson tiles covered the heated floor, the shower curtain was plush and red, and black wallpaper made the gilded mirror frame and brass light fixtures gleam more brightly. Even the sink was scarlet marble streaked with onyx. The white antique bathtub and toilet were the sole exceptions to the hot-blooded color scheme.
Right now, however, all his attention was on his brother.
Sherlock knelt to Mycroft's left, palms resting on his bony knees and watching him with mingled fascination and concern. He was also gagged, but with a red scarf that contrasted sharply with his white skin. He wore a gray silk shirt similar in style to the purple one that made a lot of people go weak in the knees, and black slacks. Unlike Mycroft, he wasn't collared or cuffed, but his posture indicated complete submission to the woman who watched them with obvious delight.
"Technically he's not a sub," Irene said. "He's here to learn self-control and responsibility. Isn't that right, Sherlock?"
Sherlock nodded and lowered his eyes. The visual contact broken, Mycroft turned to the woman who'd engaged him so skillfully.
Irene was short and slender but, like Sherlock, she thrummed with a formidable energy that made physical bulk redundant. Long, dark hair complemented her milky complexion, and a black leather bustier and trousers clung to her petite yet curvy figure like a second skin. She wasn't classically beautiful: her chin was narrow and her nose a trifle long, but her coy sexuality and unabashed confidence made her more attractive (to Mycroft, anyway) than any manufactured beauty.
"Well, this has been fun indeed, and I know Mr. Lestrade is looking forward to tomorrow morning." Irene sat up, unbuckled the strap-on's harness, and tossed the entire contraption aside. Mycroft stared at the drying semen in her hair and all over her throat and bustier. She followed his gaze and tutted.
"Look at the mess you made- and this is a Gauthier original too. Sherlock, if you would be so kind?"
Sherlock stood, went to the sink, and wet a deep red facecloth. Then he knelt beside Irene and slowly, reverently, wiped away his brother's release.
Mycroft's eyes itched; he'd been staring without blinking. He'd never seen his headstrong younger sibling apply such care during a task. Mummy always used to say that if anyone could burn water, it was Sherlock. Yet here he was, practically worshipping Irene with his gentle touch.
He touched me too, and not to shove or punch me. Mycroft's nipples throbbed at the memory. No wonder he hadn't immediately recognized his own brother's hands; they hadn't touched each other kindly since their childhood. He was also naked in Sherlock's presence for the first time since they grew too old for the nannies to bathe them together. He should feel anxious and exposed. So why didn't he?
Is this what New Roissy was? A place where old boundaries, hostilities, and fears dissolved?
Irene watched him closely. "It's been awhile, hasn't it, since you had any non-hostile physical contact. No, don't answer. It wasn't a question." She sucked her blood-red lower lip between her teeth. "Hmmm. Gives me an idea."
She looked up at the ceiling. Mycroft followed her line of vision and saw a camera secured to the overhead light. After flashing a signal at it, Irene stood and regarded both brothers with her hands on her hips. "Mycroft, you're sweaty from our little romp. Sherlock, clean him up."
As Sherlock crawled over to him, Mycroft felt like saying, "You're more appealing when you aren't so high and mighty." Then it hit him: they were both gagged for a reason. Deprived of the ability to goad each other with diet jokes or scolding, their interactions were neutral, if not pleasant. If Gregory was behind this, he was a damned genius.
Mycroft tried to hold still as Sherlock gently cleaned him with a gloriously warm cloth, but he couldn't stop shivering, and he became hard again. Irene watched silently until Sherlock was done, then sighed dramatically.
"Not bad, but not perfect either. And you know what that means, Sherlock."
He tensed; obviously he did. Irene bent toward Mycroft and unfastened the snaps that secured his cuffs to his collar. She tossed a towel across the lowered toilet seat and ordered him to sit on it. He was equal parts confused and curious as he obeyed, but Irene's next words caused his heart rate to spike.
"Sherlock- trousers down and over his lap. Now."