Mycroft kisses like he knows precisely what he wants and exactly how to get it. Or exactly how much he can take before anyone thinks to protest. Though he always resists the urge to make it obvious. He never lets his hands tighten in John's hair, never gives in to the urge to pull. He probably considers it unseemly. John sort of likes pushing though, just in case it's only a matter of restraint and the right enthusiasm, fingers caught in the overly tidy hair at the back of Mycroft's neck, shoving it all the wrong way.
The expensive suit unbuttons just like a cheap one.
But then Mycroft isn't kissing him any more and there's a tension to him that John can read without any of the deductive powers either of the Holmes' possess. It's a familiar sort of tension, and there's really only one person who can do that so quickly.
John turns around.
"Oh, don't stop on my account," Sherlock says smoothly, from where he's leant against the door frame.
John's exhale comes out irritated but not surprised. He stops unbuttoning Mycroft's waistcoat and lets his hand drop, because now it's weird.
"I thought you were investigating a disturbance - you were going to prove it wasn't ghosts or something."
"The place burnt down," Sherlock's voice is flat, petulant, but his attention on them both is sharp and focused.
"How terribly convenient," Mycroft says, and it sounds both casual and pointed at the same time. He's now seated carefully and dramatically on John's bed, with one leg folded over the other, looking completely unconcerned at having his brother in the room.
"I didn't burn it down, or in any way cause it to burn down," Sherlock adds, with a roll of his eyes.
"It's Thursday," John says.
Sherlock frowns. "I'm aware of that."
He takes a step into the room, drops onto the end of the bed.
"I'm also aware that it's Mycroft's turn."
"Congratulations on making it sound distasteful," Mycroft offers.
Sherlock ignores him. "I was bored."
"So you thought you'd return and observe?" Mycroft makes the word sound quaint and amusing.
Sherlock ignores that as well with the skill of someone who's become very good at ignoring things he doesn't want to listen to. Instead he levels an unhappy look at John. "I thought you left precise scheduling behind when you left the army."
John restrains himself from reacting to Sherlock's prodding, because that way madness and frustration lies. "This was your idea if I remember rightly."
Sherlock huffs. "It was my idea, though I'm still not entirely convinced it wasn't originally his idea."
Mycroft gets one of Sherlock's best glares.
"Sherlock, if you spent more time having sex with him and less time protesting how distasteful and human and beneath you it was, you might find yourself less irritable."
John sighs loud enough for them both to hear.
Which does absolutely nothing.
Sherlock twists on the bed, legs gathered under him and moves close enough to settle against John's back, hands sliding down John's bare arms like he fully intends to...oh.
John's intention to be annoyed rather than confusingly aroused is destroyed when Sherlock lifts his hand and tucks his fingers back under the edge of Mycroft's waistcoat, in a way which can't be misconstrued as anything but encouragement to continue.
"Far be it from me to stop you both," he says firmly. It almost feels like a dare.
John wonders if he should point out how this is ever so slightly wrong. But then if he's noticed then the both of them almost certainly have. What with being related and everything. Hence the wrongness.
He really wasn't prepared for a threesome tonight.
But no one else seems to be objecting.
John can't be the only one in the room who thinks this is odd?
"Oh, I don't think you mind at all, John," Mycroft says slowly, with only the barest of glances in his direction.
John sort of hates the fact that he really doesn't. Mycroft's shirt is warm against the back of his knuckles, which is distracting. It's probably not a good idea to be distracted right now.
"I would kind of liked to be asked whether I mind or not," John says firmly. Because learning things about yourself when you're still making up your mind about them never stops being disconcerting. "In the interests of fairness."
Mycroft does a perfect impression of someone looking chastened.
"Of course, my apologies."
Sherlock's hands fold round his arms, warm and a fraction too tight.
"John, do you object?" he asks tonelessly.
"I hate you both," John says quietly. But his fingers very slowly start to ease the buttons on Mycroft's waistcoat free again, slower this time, because Sherlock's watching him now. Sherlock's watching him and he's not entirely sure how far this is going to go.
Apparently he's still moving too slowly for Sherlock, who reaches over his shoulder and flicks the last two buttons open himself.
He leaves John to push it back over Mycroft's shoulders while he jerks John's shirt out of his jeans in impatient snatches, until he can lay his hands on skin.
"Don't be so greedy, Sherlock, it's polite to have some manners in the bedroom after all." Mycroft tuts like he's disappointed.
"I've also heard it's polite to stay afterwards, but that seems to be a lesson you've never quite mastered."
John can feel the vibration from Sherlock's voice through his back.
"Are you lecturing me on post-coital manners, Sherlock, really?"
"I would have thought you'd know -"
John mutters a half curse under his breath and reaches up behind him, tangling a hand in Sherlock's hair and refocusing his attention. There's an amused laugh against the back of his neck and then the press of teeth.
Sherlock and Mycroft manage to work together long enough to make a successful attempt to take John's clothes off. Which he suspects is not fair at all. He can tell the difference between their hands easily enough. Sherlock's are long and sharp and restless. Mycroft's are larger, steady and precise. Sherlock's are the ones who always skip ahead.
But John refuses to be the only one who's losing his clothes.
He gives Mycroft the option of either getting undressed or losing a great deal of his buttons.
No one can undress graceful lying down.
No one except Mycroft.
John can't decide whether it came naturally or whether he practised in front of a mirror.
Judging by the irritated muttering into his hair and the removal of hands from his waist Sherlock is taking the hint as well.
"Sherlock of course is still technically floundering his way through this. He might need some help."
"I do not need help," Sherlock hisses from behind him. "John, however, is a doctor if you should need any help."
John slides a leg over one of Mycroft’s thighs, shifts forward until he's effectively in his lap, more than confident that his weight isn't going to bother him. He doesn't miss the sharp intake of breath, the quick catch of hands that seem compelled to hold him exactly where he's put himself. John considers the dig of perfectly neat nails into his skin a minor victory.
Sherlock slides into him again, all smooth planes and nakedness that John can't help instinctively shifting back into. One arm curling back to find the narrow curve of his waist.
Mycroft's fingers dig in, a protest, possessive.
John thinks that it's here - right here. The tipping point. Sherlock and Mycroft will either share or they'll continue their antagonistic push and pull until something snaps.
John can feel the tension draw quietly taut.
"Stop fighting," he hisses.
"You like it when we fight," Sherlock mutters against his neck, all warm breath and sharp teeth.
"You'd quite like it if we fought more obviously," Mycroft offers, and his eyebrow twitches up in a way John wishes he could read.
"Or perhaps in a slightly different way," Sherlock offers, like he's not suggesting anything remotely scandalous.
"Shut up," John says tersely, because there are fantasies and there are half thought about things that you may or may not want to admit to.
Certainly not in the company of both of your lovers.
Who also happened to be brothers.
When did his life become this? How does it even work? He's not prepared for this. The army was supposed to prepare you for everything.
This wasn't mentioned anywhere in its brochure.
"You have porn featuring twins, it's the same thing," Sherlock says.
"Really, there's more of a masturbatory flavour with twins, surely?" Mycroft sounds for all the world like he's pondering the idea.
John decides that's quite enough because the very last thing he wants is them teaming up on him. He digs in with his thighs and Mycroft's amusement turns into a shake of breath and a noise that seems inclined to return to more pressing matters if John really insists.
Sherlock laughs again, like he approves of John's sudden impatience too. His hands slip from John to his brother's waist and he pushes until Mycroft's back hits the sheets.
Mycroft grunts inelegantly at the force of it and then glares. Like physical force is in some way cheating in the complex labyrinth of rules they've made up concerning their rivalry.
John folds over and kisses him before he can complain any further. There's a moment of evasive muttering and then a sigh. And John decides there's more than a little sliver of satisfaction in getting Mycroft to surrender, however briefly.
Sherlock's fingers spread on his back, then drift lower, meander their way downwards with intent.
"Lubricant," he says,
John groans and gently digs his teeth into Mycroft's throat. Because the fact that they're actually going to have sex while in the same room hadn't quite sunk in until now. This is probably still a bad idea but John wants it, wants it in a way he'd probably feel guilty about if either of them gave him time to.
"Second drawer," Mycroft offers, voice just a little more breathy than before.
"I know where it is," Sherlock says irritably. "It's my drawer."
"It's actually my drawer," John points out and then he leans forward far enough to tug said drawer open. Mycroft holds his weight and Sherlock unhelpfully leans on the back of him and steals the tube before he has a chance to do anything with it.
"It has my stuff in it," Sherlock offers around the snap of plastic.
"Because you never sleep in your own room," John points out.
"Do you always let him have everything he wants, John? You really shouldn’t encourage him."
"Actually I'm marvelling at your selfishness." Mycroft shakes his head ever so slightly and John can tell without looking that Sherlock is glaring, or frowning, or both.
John's half expecting them to fight over who gets to have sex with him. They fight about everything else and he was insane enough to ever get in the middle of them without literally being in the middle of them.
But then Sherlock has fingers inside him, long, slippery, devilish fingers that make John's hands catch in the sheets and he stops thinking altogether.
Mycroft's hands slide up his thighs, dig in and hold him still so he can watch Sherlock open him up and take him apart with all the patience of a saint - though he knows Mycroft is anything but.
But the lower his noises go the higher Mycroft's hands go, until they're touching him in ways which can't be considered patient any longer.
There's no hope of words at all then, there's just a low burn of sensation that quietly cracks any self control he's managed to learn in the last twenty odd years. John's arousal is just weight and urgency in a way that's maddening and delicious at the same time.
This is unfair, how is he supposed to compete with the both of them?
No one deserves the both of them working together.
He shuts his eyes and just feels it, until he's more than ready for someone inside him, twitching and impatient and not above pushing back into the long curve of Sherlock's body.
"Up," Sherlock says, sudden and sharp.
John obeys, without really think about it.
Mycroft hisses like he's not expecting the quick, slippery slide of his brothers hand around him and then John's hips are caught in long fingers and tilted and drawn back and down -
"Christ," John's fingers go white where they rest as the slow sink of his body pushes him down onto Mycroft's cock.
He manages a strangled mess of consonants that doesn’t even come close to making a word and then digs his fingers into skin that belongs to someone.
Mycroft's eyes are shut.
"Shall we test Mycroft's control?" Sherlock says, voice warm against the curve of John's ear.
"No," Mycroft snaps and then looks irritated, like Sherlock has just won some sort of invisible but important point.
John's taking a break from the war of attrition because he's still shivering through the little sparks of sensation from being abruptly filled and he doesn't feel up to attempting to compete in any way until he has more brain cells.
But Sherlock apparently hasn't finished, there's a smooth slide of fingers where John's already stretched open. The drag of a thumb against exquisitely sensitive skin.
Mycroft's fingernails are painful and immediate in the muscle of his thighs.
Sherlock's finger comes back slippery, edging inside him when he urges John to shift forward.
It doesn't take John long at all to work out what he's considering.
"Sherlock." John says and his voice cracks on a shiver of something shocked. "Sherlock, I can't take you both."
The words provoke a lightening fast dig of pain in his thighs and an inhale from Mycroft.
"I have full confidence that you can," Sherlock says and his voice is strained like he's already done the calculations in his head.
Which, knowing Sherlock, is a strong possibility.
"Sherlock," Mycroft says breathlessly and John thinks that's the most human he's ever heard him, all surprise and arousal and warning.
But then Sherlock makes a humming noise and carefully slides in another finger and the only thing Mycroft manages is a low, rushing exhale.
The world narrows down to a point and John forces himself to relax, forehead pressed into the warmth of Mycroft's chest. He can feel Sherlock's knee pushing against Mycroft's thigh, working through the complicated physics of it all.
It's a slow, not entirely comfortable process and John loses all the air in his chest more than once, leaning cautiously forward when Sherlock urges him too. Mycroft's warm underneath him, chest rising in slow, even breaths, even if the pulse in his throat is anything but.
Other than that, Mycroft has stopped moving completely, though John can still feel the dig of his nails. But it's a faraway sensation next to the slow, steady push where he's already stretched out tight. He feels like if he moves he's going to come apart.
"Sherlock." It comes out mostly as air.
Sherlock's hand is sliding on his back, slow circles on the damp skin.
"Sherlock, be careful." Mycroft's voice is all edges and restraint.
"I am being careful."
"You fucking better be," John breathes. The pressure never fades, it's a slow, climbing line of shivery pain that's greedy and overwhelming.
This is a stupidly bad idea. But John still hasn't said no, he still hasn't said stop - and when Sherlock slides a damp hand round his waist and bends him forward he doesn't resist, even though the new angle makes it easier, or just makes it possible. The push-slide is not comfortable at all and he's swearing, and sweating and dragging one shallow breath after another.
He's too full, it's too much and it aches - dear god, it aches like nothing he's ever felt before. But he's making soft, breathy little encouraging noises, cut through with whimpers. He's insane, he's completely insane. Because Sherlock never does anything half way. He always wants everything, absolutely everything.
John's hands are spread flat on Mycroft's chest.
"Sherlock," he hisses through his teeth. He's shivering but he still doesn't say stop.
He thinks Sherlock knows that he won't.
And if Sherlock knows then Mycroft knows as well.
The thought of both of them occupying the same space at the same time - John manages a laugh that comes out breathless and uncomfortable.
And then they are occupying the same space at the same time and John is whimpering, and it's not entirely an unhappy sort of noise either. And they're both so fucking hard inside him that he has no choice but to feel something like fragile.
Sherlock makes a shaky noise like he's grossly underestimated exactly how intense the sensation would be.
Mycroft is swearing, he's actually bloody swearing.
"John," Sherlock says quietly, soft and more than a little lost. "John."
Sherlock's arm slides round his waist, desperate impatience warring with restraint. There's the risk of someone moving soon and John is not ready for that, he's not.
"Wait, just wait," he says and he sounds drunk
"Try to have some self-control, Sherlock, you're not in charge," Mycroft says slowly.
"Neither are you," Sherlock snaps. He's apparently beyond caring if he loses points.
"I'm in charge," John growls out. "And neither of you will move until I tell you to."
Sherlock sucks a breath like he unexpectedly approves.
Mycroft says his name in a strangled sort of way which John has never heard before.
John lets his head fall forward, forehead resting on Mycroft's collarbone. He breathes into the skin there, feeling the warmth of it flare back.
"Give me a minute, just give me a minute, I feel - god - too much."
There's a hand on his side, heavy and warm, it slides up and then down.
He shifts his knees experimentally and Sherlock swears.
The hand that was stroking his side catches Sherlock's arm and stops it from moving. John is grateful for Mycroft's self-control. He really is.
"You really can be awfully reckless and selfish," Mycroft says quietly. Breathless but still more than willing to try and provoke his brother.
"And you're more inclined to be clandestine and tedious," Sherlock accuses.
"Mycroft, would you like a bite mark that will show above your collar tomorrow?" John offers shakily.
Mycroft makes a noise that suggests that, no, that might not be wise
"If he doesn't give you one then I will," Sherlock offers.
"I think John would like that," Mycroft says and John can hear the smile in his voice.
"Christ, will you two stop it," John says desperately, because the low vibration from both their voices is just making everything worse - better - something he can't quite cope with.
John stretches, cautiously, and he can feel everything. Every nerve in his body rings almost painfully. He'd fully expected to lose his erection completely but there's a persistent ache that has him half-hard and more than a little bewildered as to how.
He pushes up just a little, feels the shift and press of them both inside him. "This is a little more intimate than I expected to get with the pair of you."
"I can assure you I've never been quite this close to my brother before," Mycroft's voice is unsteady.
"Extenuating circumstances," Sherlock insists.
"Fuck, ok, move, carefully."
There's a brief awkward moment when they try and work out exactly how and then they get it, one slow rock of pressure together and the world goes strange and bright at the edges.
John has his eyes shut and he's just breathing.
Mycroft swears, low and brutal and his hand slides on John's back like it wants to grip.
"Mycroft," John mutters, because it should be fucking obvious by now that he's allowed. And then there's a heavy, warm hand in his hair clenching tight and pulling him all the way in, demanding and physical in a way Mycroft normally isn't and John groans his sudden and unexpected appreciation into the heat of Mycroft's mouth.
John isn't exactly sure if it's reward or punishment when he wrecks what's left of Mycroft's neatness with his own hand.
Sherlock's watching, he's always watching. He's pushing in as much as he can manage. It's the sort of careful that's as close to the edge as he can get, every shove measured but desperate and John can feel every single shift of movement. He can feel the both of them, the terrifying weight of what they're doing.
He should know better, he really should and of all the things he should trust Sherlock with this seems unusually reckless and stupid of him. But the fact that they are both so impossibly close to coming apart inside him. He thinks that might be worth a little madness. It's not like he hasn't offered his skin and bones and blood to both of them already. He's fully hard again and he sees no reason not to be selfish, under the circumstances.
He pulls Sherlock's hand from the bed to the line of his cock, wraps his fingers there in mute demand.
Sherlock does as he's told for once.
It doesn't take much at all.
It's sharp and hard-edged and steals all the air in his lungs.
John makes a mess of Mycroft's stomach and Sherlock's hand and he can't fucking breathe for long, impossible seconds
It doesn't take long before Sherlock makes a noise that's low and familiar. That almost startled gasping exclamation that John's seen and heard enough times to know, and he's suddenly warm and slick inside.
John aches in new and not at all interesting ways when everything is briefly a little too enthusiastic.
Mycroft is completely silent when he comes but John is going to have so many bruises on his thighs.
The world is too hot, and sticky and it hurts more than a little.
John officially hates the both of them.
Even if they are amazing in their own terrifying ways.
Sherlock draws out first, which isn't exactly fun. But he's careful and his sliding fingers check to make sure that John's just going to be sore for...days? Forever?
He grumbles something irritated and accusing.
Mycroft's fingers are sliding through his hair, drawing the damp ends of it away from his face.
Sherlock is a long, angular weight half over his back, possessive and heavy. John feels strange and uncomfortable and empty.
"Ow," he manages, and if there's a hint of accusation in there then it's only fair. He feels like reminding someone that he owns a gun.
Sherlock makes a low noise into his shoulder which might be apology. Mycroft’s fingers trailing down the back of his neck is definitely apology.
He frowns into the warmth of Mycroft's chest, because he suspects he's going to be doing rather more standing and laying down than sitting for the foreseeable future.
Sherlock's hand is perfectly relaxed against his side, low enough that his fingers are half curled around Mycroft's waist.
But no one has killed anyone yet.
John's going to consider this progress.