A NICE PLACE TO VISIT
Chapter Five
John lay languid, full of tea and drowse, lengthwise on one of the white sofas in the salon with his head and sock-clad feet propped up on cushions at either end. The cream-colored draperies on the tall arched windows were drawn back to admit the soft grey light filtering through the steady rain falling outside. The trickles and patters of the raindrops were accompanied by the low purr of distant thunder. Sherlock was wandering the room with his violin tucked under his chin, idly sprinkling snippets and strains of melody into the afternoon's symphony. The music was nothing John recognized from what he'd heard of Sherlock's repertoire—a new composition, perhaps, but he was too comfortable and lethargic to ask. He nestled into his cushions and sighed his contentment.
The low crunch of automobile tires on gravel from the front driveway roused him to a slightly more alert state, followed by the thumps of two car doors opening and closing. Shortly afterward, the sounds of Greg and Mycroft chatting and clattering in through the front door moved him to shift a little regretfully to a sitting position. As the pair passed the entrance to the salon, Greg caught sight of John and gave a cheerful wave. John beckoned him in, asking, "What have you gotten up to today, then?"
"Van Gogh museum in Saint-Rémy," Greg announced, pushing up the sleeves of his grey jumper. "What?" he demanded at John's less-than-enthused expression. "It was nice!"
Mycroft trailed in behind Greg with a reluctant, surreptitious look at Sherlock. Sherlock brushed the pair with an assessing glance and smirked knowingly as he turned his attention back to his aimless room-wandering.
"I had my own personal docent," Greg nodded toward Mycroft, who favored him with a quiet smile. "Did you know he only sold one painting while he was alive, Van Gogh?"
"I think I read something about that, yeah," John nodded, noting the way Mycroft's eyes lingered on Greg. Apparently things were going well between the two of them. He wondered what Sherlock had deduced about them in that quick glance. John was reminded that this was the first time the four of them had been back in the same room together since Sherlock's rather horrifying explication of Mycroft's intentions toward Greg. He didn't think Mycroft and Sherlock had even spoken since.
"Makes me sad, you know? His whole story. And so much beautiful work. We read some of his letters to Theo—that's his brother—and they were quite moving, I thought." Greg dropped into an upholstered armchair next to John's sofa and slouched comfortably. "He died shortly after Vincent…how soon was it, Mycroft?"
"Six months," Mycroft said quietly, moving behind Greg's chair.
"Mm," John nodded, pressing a finger over his lips.
"And then it was his wife who eventually got Van Gogh's paintings properly noticed. But that's family for you, right?"
"I suppose so," John grinned at Greg's newfound enthusiasm for both the arts and for family ties, even though his own personal experiences with each had been less inspiring. With his parents dead and his sister all but estranged, the word family mostly meant "something for other people" to him. His army mates had felt like brothers…for a while, until they were gone, too. Sherlock was the closest thing he had now, but the term seemed a pale descriptor for their bond—at least as John experienced it. He'd never spoken much of family in his conversations with Greg in the past, apart from a fairly awkward expression of sympathy when Greg's divorce had been finalized. Had the Detective Inspector wanted children from his marriage? If so, did he still want children with a future partner? John was fairly sure he would have at least given the question due consideration…much as John himself had.
Mycroft made only a mild noncommittal hum in response to the mention of family.
"What about you two?" Greg asked.
"Today? Oh, we've been fairly idle, but it's been good. Relaxing. I could really get used to this, you know?" John stretched contentedly and smiled toward Sherlock, who turned his head and flashed him a hard, almost angry look. Surprised, John let the question show in his eyes, furrowing his brow slightly. What's wrong? Sherlock shook his head and turned away. Later, then, John resolved.
"I've been saying the same thing," Greg grinned.
Sherlock brought his violin to rest on his shoulder and began pacing, prowling, bow poised but not playing.
Mycroft, his expression somber, brushed a speck of something invisible to John from Greg's shoulder. "We particularly enjoyed a production of Tales of Hoffman yesterday evening in Avignon," he murmured, surreptitiously watching his brother from beneath lowered lids.
Sherlock wandered to the far side of the salon, keeping his back negligently to Mycroft and Greg, but his posture seemed more alert than disinterested to John.
John raised his eyebrows theatrically at Greg. "You enjoyed the opera?"
"Just because you're an uncivilized…"
"Philistine?" Mycroft suggested.
"Yeah, philistine…doesn't mean the rest of us are," Greg shot back pompously. "Berk."
John snorted.
"What was that one about it being a beautiful night?" Greg asked with a look up and over his shoulder at Mycroft.
Mycroft's lips twitched. He drifted away from Greg's chair to take a seat at the baby grand piano and played several bars of a pretty melody, vaguely familiar to John. Oh, and apparently Mycroft played the piano. John supposed that shouldn't be a surprise that Sherlock was not the only musically-inclined member of his family. Of course, Sherlock had never mentioned it, just as he had never voluntarily offered any information about his family. John still knew next to nothing about them. His few inquiries had been met with such pained expressions from Sherlock that John now avoided pressing his thumb into that particular bruise.
"That's it!" Greg exclaimed.
"Belle nuit, the Barcarolle," Mycroft looked at Greg fondly. "It was…a beautiful night. I'm very—" Mycroft paused and cleared his throat. "I'm very grateful we had the opportunity to attend the performance."
Mycroft cast a speculative glance at Sherlock, who was frowning vaguely toward a far corner of them room with a wary expression. Mycroft shifted again on the piano bench, slowly returned his attention to the keyboard, and began playing the opening chords of another piece, a light and lilting tune that reminded John of something a beautiful, delicate music box might play.
Sherlock's restless movement stilled. He turned toward Mycroft with the light of recognition in his eyes, and something else John couldn't quite place—something startled, pensive, bittersweet? The look was gone before John could analyze it as Sherlock deliberately blanked his expression.
Mycroft's playing rose, softened, and then seemed almost to hesitate, a tremulous pause before it went into a second round of the piano's melodic line. Sherlock silently fitted his violin into position and began to play along in that pause, closing his eyes, his notes and movements smooth and connected. Both his posture and his face relaxed into the piece at the same time John saw Mycroft's shoulders relax where he sat at the piano.
They played together easily, naturally, piano and violin trading the melody and harmony back and forth, connecting and separating and re-connecting. John blinked, enthralled.
He glanced at Greg, who was sat forward on the edge of his chair with his forehead creased and his lips slightly parted, watching Mycroft's elegant hands flow across the keyboard. No doubt he heard the violin's contribution but he clearly saw only the pianist.
There was a sweetness in this music, an almost lullaby-innocence, alternating and interchanging tentative approaches and wistful retreats. John felt as though he was hearing a very private conversation in a language he did not speak…but then Sherlock and Mycroft always seemed to be speaking in a language all their own. John had thought French was difficult to interpret, but it was nothing compared with Holmes. He could understand the tone, but he would probably never understand the words.
When the piece concluded, Mycroft turned on the bench to look at Sherlock, who during the duet had moved to stand just behind his brother's shoulder. John started to speak, praise for the performance, but the expression on Sherlock's face stopped him. He glanced at Greg, who seemed similarly moved to a respectful silence. Sherlock opened his eyes, and the brothers exchanged a long, unfathomable look.
"The Fauré?" asked Mycroft quietly. Sherlock made no response other than to adjust his shirt collar against the chinrest and ready his violin again. Mycroft turned back to the piano and they began to play as one. John realized he was clutching a throw cushion and that he'd been holding his breath for some reason, and he heard a long inhale from where Greg sat, as well.
The second work, the Fauré apparently, was shorter than their first but no less beautiful. To John's ears, violin and piano had sounded very evenly matched in the previous composition, but this piece showcased Sherlock's talents. Mycroft's gentle chords and arpeggios provided a steady support for the violin's sometimes soaring, sometimes frenetic melody. Still, there was a give and take within the music, the occasional reminder from the piano that it could have the melody if it so chose.
They were in a private sitting room with two men whose chosen occupations had nothing to do with music, but John doubted he could have heard a more well-meshed or beautiful performance of either of these pieces by professionals in a formal concert hall. There did exist the faint possibility that he was biased, mesmerized as he was by Sherlock's lithe, swaying form and the echoes of his music in the expressions on his face as he played. Sherlock, when he was truly engaged by what he was doing, displayed a breathtaking intensity that John knew he would never tire of watching.
At the end of this piece, John could not withhold his exhilaration, breaking into a wide grin as he and Greg applauded enthusiastically. Sherlock faced his small but rapt audience, swept a deep bow, and sent an entirely immodest smile in John's direction.
"That was fantastic," John proclaimed, practically vibrating with pride.
Mycroft, who apparently was not entirely immune to praise himself, turned with a remarkably similar smile directed at Greg. Greg's eyes were large and shining with unabashed admiration.
"Really, really beautiful," Greg agreed.
"I'm not sure which one of you to snog first, to be honest," John teased. Mycroft gave him a disturbed grimace and Sherlock gave him a ferocious glare in response. John beamed his satisfaction at these results at both of them.
"Back off," growled Greg with humor as he pointed at Mycroft. "That one's mine." Mycroft's eyes snapped to Greg's in surprise and he ducked his head quickly, but not before John saw him flush pink. So…things were going very well between them. John supposed, with a helplessly adoring look at Sherlock, that madder things had happened. They were all a bit mad, weren't they? Like called to like.
"Is there more, then?" John asked.
Mycroft glanced uncertainly toward Sherlock. "We may have learned a few more pieces together."
Sherlock shrugged and much to John's surprise volunteered, "Our mother made Mycroft…made us practice duets sometimes when we were boys."
"Sherlock hated it," Mycroft said matter-of-factly.
"The Dvořák Romance—the first one—was one I liked, though," Sherlock admitted.
"Yes," said Mycroft quietly, "I remember."
"So…" John looked back and forth between them. "That's sorted. You'll play some more."
"That's got my vote," Greg agreed.
"We're not performing monkeys, John," Sherlock huffed, but he did not look significantly put out. In fact, both brothers were looking pleased with themselves.
"Yes, you are. Tonight, you are," John asserted confidently. "Oh, I know!" In a burst of inspiration he leapt up and moved forward to grab Sherlock's left arm, twisting it to check the time on his watch. "Tea should be out. Let's bring it in here!"
Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged another inscrutable glance, and Mycroft sighed his resignation. "Of course," he said. "I'll ring—"
"Oh, for fuck's sake," John interrupted, "it's just in the next room. I'll go fetch a tray." He marched toward the door to the hallway before anyone could attempt further denial of his brilliant plan.
"Bring…bring back some of the madeleines, would you?" Mycroft called after him. He blinked at Greg and explained, gravely, "They're quite lemony."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Mycroft. John cringed, fearing an impending lash of inappropriate humor directed toward Mycroft's diet, but Sherlock only offered mildly, "Yesterday there were tartes croustillantes aux pistache et cerise."
Mycroft made a quite undignified yummy noise, and John and Greg both snickered. "All right," John said, "what does this crusty tart thing look like? I'll see if Gerard put any out again today."
Sherlock moved toward John. "I'll come—"
"No, you'll stay. Keep your…fingers warm, or whatever musicians do. Greg can help. Come on, Greg, I expect you're in fact a bit of an expert on crusty tarts, aren't you?"
"I've sampled my fair share," Greg allowed, with an absurd leer.
Sherlock and Mycroft sighed identical, long-suffering sighs as John and Greg, giggling like idiots, exited in the direction of the dining room.
They stood together, waiting side by side in well-practiced silence.
"You know this changes nothing between us, Mycroft," Sherlock said after several stretched minutes.
Mycroft looked sideways at the proud angle of Sherlock's profile and smiled to himself. "I know, Sherlock. And…well-played."
Sherlock smiled to himself as well. "You, too."
xxx
After several hours of intermingled violin and piano performances and a great deal of tea and nibbles, Greg had lured Mycroft away to a softly-lit covered patio at the side of the house for some private time. The misting rain and the trees whispered secrets to each other in the cool darkness beyond the edge of the lamplight. He had brought a plate with a few madeleines and the last remaining pistachio-cherry cake from tea, offering them as a reward for the performance. In truth he had discovered he just liked watching the way Mycroft savored delicious things. The face he made…
And so Greg leaned over Mycroft's feet, propped up in his lap as he semi-reclined on the cushioned outdoor sofa, and helped himself to a madeleine as he watched Mycroft sucking powdered sugar from the tips of his fingers. Mycroft's eyes were closed and he wore a small, blissful smile of satisfaction. "I recognize that expression, now, you know," Greg said around a particularly lemony mouthful of cake.
Mycroft opened his eyes halfway and slid a mischievous look at Greg. "That is because I also find you to be delectable."
Even if the soft light, Greg could tell his cheeks had flushed slightly. Greg had started to notice Mycroft blushed after every foray into flirtation and thought it wise—not to mention fun—to reward each attempt. He squeezed one of Mycroft's feet, pressing his thumbs into the knit of his dark grey sock to massage the sole. Mycroft hummed and wriggled his toes.
"Your socks are dull," noted Greg.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Greg's audacity in offering insult to his attire, but replied simply, "I'm a dull man."
"And I'm Posh Spice. Stop squirming." He squeezed the ball of Mycroft's foot into his palm.
Mycroft relaxed into Greg's ministrations, closing his eyes again. "You have wonderful hands," he sighed contentedly.
"You're the one with the talented hands."
"You really liked the piano?" Mycroft opened his eyes, perking up hopefully. "Or...oh. Do you mean…the other…way I…use my hands?"
"Both. Definitely both." He grinned at the bright spots of color now tinting Mycroft's cheeks. "I didn't know you played so well. But you would, wouldn't you? Other foot."
"So you did enjoy it? You weren't just…being kind?"
"Other foot. Or you'll be lopsided."
Mycroft dutifully switched the cross of his long legs to offer Greg more comfortable access to his other foot.
"I was…proud of you," Greg shrugged with his eyes directed down toward Mycroft's feet. Even his feet seemed elegant, in their conservative dark socks. He wasn't sure he had a right to feel proud of Mycroft yet. He hoped he didn't take it as an insult, but when Greg looked at his face again he was surprised to see that Mycroft looked almost euphoric. He felt his own cheeks warm with pleasure. "All right, that's sorted. I'm adding that to my list."
"Adding what to your list of what?"
Greg wrapped his fingers around Mycroft's ankle. "Piano playing. To my list of things for you to do for me. Just for me. Private performance."
"Oh, I see. How fortunate for you, then, that I live to serve. And what other tasks might be on this list?"
"Well." Greg drawled the word. He slid his hand under Mycroft's trouser leg to squeeze his calf. "Now that you've offered to, you could cook me a proper meal, ideally with a steak." Mycroft's lips quirked. "And…the rest are indecent. Do you want to hear them?" he asked hopefully.
"Upstairs?" Mycroft chuckled. "I'd be delighted."
"That would be the goal." Greg planned to get Mycroft out of those sexy silk pyjamas tonight. He was going to continue his massage, properly. He was going to find all the freckles. He was going to see if he could still give a really good blow job. He was going to see how pink Mycroft would turn when he told him in graphic detail what he wanted to do with him. And all the things he wanted Mycroft to do with his fingers. "Come here," he demanded, reaching for Mycroft's hands, because right now he had to kiss him.
Mycroft shifted his feet off Greg's lap and allowed himself to be pulled into a sitting position, meeting Greg in the middle of the sofa. He tasted as good as ever when Greg kissed him—this time like tea and cherries. Sod wine tasting. Mycroft tasting was really much more fun, and Greg thought it was probably equally intoxicating. God, I am in trouble here. Real trouble. He pulled Mycroft in closer, putting his passion and fear and wonder into another kiss.
"Do you know," Mycroft panted when Greg finally loosened his hold on the man, "I think I've just started my own list."
"Have you now? I can't wait to hear."
"Greg. Upstairs."
"Yeah, good." Greg scooted to the edge of the sofa. "Upstairs sounds very good."
"I'm not sure how much of these lists we can accommodate during the remainder of our visit here," Mycroft said, pausing before standing and curling his fingers around Greg's, "but I'm certainly willing to give the effort my full attention."
Greg brought their joined hands to his mouth and kissed the backs of those fingers. Flirtation acknowledged and rewarded. "Well, mine is a very long list. And growing. Lucky we don't have to finish it off here, though. There's plenty of time when we get back to London."
It was just a flicker. Just for a moment. Just a ghost. Something he doubted anyone else would have noticed. Mycroft's features did not alter their expression at all, but suddenly his eyes were different…as though a stranger had moved behind them. "Isn't there…Mycroft?" A damp, chill breeze washed against the back of Greg's neck. "Plenty of time. When we get back to London."
Mycroft lowered his head.
"Mycroft?"
xxx
With the salon theirs again, John pulled Sherlock against him on the sofa, shifting and maneuvering him so the sharper angles of Sherlock's lean form rested a little more comfortably against his own more solid frame. Sherlock allowed himself to be positioned and then relaxed into John's arms. "This afternoon was lovely, you know," John said into the mass of curls now at his shoulder. "So…what was that really all about?"
"It's called music. You've heard it before—I've done my best to ensure it."
"What was that all about with Mycroft?"
Sherlock, electing as he so often did to remain verbally unresponsive, squirmed against him and John repositioned them both so Sherlock's back rested flush against his chest. John ran his fingers soothingly across Sherlock's temples, into his hair. "All right. Let's try another question, then. What was that look you gave me earlier?"
"What look?"
"Come on. Is something wrong? You've been different here. And now I'm getting looks."
"I look at you a lot. You'll have to be more specific."
"Stupid doesn't suit you, Sherlock. Why does this always have to be so difficult? Just tell me."
Sherlock did not respond, but John felt the tension in his body and petted him again.
"Please."
Sherlock sighed and twisted his head around so he could look up at John, perplexed. "Why does that word work for you but not for me?"
"Because I mean it."
Sherlock settled his chin back on his chest. Silently.
"Sherlock," John said sternly. Brother stuff was one thing. If Sherlock wanted to keep that to himself, John would not press for more. This look was another matter entirely. Something was going on in that funny old head of his, as Mrs. Hudson would call it, and it was important to drag it out before it grew tentacles.
"Fine," Sherlock said a little too sharply, thrusting himself to a standing position. He put his hands on his hips and looked down at John with grim determination. "You said you could get used to this."
John wriggled into an upright position on the sofa. "Yeah. What's wrong with that?"
"You like it here."
John looked around at the large, comfortable room, and fancied for a moment he could still hear beautiful music echoing off the walls. "Of course I like it here. Who wouldn't like it here? You like it here." Attempting to fathom Sherlock's emotions so often made him feel as though he'd been issued a rubber duck and then instructed to go deep sea diving.
"No, John. You like it here."
John squinted up at Sherlock as he tried to interpret the subtext of the conversation…or even the text. "I'm…going to need a little more than that, Sherlock."
Sherlock looked at the floor. "You said you like me like this."
John struggled with recollection. "You mean…at the pool? I like you…relaxed and happy and sex-crazed? Christ, Sherlock, of course I like you like that. Or at least I thought you were relaxed and happy." He deflated a little. "I thought you were having a nice time, too. You said you weren't bored."
Sherlock just looked at him.
John sighed as the specifics of the conversation came back to him. "No. You didn't say that, did you? Sherlock…we can go back home, if you're bored." John couldn't keep the disappointment out of his voice. He was well aware that his frequently manic-minded, London-to-the-bone detective was not meant to while away his time lounging about the French countryside, but he'd hoped that for a few days Sherlock might enjoy John's company just for itself….
"No. You're missing the point," said Sherlock flatly, jaw tightening in frustration. "It's not about being bored."
John shrugged helplessly. "Then what is the point?"
Sherlock scowled and began shifting his weight from foot to foot, a dance of impatience. "I can't be like that all the time." He pointed in the vague direction of the pool.
"Yes…I know that. But this is a holiday, I don't expect—"
"But you obviously wish I could be." Sherlock's voice was pinched. "Could be…more."
"More?"
"More, yes, more."
"How could you be more?" John blinked, bewildered. "You're…" Everything. What does that make me?
Then realization struck, and John stared open-mouthed at Sherlock.
"Hang on. Are you saying…you...you…bloody…force of nature, you think you're not enough for me?" He huffed a disbelieving laugh. "My God. You…complete fucking idiot."
"You like it here. You like me like this. You could get used to this," he lobbed the evidence of John's words back at him. "I'm not the one who said it."
"I see." John nodded slowly. He had dealt with his fair share—more than his fair share—of his temperamental, frequently childish partner's carryings-on. Maybe a better man wouldn't have enjoyed it as much as John did, even through his frustration, enjoyed the attention, enjoyed being the one Sherlock carried on about and with. He was usually able to meet any wobblies thrown with patience and humor, but right now what he was feeling was the complete opposite of patience and humor. "Sherlock, come with me."
John stood and led his complete fucking idiot by the hand from the room.
xxx
Mycroft pulled his hand free from Greg's and rose slowly to his feet. "I had hoped to delay this conversation at least a few more days," he sighed.
"What conversation?" The chill Greg felt on his neck moved into his hands as Mycroft looked down at him with eyes now cooled of their ardor, as though the curtains had been drawn in a sunny room. He mustn't jump to conclusions. It must be something about his work. Yes, that's all it was. Did Mycroft have to…go away? Do something dangerous? Greg bristled protectively, even though he knew perfectly well—or at least strongly suspected—both possibilities were a regular part of Mycroft's life. "What's wrong? Can I help?"
Mycroft flinched, then took a deep breath and drew his shoulders back, standing very straight. He looked like he was about to present a speech. "The time we have spent here has been a…a wonderful interlude."
"A wonderful interlude?" Greg rubbed his hands on his trouser legs to warm them as he considered the descriptor. "Yeah, all right?"
Mycroft's turned his head toward the garden to watch the silver needles of rain falling on the edge of the darkness beyond the glow of their patio lights. "Greg, you must realize that we cannot continue in this manner when we return to London."
"What? No, I don't realize that. In what manner?"
"I have tried to make the most of our time here—for both of us" Mycroft continued carefully, "but I do not wish to mislead you…or perhaps mislead you further than I already have done…into thinking it can be more than just that: a wonderful interlude."
"Mislead me?" Greg felt like his chest had filled with ice water. What the hell was happening? There had just been music and cakes and kisses. He could still taste lemon and cherry-flavored Mycroft in his mouth. He could still feel the texture of Mycroft's socks on his fingertips. They were supposed to go upstairs. They were going to be friends and lovers now. Together. That was Mycroft's idea. Mycroft had brought him here. He hadn't imagined all that. "Is this how your seduction plan was meant to end all along? Use me and…drop me? Is that what's happening here?"
Mycroft frowned, his gaze looking increasingly brittle. "You misunderstand me."
Greg swallowed down his instincts. Adrenaline was sending spiders crawling down his forearms. He stood so he could face Mycroft eye to eye. "All right. I hope I do. Tell me…please tell me what you want."
"My…admiration for you is sincere. Of course I would like to see you again. If that's what you want. I'm sure we can make arrangements—"
"Arrangements. If that's what I want? You mean like your other arrangements?" he said quietly.
Mycroft's mask slipped. His face was very pale. "When we began our…association…I never expected…I never dreamt it would go so far, so quickly. But when we return to London, I will not be the man you know here. He will no longer exist."
"What the fuck does that mean?"
Mycroft raised his chin. "When we leave this villa I have nothing to offer you in terms of…a relationship. It's for the best that you understand that now. This affair cannot continue. It will not continue."
God, this was all too familiar. He'd tried so hard to do right by his marriage. He wasn't in love any more, but he'd made a vow, for Christ's sake. And now…now he was falling in love. He thought he was. Had been. But it was just him again, wasn't it? Here he was about to repeat the same sad, desperate lines, because what else were you meant to do? "Mycroft, listen to me. Please. Whatever's putting you off, we…we can work it out, yeah?" Greg impulsively gripped Mycroft's shoulders, squeezed them, tried to draw him in. If he could just hold him, surely he would stop talking rubbish. Surely he would feel how good they were together.
"Stop it," Mycroft hissed, pulling away. Greg dropped his hands, stung. "Don't grovel. This is difficult enough as it is."
"This is difficult?" Greg's voice cracked humiliatingly and his empty hands curled into fists. "You fucking…you cold…bastard…you…fuck you!"
Mycroft's posture relaxed as if he'd been welcomed home.
When Greg walked away, Mycroft did not call him back.
xxx
Sometimes, John had learned early on, you had to be firm with a Holmes.
John arched backward, pressing into the slow, panting, humid, open-mouthed kisses Sherlock was smearing across the back of his shoulders and neck. He felt full and sensitive and raw. This wasn't a variation they practiced often, Sherlock inside him. It still felt thrilling and very new—almost dangerous—but any feelings of vulnerability he may have had were swept away by the strange, ardent physical tenderness Sherlock offered him every time they made love this way. John felt worshipped. Maybe that's exactly what it was. It was never spoken aloud, but could be no more evident in the careful way Sherlock moved inside John, huddled protectively over his back, all his concentration focused on balancing his own rough-edged need with John's pleasure. Even without the intense physical sensations, that glimpse alone of Sherlock's steadfast effort at self-control, the knowledge that he mattered this much to Sherlock, made the act something bordering on transcendent for John.
The first time they had tried it, Sherlock lost his erection entirely. The next two times, Sherlock hadn't lasted more than thirty seconds, the sensations had been so intense. Finally, when they made it last, the first time John came with Sherlock inside him, with the morning sun warming their bed and Sherlock's hand wrapped around his cock, he came so hard he legitimately though he may have burst a blood vessel. Sherlock had glowed with almost insufferable pride for days. The time after that, John's brightly blissful comment afterward about how much he wished he'd been doing this for years had set Sherlock off on a tight-mouthed, door-slamming, couch-flopping sulk that lasted well into the evening before John worked out what the issue was. He crawled into bed that night and smoothed his hand down Sherlock's sullenly-presented back, "I meant doing this for years with you, you idiot. Only with you."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Sherlock answered tightly, but when John turned out the bedside lamp, Sherlock had rolled over, kissed his ear, snuggled against him, and gone right to sleep—and that was the end of that tantrum.
Now, Sherlock curled around John like a starfish latched onto on a rock, his breath sounding more and more like a freight train as he struggled to control the depth and speed of his thrusts. John turned his head to the side as far as he could, seeking Sherlock's kiss. Their lips met sloppily, eagerly, and Sherlock shifted his body with caution and care, balancing his weight on one arm so he could hold his hand lightly, ever so gently, at the base of John's throat.
"John," he breathed. It was the only word Sherlock ever said when he was inside John—when he said anything at all—but John heard every intended meaning in it. He pressed his hips up and back in answer and Sherlock made a despairing sound.
John reached up to bury his fingers in Sherlock's hair, pulling his head down. "Sherlock. Stop."
Sherlock stilled, trembling, sweating, waiting.
"Here's what's going to happen next. When I say, you're going to move again. And I'm going to tell you, until I run out of breath or coherent thought, how much I love you, because as mind-bogglingly arrogant as you are, you seem to need to hear it a little more." Sherlock's breath was fast and heavy on the side of John's neck. "Do you understand?"
After a beat, he felt Sherlock's head nod in affirmation under his hand. John felt a shudder run through Sherlock's body and smiled. He took his hand from Sherlock's hair and clutched a handful of the bed sheet instead. He summoned his best Captain's voice, low and firm.
"Now move."
Sherlock snarled as he surrendered his self-control to John.
xxx
The rain had cleared during the night, and the downstairs hallway was washed in the soft light of early morning as John made his way, rumpled and barefoot, from the dining room back toward his and Sherlock's bedroom with two steaming mugs of tea.
He met Greg at the foot of the wide, arcing staircase. He was dressed in what John thought of as his "inspector uniform"—dark trousers, navy blazer, white and blue checked button-up—and wheeling a large suitcase behind him. His shoulders slumped. His face was pasty and tense.
"Where are you going?"
"Home."
John frowned, craning his neck a little to look out the window at the entrance of the house. He could only see a sliver of the front garden from where he stood, but that sliver included the bonnet of one of Mycroft's cars and the long legs of the driver. "With Mycroft?"
"No," Greg said quietly. "Alone."
xxx
Mycroft and Sherlock's first duet is Dvořák's Romance for violin and piano, Op. 11
Their second duet is Fauré's Romance for violin and piano, Op. 28
Enjoy! :D
xxx