Sherlock could smell his brother's arousal. It made him feel rather ill. A lot of the smells around London made him feel rather ill these days. But the one that really made him gag was Eau de Mycroft. He had only just got home. He slipped in through the door at the back of the house. The tradesman's entrance if you liked. The night air was cool. Dark. The city smelt quite clean really. The recent rain had seen to that. The rain that Sherlock had let wash over him as he crouched on the rooftop of the hospital. Watching. Waiting.
The smell hit him as soon as he got into the hallway. The unmistakable, sweet, cakey aroma of his big brother shagging Detective Inspector Gregory LeStrade. In the antique bed that had once belonged to their Grandmother. It was obscene. The pair of them were like teenagers. Every spare moment of every day was spent bonking. Sherlock really wished they had more self- control. And of course now he could hear them, now he knew, he would hear nothing else. He had taken to sleeping wearing headphones, playing music to drown them out. The sound of metal fatigued bedsprings. The sound of flesh on flesh. Teeth scraping skin. Biting. Sucking. The breathless sounds of orgasm. And then ten minutes later they would start over.
It was bad enough having to listen to it. Without having to smell it. Without having to have his nostrils violated. He could feel the rage building. He had been so angry. Angry at Mycroft. Angry at the world. Angry at everything in it. Inside he could feel the burning.
The same burning he felt as he sat on the rooftop, crouched like a Notre Dame Gargoyle as the water spouted across his shoulders. Feeling like stone as he looked down at the small figure, creeping in to the hospital, unnoticed by a world that didn't care. Even with the torrent of rain and the smell of the damp city, Sherlock could still smell John. His John. Although now the scent was faded. Like the perfume ghost of a flower pressed between the pages of a book. A memory.
The bedroom door didn't stand a chance. Mycroft rolled his eyes as Sherlock burst into the room. Beneath him Greg was writhing about, on the very brink of Orgasm. Mycroft continued his thrusting. Just a few more seconds. That was all he needed. A few more. And then.
"Mycroft!"
Mycroft went cross eyed as Greg clamped tight around him. His own Orgasm burst out of him. He could almost feel his heart pounding.
"That's disgusting." Sherlock glared at his cross eyed brother. Mycroft took a moment to focus.
"I do wish you learn to knock."
"I do wish you'd learn to be quiet instead of whimpering like a bitch in heat."
Mycroft left the bed and walked towards his brother.
"When did you last eat Sherlock?"
"I don't need to eat!"
"I think you do. When will you learn things are not as they were?"
"When will you let me die?"
"Sherlock!"
"I followed John today."
"We talked about that. You can't do that. It's too dangerous. You could be seen."
"He stood at my grave and begged me not to be dead. He begged me for one last miracle. But he doesn't mean it. He won't want this. Not like this."
"You might be surprised. Drink this."
Sherlock became aware that his brother had steered him to his own room and placed a glass of blood in his hand. Only Mycroft would serve blood in Louis the Fourteenth Crystal. He sipped, reluctantly acknowledging that it made him feel better. For the moment. But he knew deep down, only John Watson had the cure.