A fire burned in the elegantly-simple dark stone fireplace across from the foot of Mycroft Holmes’ very large bed. On an antique desk to the right of the hearth, three tumblers with only the merest dregs of amber liquid were loosely grouped at the edge nearest the bed. The faint smell of warm moisture lingered in the air; the small light over the vanity in the en-suite bathroom threw a long swath of soft light across the deep jewel tones of the thick carpeting, the crumpled heaps of three cast-off towelling robes, and the turned-back bed. One dark-blue towel hung over the side of the bed, trailing nearly to the floor.
Sherlock and John knelt facing one another on the deep maroon sheets, kissing slowly, deeply; John’s arms twined loosely around Sherlock’s pale shoulders, John’s skin golden-brown against creamier tones of Sherlock’s. John’s fingers dug into Sherlock’s still-damp curls, tugging his head to the angle John wished as their kiss waxed and waned, shifting as tongues and lips gave and took, slid and caught in lazy pleasure.
When John gave a low, breathy moan, arms tightening around Sherlock, fingers curling more eagerly into his inky hair, the taller man’s long-fingered hands slid down to John’s hips and gripped there, reminding him to stay put. Though John’s eyes were closed, Sherlock’s opened, focusing past John’s shoulder, where his brother had just set aside the bottle of lube.
Kneeling behind John, just as nude, Mycroft nuzzled his nape before stopping at a spot where goosebumps rose just from the brush of his breath; he opened his mouth and caught a pinch of flesh in his teeth. At the same time, he slid two slicked fingers further into John with deft ease.
Muffled in Sherlock’s mouth as it was, John’s groaned, “Gahhmmmyesss,” was clearly not a sound of protest. He broke away from the kiss a moment later to rest his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder, still embracing him, pushing his arse back toward Mycroft as much as Sherlock’s grip would allow.
“He’s not going to need much preparation,” Sherlock commented in a smooth, knowing voice, “considering it’s only been two hours and forty minutes since I fucked him.”
“I’m well aware how long it’s been, mon frère, considering he was coming off inside me at the time,” Mycroft replied in an equally silky undertone, meeting his brother’s gaze with the slightest hint of a curl to the corner of his mouth. “You’ve said this was my gift,” he went on calmly, running his free hand down John’s back to splay his fingers at the inward dip just above his sacrum, lingering there to keep him from moving unexpectedly. “I shall receive it as I wish.” Working John open again, though perhaps unnecessary, had served not only to be certain that John was ready, but to arouse him further as well as both Holmes brothers. “You can hardly claim to disapprove,” pointed out the elder of the brothers knowingly as the movements of his fingers wrung another breathy sound of pleasure from John. Sherlock was as fully erect as Mycroft or John.
“We wouldn’t be here if I did,” Sherlock replied with a hint of a sharp edge to his tone.
“Boys!” John cut in, voice a little louder than he’d intended due to the fact that Mycroft’s long fingers—so very like his brother’s—were making him feel really, really good; however, their sibling sniping was distracting him from it. “The gift would like to request less squabbling and more… mmm… there… yesss, more that,” he let his chastisement be derailed by Mycroft’s fingers kicking off a lovely swell of pleasure via their proximity to John’s prostate. He turned his head to mouth along the line of Sherlock’s throat, biting lustily, then a little harder, making a hiss of reaction escape his lover. “Stop it,” he whispered. “You wanted this, I wanted this; I’m still yours, you’re still mine.”
“Of course,” rumbled Sherlock, eyes closed, head tilted to allow John any access he wanted to his throat, despite the sting.
“Sherlock’s always been chary of sharing his… possessions,” commented Mycroft.
“You, too,” John said, voice a little firmer despite the waves of pleasure. “Play nice or we’re quitting and calling it a night.”
Mycroft said nothing further, didn’t stop the movement of his fingers, but Sherlock made a soft sound of protest, lowering his head and rubbing placating circles into John’s hips where he’d been holding him.
“No, John,” he finally said in a soft, sweet voice that turned the ‘no’ into a ‘please’ in every way but literally. Mycroft’s eyes widened the merest bit, but he wisely only watched this unprecedented bending of his brother’s normally iron will with but an instant’s blatant surprise—blatant for a Holmes, anyway.
“He’s right, though,” John said after accepting a brief, gentle kiss from Sherlock. “I’m more than ready,” he partially released Sherlock to turn enough that he could look at Mycroft, and a small, slightly cocky grin teased at his mouth as he glanced down and then up again. “You look plenty ready.”
Mycroft’s attention lingered upon John’s mouth as he smiled, easing his fingers out of John’s well-slicked hole and saying, “Oh, I am, indeed.” He reached behind him, wiping his fingers on the towel that he’d thrown upon the bed after his turn at the shower earlier.
Sherlock dragged his fingertips down John’s chest, over his stomach and onward to swirl them around his erect cock, ending up cupping his balls. “Remember the rules, Mycroft.”
“God, just come the hell here!” John growled, reaching up to cup the back of Sherlock’s neck, pulling him closer. Just before closing the distance to Sherlock’s mouth, he added, “Okay, now, Mycroft.”
Eyelids lowering and his slightly knowing smile widening a little, Mycroft stroked his cock, spreading the pre-ejaculate that had welled and run down all along it, and then lined the head up properly before slowly easing in. He met with little resistance, as expected; instead of having to work his way into a tight passage, he pushed slowly and steadily into the snug grip of John’s surprisingly hot body. A low humming sound of pleasurable approval rose up in his throat, very nearly a moan.
John groaned into Sherlock’s mouth, plunging his tongue deep and drawing Sherlock’s back with him to suck it hungrily as Mycroft paused, fully seated in John’s arse for a long moment, before beginning to move purposefully. His hands fell to John’s hips, his fingers overlapping Sherlock’s, and his brother gasped softly without breaking away from his kiss with John.
Feeling the both of them, long fingers meeting long fingers atop the smoother skin of his hip, John made a hungry sound and pushed back to meet Mycroft as much as he could. Taking the hint, Mycroft sped up, an open-mouthed sound of pleasure escaping him as the increased movement commensurately increased the sensations; he was echoed by John, whose groans were nearly becoming grunts, muffled by Sherlock’s mouth. John’s hands stroked and gripped all along Sherlock’s body, keeping him close, occasionally getting caught up in cupping and greedily fondling his surprisingly plush arse.
“Excellent, John,” whispered Mycroft, plunging as deeply as he could go and withdrawing till just the head of his cock remained inside, then again, faster in than out, and increasing in speed very steadily. “Perfect,” he murmured. His gaze roamed down John’s strong back, from the war-scarred shoulder to the faint dimples at either side of the base of his spine—the fossae lumbales laterals, more commonly called the ‘dimples of Venus’.
Opening his eyes, pupils huge, Sherlock made a strangled, nearly growling sound at the sight of Mycroft’s regular movements, and broke away from John’s mouth to kiss, and nibble his way along John’s neck. Revisiting the deep red-purple mark he’d made earlier, he licked the skin, possibly even tasting the difference between it and the unmarred skin; and yet he kept his eyes partially open the whole while, watching his brother’s body move and his flushed face.
Mycroft’s gaze came up from where he had been watching his cock disappear and reappear into and out of John’s arse, meeting Sherlock’s eyes; a low breathy sound escaped the younger Holmes as he twined his fingers into Mycroft’s own over John’s iliac crest.
“God… yes… more,” John groaned, fingers deeply indented into the flesh of Sherlock’s arse, as if he would pull him closer.
“Wait,” Sherlock ordered, voice rough-edged and deep with arousal. “We need to shift position.”
“What?” John gasped as Mycroft stopped moving, though didn’t pull out.
Meeting Sherlock’s gaze, taking in his position, his condition, and John’s grasp upon him in just a few moments, Mycroft nodded. “Of course. John, move your legs to the outside of mine… kneel up. Now lean back, come ahead, I can support you. Mmm… that’s lovely,” Mycroft directed, ending up with John straddling his thighs and then leaning back against him. As a consequence, Mycroft’s cock slid all the way into him again, both of them moaning a bit as John’s arse ended up flush against Mycroft’s body.
Eyes alight with eager, lustful anticipation, Sherlock edged forward. “Yes, exactly.” Glancing from John’s delightfully exposed position to Mycroft behind him, he asked his brother, “Sure you can manage this?”
Nodding, Mycroft’s arms slid further around John, stroking down his chest and belly on one side and teasing a nipple on the other. “I will make certain that I do,” he all but purred as John gave a quiet, open-mouthed sound of surprised approval at the expert roll and tug of Mycroft’s fingertips.
Sherlock carefully pushed one knee in between his brother’s, moving so that he was astride John’s thigh, Mycroft’s beneath it. Nearly smirking as he braced himself on Mycroft’s shoulder, he leaned in and caught John’s mouth for a kiss as he caressed down the other side of John’s chest.
John gave half-amused moan as both brothers’ hands met at his crotch, smooth, dexterous fingers overlapping and then separating as Sherlock’s hand wrapped around John’s damp-tipped cock and Mycroft massaged his scrotum.
“Now,” murmured Sherlock, lips scarcely a millimetre from John’s, leaning closer still, the wet tip of his cock smearing pre-ejaculate up John’s thigh as he did so.
“With great pleasure,” Mycroft replied, still very nearly a purr. Nuzzling his face down into the curve of John’s neck, he asked softly, “Shall we, John?”
“Fuck, yes,” John rasped, lifting heavy eyelids to look at Sherlock, finding and encircling his eager cock in a sure, familiar grip. “Better?”
With a rumbling groan, Sherlock nodded as he licked into John’s mouth, thrusting into John’s hand automatically.
“Pay attention, Sherlock,” Mycroft said as he starting rolling his hips, pulling out and then pushing in with the motion.
Breaking from John’s mouth, Sherlock nodded. “You lead. John and I will follow.” Though he plunged in to reclaim John’s mouth before the man could answer, he gave a vaguely-affirmative sound and reached back with his free hand to hold onto Mycroft’s hip, sliding back to get a good grip on his arse and squeeze.
Chuckling as he nipped lightly at the base of John’s neck, Mycroft kept his steady pace for another few minutes. Sherlock caught the rhythm, stroking down John’s cock each time Mycroft’s thrust pushed John forward, and John returned the favour in kind, matching Sherlock’s movements.
Mycroft’s pace increased once they were all engaged; Sherlock copied it easily, John following a beat behind before catching up. Soon Sherlock had to free John’s mouth, both of them breathing too heavily to sustain a proper kiss. Though Mycroft’s sighing moans were mostly muffled against John’s neck and shoulder, Sherlock’s were a little louder, deeper, and occasionally gathered into partial words or John’s name. John went from groaning grunts to random profanity and would turn his face into Sherlock’s as if for a kiss, but would just say his name as if it were an endearment.
When Mycroft hit the proper pace to trigger John into full-on profanity, at volume, Sherlock laughed with wicked breathlessness and rocked into John’s fist, reaching out past Mycroft to brace himself on the headboard. He’d noticed that Mycroft—not given to running about all over London regularly—was sweating a bit, his breathing just on the edge of laboured. Mycroft grinned against John’s shoulder, eyes closed as he changed the angle of his hips by a small margin, and opened his mouth to catch up a pinch of flesh at a specific spot he’d noted earlier.
“Jesus, that’s… I… fuck… I’m gahhh!” John tried to speak coherently, but trailed off into a near-shout as he came into Sherlock’s fist. Still stroking him through the crest of it, Sherlock moaned and let his head fall back as the pleasure of the moment and the reactive tightening of John’s grip pushed him over the edge, as well; he let out a loud, breathy groan that stuttered and broke apart in time with the arrhythmic movements of his hips.
“Perfect… just… nnngggh!” Mycroft couldn’t hold out any longer, lips brushing the mark he’d made on John’s shoulder as he buried himself balls-deep, losing coherent words as his orgasm rolled up through him in a wave of sharp-edged pleasure.
A deep, slightly-hoarse voice, blurry with sleep, woke John from a lovely, comfortable snooze. “I didn’t agree to snuggling.”
Sherlock was sprawled out on his stomach with his face partially buried in a pillow, John was lying half atop his lover, head resting upon Sherlock’s back rather than a pillow. He tightened his arm and leg, both draped over Sherlock, and kissed the nearest patch of smooth, pale skin. His voice was cross and fatigue-slurred, despite the obvious tenderness of that little kiss. “You already have been for over an hour. It’s still Christmas; truce lasts till Boxing Day. So, shut up and go back to sleep.”
Mycroft, pressed all along the back of John’s body, had one arm around John’s middle, though his head rested upon one of the other pillows, gave a drowsy, nearly-smug chuckle.
“You, too,” John grumbled, reaching blindly back and lightly smacking Mycroft’s thigh.
“Yes, John,” murmured the elder Holmes brother indulgently, humour as obvious as the sleepiness.
Sherlock sniggered into his pillow and John gave him a similar smack, catching him on the right buttock. Wriggling slightly closer and snorting a bit, Sherlock mumbled in very similar fashion to his brother, “Yes, John.”
Smiling at this rare occurrence, John rubbed his cheek against Sherlock’s warm skin before settling again, drifting back to sleep in moments.