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John is sitting in Mycroft’s projection room - he doesn’t have another word for it because yeah, the bastard’s that fucking rich that this is exactly what it is, his own private little cinema - watching some black-and-white American bloke say, “Hey there, toots.”

John snorts.

Really, he doesn’t know why he came here. He started drinking at eleven this morning and it must be nearing midnight now. It’s a Saturday night and weekends are supposed to be for Rosie, John knows that much, can’t forget, really - he had her all night and day.

It takes so much damn work to be around her.

The flat’s a mess, too. Dishes and bottles are piled up high in the sink. There’s laundry on the floor, playsuits with sick on them, John’s discarded shirts, blankets, cuddly toys, and tubes of teething paste. There are used nappies stinking up the bathroom. The floor hasn’t been done since Mary died basically, unless someone else gave it a go at one point, John can’t remember. He will get on top of it eventually. It’s just that balancing a drooling, red-cheeked Rosie wailing in his ear with trying to accomplish anything at all seems to be fucking impossible.

So John’s allowed a drink on the weekends. One, on the hour, every hour from the afternoon on. That’s reasonable, John thinks. He can’t get properly sloshed around Rosie, but for a single minute out of every sixty, he stands in the hallway, leans his back against the wall and lets Rosie scream as he gulps down a glass of something strong.

It’s not great for the liver, sure. But everyone copes some way or other, don’t they?

That’s why John called a sitter tonight. And yeah, he’s aware that he should have stayed and sang fucking lullabies until his voice broke and Rosie maybe stopped screaming long enough to give the impression that she loves him more than some random babysitter. But instead, John wanted to feel like a human being. Just for one night. One single night out of the week where he isn’t staring at the walls as they come in closer and closer.

Plus, he’s already paying a bloody fortune to babysitters and day nursery and therapists, so what’s another fifty quid at this point? John’s already going broke living in a London flat on one wage. He’s slowly spiralling into debt so that’s another, that’s another thing. He should move out of London, that’s been in the back of his mind, he should find a cheap flat and a job up North somewhere.

He won’t do it, of course.

Instead, John had a shower after the sitter got there. A goddamn uninterrupted shower. A shave, too. He wanted a wank but he didn’t do it, not with the sitter in the house and he didn’t want to take the time, anyway. Instead, he went out. Escaped might have been the word.

John half-thought he’d go by a pub, maybe. But of course - of course - his feet turned another way. He doesn’t ask why to himself anymore, it just is, yeah? It is, John running to Baker Street like it’s his true North. No need to fight it, or lie about it. It just is, so that’s what he does.

Sherlock isn’t even there.

Mrs. Hudson sounds apologetic as she tells him, “He went away again. He took his violin to play for his sister, he said? He’ll be back tomorrow, I think.”

John doesn’t need to hear more. Sherlock left because his sister is the one that needs to be played to, these days.

So it’s down to the pub anyway. John orders a burger with greasy chips that oil his fingers and fill him up, make the spinning - when did he eat last? He can’t even remember - settle down a bit.

He makes eyes at every woman there, and then sees their answering sneers on the back of his eyelids and in every pint for the rest of the night.

John hasn’t gotten any in over a year now. He hasn’t tried much, mind. Bit hard to do when the woman he was married to was a secret assassin and the last one he flirted with was Sherlock’s psychopath of a sister - John feels like he probably had his trust in women broken a bit, there.

The pub closes at eleven. John paid the sitter until one, because he’d hoped for a case or even a night in front of the TV in Baker Street, he would have taken either. But now he’s out on the street alone, drunk and wandering. So...


It’s stupid, John isn’t even close by. It takes twenty minutes on the tube and another ten on foot before he’s in front of Mycroft’s grand fortress of a house, and in the meantime he’s sobered up and the fresh air’s not doing much to make him feel like it isn’t a horrible idea. But he rings the doorbell anyway.

Mycroft answers in his shirtsleeves. John doesn’t care about it being past eleven on a Saturday night, or about the sigh as Mycroft says, “John. Can I help you?” Mycroft even raises a sarcastic eyebrow. “Bring any clowns?

John shoulders past Mycroft, who’s not exactly stopping him – he wouldn’t, would he? Hates a beating, that one – and walks inside.

Mycroft closes the door behind him with a clear air of exasperation, but John doesn’t give a fuck. He walks into some grand room and says, “Sherlock’s off visiting her again.”

Mycroft follows him in and says, “I heard, yes.”

Sherlock’s doing that, what, once a week now? Flying out there. As if she’s - she’s - the one who needs him most. As if he’s forgotten what exactly she put them through. Or as if he thinks that a bit of violin playing is going to make it all better. Well, it’s not.

Mycroft asks, “You would prefer if he didn’t?”

Well yeah, of course John would. “She’s not sane, is she?”

Mycroft’s mouth pulls. “No, she is not.”

They stand there, in the middle of Mycroft’s guest room or intimidation room or whatever it is, and John doesn’t even know why he came here. To complain about that?

John’s staring at what he’s pretty sure is an actual bear-skin rug, when Mycroft asks, “How is your…” He frowns as if he can’t quite make out what to call her. “...child?

John can hear the expected answer in his mind like a script: Splendid, thanks. Rosie’s amazing. Best kid ever. John’s repeating those exact same lines over and over constantly these days. He’s telling people what they want to hear so they can smile and tell him that at least he’s still got her, or some other bullshit. But Mycroft doesn’t want to hear that, does he? John says it five times a day and even he doesn’t believe it for a second. “Don’t talk about her.”

Mycroft replies, “Of course.”

John looks at him and oh, he can say it, can’t he, what is sodding Mycroft going to do? “I’m a fuck-up of a dad.” John looks at him for a reaction. “Horrible, actually.”

Mycroft nods carefully, clearly not getting it.

So John tells him the thought that’s always churning in the back of his mind, the terrible one: “Wish I never had her.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rise slightly, but he doesn’t react any more than that. No big speeches about parental love, not a mention of depression, nothing. Not like John has imagined people would react to that. But then Mycroft’s not people, is he?

John’s got nothing more to say. He should leave now, he knows that. He’s overstaying his welcome by far, walking in here. But he doesn’t have anyone else, does he? Nowhere else to go, either. He’s not going back there - not home, home it definitely isn’t - a moment earlier than he has to because walking into that flat is like stepping into a fish tank. Nothing but pressure, no place to breathe. He keeps on walking from one end to the other, pacing back and forth.

Mycroft is either too polite to throw him out, or he can tell that this isn’t - John isn’t doing that well, actually - because he asks, “Would you like a drink?”

“Yeah.” That’ll help, won’t it? It always does. John’s started rotating which shop he buys his bottles in because the cashiers recognise him now. He prefers the ones with a self-checkout, at least there they don’t look at him for too long when he’s back for the second time in a day.

Mycroft finds a fancy-looking decanter on the mantelpiece. He pours him a drink, and John accepts the glass of - he doesn’t even care what it is, whatever Mycroft deduced he’d need.

And actually, John can deduce too, can’t he? It’s a Saturday night. So unless John chased off some twink, he’s pretty sure he can guess what Mycroft was up to, just now. “You were watching one of those films, weren’t you?”

Mycroft seems briefly startled. Then he admits, “I was indeed, yes.”

John says, “Any good?”

“Excuse me?”

“The film, any good?”

Mycroft’s mouth opens, but he doesn’t reply for a moment. Then he says quickly, as if it’s some sort of delicate matter, “I was watching 'Double Indemnity'. It is often cited as a classic example of early film noir.”

“Right.” John just eyes him.

Eventually Mycroft, looking as if he can barely believe it himself, asks, “Would you like to… join me?”

And that’s how John ends up sitting on a leather chair – they had to drag it over from another room, with John doing most of the dragging because Mycroft’s got no strength apparently – watching the film.

Mycroft had to do something to the projector to get it going again, he used his long fingers to tease the celluloid into place as if that’s normal and not something John hasn’t seen someone do since Barts in his uni days.

It smells like cigarettes in here. Like the leather of the chairs, old and fancy. There’s a hint of Mycroft, too, his cologne or something. Maybe his sweat.

The film flickers onto the screen, and John remembers that he actually doesn’t care about old films at all. He has a sip of his drink. It burns down his throat like no one’s business - Mycroft gave him the strong stuff. Mycroft has his own glass, too, it was already standing on the side table where his ashtray is. Along with another decanter, half-empty.

At least John’s not the only one drinking tonight.

It’s a shame to end the night by drinking the best stuff, probably. John can’t taste it anymore. His lips are a tad numb by now. All of him is a tad numb. On the screen, the main actor bloke narrates, entirely seriously, “How could I have known that murder could sometimes smell like honeysuckle?”

John looks over at Mycroft. He can see the shadows dance over Mycroft’s face as his eyes follow the people on the screen, but he’s clearly not thinking it’s at all hilarious.

Maybe Mycroft’s just ignoring him. John’s not particularly welcome here, he does know that. Mycroft’s only letting him in because he’s already been here, once. Or because, what - he feels guilty? Mycroft did try to talk Sherlock into killing him by slagging John off, but John had thought he was right, at the time.

Soldiers die, don’t they?

Maybe he should have. Died. For Sherlock to kill him would have made some sense, at least. Sherlock being the one to destroy him, to rip him to bits, it would have been poetic justice or something like that.

Instead there’s this, and John’s not entirely sure what this is now – he’s watching a bloody awful film in Mycroft’s house. It’s all far away, though. John feels it all through a comforting haze of alcohol, as if he himself is being projected onto the screen along with the characters. He is no more real than the black-and-white insurance rep whistling as his woman is getting one over on him.

It’s easier, to deal with it like that. If John’s not actually here, if it’s all a film and none of it matters, then he can be a shit dad. Leave Rosie. Just leave her, walk out, get away from it all. No consequences.

John tips the last of his drink in-between his lips with a strong shudder. He taps his fingers on his empty glass.

John didn’t even think Mycroft saw that, but Mycroft’s arm reaches out, he takes the glass from him, and then pours him more from his own decanter. On the screen, there’s some sort of plot going on involving insurance fraud and an affair. It’s not interesting, but comforting in a way to hear their voices, John thinks. They’re all dead, aren’t they? Every single person in this film has kicked it sometime in the last seventy-odd years.

Mycroft wordlessly hands him the glass back, and it feels nice for about a second, to sit here. Mycroft’s fucked up, too. He’s a cold, arrogant son of a bitch - John knows it. He’s a wimp, too. John remembers Mycroft practically pissing himself at the sight of that damn clown. Good. He deserved it. John’s not sure why exactly - he just has the righteous sense that he did.

John leans back against his chair and has another sip. The drink is curling in his stomach and pulling on his limbs. He’s not completely wasted or anything, it’s been too long since he had the beers in the pub for that. He just feels heavy now. It’s good, he can’t feel a thing like this.

John’s reminded of an old, grimy cinema. Sometime in the mid-nineties, around Soho, he used to go to one that… well, it wasn’t exactly a cinema. Porn, mostly. Two quid to get in, stay as long as you wanted. John was a med student then and sometimes he just needed to get off. He had a girlfriend, but it’s not like it’s the same, is it?

John walked in there the first time because he’d been angry at something or other - drunk probably, too - and the big bouncing tits on the screen did their work. Even if the seats were gummy and there was god-knows-what on the floor and it stank of piss in there, John still got hard without a problem and then jacked off into a tissue. He was out of there again in fifteen minutes, feeling a bit worse for doing something disgusting like that.

Later, he learned to take his time. To open his trousers and pants and just leave his cock like that, in the open, while he watched the screen. There were other blokes there, of course. Straight porn though, straight porn playing, so it wasn’t – that’s what he always told himself.

The fifth time John was there, two of the other men started fucking. Just like that, in the third row, one bent over the seat, slowly taking it up the arse. John nearly got up and walked out when he realised what they were doing. Nearly. But he paid already, so he stayed and ignored them in favour of the tits on the screen. What he did see from the corner of his eye had him hard and jerking off half a dozen times that week, again and again.

John got good at it, not-looking-but-looking. Listening for the rustling, the groans. He could hear the wet slaps of it, the depraved pounding. See the way a cock disappeared into a mouth or an arse, just in the shadows, just from afar, but it was like a hook curling into his stomach and grabbing him.

Every time he swore it was the last, walking out of there. Disgusting, what are you doing to yourself, Watson.

Every time, he went back.

A month or two in - and maybe he’d been waiting for that to happen - some guy sat next to him and reached out a hand. John threatened to break the guy’s fingers if he touched him because he knew he should never let a bloke do that to him. But then the guy put his hand on John’s cock anyway, and John was hard as a rock, shaking as he came like fucking fireworks.

Later, he’d learn to reach out and do it back. Fairness, and all that. He learned how to touch them until they came, gasping.

And then some other guy, John never knew his name and he doesn’t even remember his face now, went down on his knees and sucked him off.

John could have said no. But the feeling, the hot swirling, pulsing feeling of being sucked off in the dark by a bloke while he looked up at the screen was too bloody amazing. Straight porn, still. He was getting off on tits and fucking, the image of a cock disappearing into a cunt.

John started pushing them down, after that. A few refused, but most did do it, suck it for him, take it all. John got good at reading the room as he walked in. Sitting close to what he wanted, but not too close to what he only wanted to watch.

The first time he got a stale hot breath in his ear and a cock pressed to his arse by a guy saying, “Let me fuck you right where you want it,” John turned around and broke his nose. He could feel it crunch under his fist, and then the gush of hot blood drip on his hands.

He didn’t go back for a while, after that.

But then, after a long shift, the grit of the dead and dying all around him, John couldn’t just go to his girlfriend-of-the-moment’s flat and kiss and cuddle.

He needed worse.

There was a young guy there, that night. John had seen him around before - eighteen, if even that. Shaking, coming down from a high, maybe, whispering at him, “You can fuck me for a tenner.”

John opened his wallet. He spent the last of his food money for the month, but it didn’t matter, right then. The boy bent over the seats and John could tell there were others watching them, but he didn’t care. John made a sound as he first got inside of the boy’s arse, he knows that. It was tight and hot, so dirty and wrong and he’d burn for it, he’d deserve everything he got for it because John’s cock pushed into him and it was bliss.

John frantically pumped in and out of him, and it was over in a few minutes. It was only after, under the shower, that John started shaking. He hit the wall, and watched the blood from his knuckles mix with the water down the drain. A faggot. He fucked a faggot. And he knew what they had in their blood, he’d seen what it did, John had seen men die of it.

John broke up with his girlfriend. Six weeks later, he got tested in a clinic across town, mumbling something about having had a good time.

He was clean. Lucked out.

He was almost sorry. He would have deserved it, after all.

John did go back to that cinema once, nearly three years later, but it was gone. Turned into flats.

John looks at Mycroft, sitting next to him and still watching the film. It’s been twenty years now since he was in that wretched cinema, and he’s lucky he got out with his life, John knows that. He always knew what happens to queers, his dad made sure of it.

Mycroft’s one, John’s pretty sure. Who knows about Sherlock, but Mycroft doesn’t even have to admit it, it’s obvious. Mycroft’s clever, right, but deep down he’d turn away from a challenge. He’s soft - Sherlock’s said it, too.

John’s watching a film with a queer man. In his own private little film room, and if John wouldn’t have had to move the chair, he would almost think that Mycroft’s made this place for a reason other than just watching films. At the very least he probably has leisurely wanks here, doesn’t he? Putting something nice on that screen - John would do that in an instant.

Does Mycroft have company, sometimes? John thinks it would be some rent boy. Pretty, probably. On his knees, face hidden between Mycroft’s thighs, Mycroft’s hand on his neck as he looks to the film and smiles. That’s a picture.

John feels an echo of it again, his jeans around his knees and some face between his own legs as he watched the screen, god, he never felt more alive in all of his years. It was right, in the dark, like that.

Like it is now. John looks at Mycroft. He doesn’t secretly glance or anything, just looks. Mycroft notices and looks back at him, frowns, then turns back to his film.

John takes his drink again and has a good swallow. He’s half-hard, thinking about all of that. It’s in part because he hasn’t got off in ages. Try wanking with a crying baby around the corner, right?

He hasn’t thought of that cinema in years.

They got the internet, after that. All the porn he wanted. Discreet, too. That was needed for the army, they can’t know a thing like that, can they? Not if you want to get somewhere. They did know, eventually. Too much drinking, someone getting handsy, a quick blowjob in the showers, it didn’t end John’s career. Not at all.

Then there was Sholto. John thought a bloke like that would understand. A bit of stress relief, that’s all it really needed to be.

But he ended up… Well, not loving him, obviously. But Sholto’s the second man who’s ever tried to kiss him. The first was Teddy, first year of uni, a gangly boy - not his friend, no - but John had looked at him once or twice. They’d been alone in the changing rooms and Teddy made a move and kissed him. John kissed him back for a while, and then beat him bloody. John knocked his teeth out, three of them. He never saw him again, after that. John told Dad what happened, and Dad raged and ranted about the fucking poofs while they had a few beers together. It was good.

The first time Sholto kissed him, John had thought it was an accident, and that Sholto had been fantasising about a woman or such. But then he did it again. Quietly, with a small brush of his lips, like he had to get permission to lick his way inside of John’s mouth. John couldn’t stand it. The flash of feeling that came with it was too overwhelming, too good.

Sometimes it’s too much, a thing like that.

John learned that from Sholto. So he didn’t, after the army. He’d wanted - oh, he did want, he even thought that Sherlock, well. But no.

In the years Sherlock was dead, John went to another cinema, once. He had to google to find one, there’s not many left, now. But when he did get there, over an hour on the tube and forty minutes on a bus, he’d looked around at all the blokes and wondered which one of them had read his blog. Who would know that he was that John Watson. He couldn’t even get hard.

John hasn’t done that in so long.

And maybe that’s why he can’t stop his eyes from drifting towards the thin line of Mycroft’s lips. They’re here, together, already watching a film. No one would ever know. Mycroft’s not the type to tell, is he? Plus, Mycroft owes him.

John lets himself look with that thought.

Mycroft coughs briefly and glances at him again as he takes a cigarette. He doesn’t ask whether John minds if he smokes. He must do it here often since the room smells like it and the ashtray’s right there, but still it’s something to see Mycroft put a cigarette between his lips and light it with a flick of his wrist, then take a quick – nervous, is it? – drag.

John’s not even pretending to watch the film anymore. He watches Mycroft’s hand as the cigarette held between his fingers moves from the side of the ashtray, to sit between his lips. John watches the smoke curl to the ceiling.

He sits back a bit and lets his limbs go slack. His legs fall open.

Mycroft looks at him from the corner of his eye as he smokes and oh, John’s played this game before. John’s done this so many times, it comes back like it was only waiting in the back of his mind. He was always a, what? A man who could spot a good little tart? The thought alone makes John’s cock twitch.

There’s a somewhat sexy scene on the screen, too, the dame passionately kissing that insurance man. John hasn’t been paying enough attention to know how that came to be, he just knows that when the doe-eyed woman reveals a perky white bra, it’s almost out of place in a film like that. Is that what Mycroft beats off to?

John catches Mycroft looking at him, but only for a moment. Mycroft has noticed that he’s hard, John can tell. There’s a bit of hesitation in him. Mycroft looks at his cigarette instead, delicately taps it on his ashtray and smokes it with all the icy cunning of some forties seductress.

John wants him with a force he hasn’t felt in ages.

He knows what to do. He’s being clear enough, and Mycroft hasn’t thrown him out yet or tried to somehow stop it, so John reaches out a hand, trails it over the leather separating them – respectable distance, that, he needs to move a bit in his chair to even reach - and puts his hand on Mycroft’s armrest.

Mycroft taps his cigarette in the ashtray. John can’t see it from here but he can see the movement of Mycroft’s fingers, tap, tap, tap.

John moves his hand down so his fingertips brush the fabric of Mycroft’s upper leg. Mycroft hesitates in bringing his cigarette back up to his mouth.

John stops and waits until Mycroft looks back at him. Tell me no, go on. Tell me I’m a poof and I’ll tell you you’re one.

Instead, Mycroft smiles briefly, then looks him over with that careful collectedness of his, and John’s instantly sick of it. He’s seen Mycroft almost lose it at the sight of a freshly-shot corpse and freak out over some clown. There’s none of that pretence left, John knows he’s a faggot on the inside, doesn’t he? So John puts his hand flat over Mycroft’s thigh and squeezes.

Mycroft doesn’t move away. Or say a word. His thigh gives a small tremble.

John does nothing more. He reaches for his glass with his left hand and has a drink, that’s what he does. He empties the glass in two swallows that are only possible because he’s already used to drinking it now, but still it burns enough to give him tears in his eyes that he has to blink away.

Mycroft doesn’t take the glass from him to refill it. John’s cock has been hard enough to tell for a while, but still it’s different when Mycroft actually looks at him. Mycroft holds his eye, and then looks down, right there, checking what he’s got. John can feel himself grow so fast it aches, and he tightens his hand on Mycroft’s thigh.

Mycroft looks back at him, his eyes revealing so little and oh, he knows how to play, that’s clear by now. Is John actually going to have to ask for this? John never did when he was twenty-two and aching for it, he never asked them, ‘suck my cock?’ because it would have been too much then. But he’s older now. More desperate. John’s fingers are digging into Mycroft’s thigh, tightening and releasing, and he says, “Like what you’re seeing there?” His voice sounds odd. Rough, like he hasn’t spoken in a while.

Mycroft says – and fuck him to hell, he sounds perfectly composed - “I am not seeing anything, John.”

John can barely believe his nerve. He wants to laugh, but he hasn’t got the patience. John lets go of Mycroft’s thigh. “Yeah?” He opens his zip, his buttons, and his cock is already rising up, trying to push out. John moves his pants down, grabs his cock, and shows it to Mycroft. “How about now?”

He’s big, John knows that. He’s got a damn good size here, and if Mycroft wanted to make sure of that first, well, John’s fairly sure that he passed because Mycroft swallows as he looks at it.

Then Mycroft looks back at him and says - clear as day, because apparently he’s got some of Sherlock in him after all, who would have known - “And what do you expect me to do with that?”

John can feel himself loving it. He’s never had a bit of a struggle like this, but this is good, even if he has to choke the words out. “Get on your knees.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “And then?”

“Then suck me so I can watch this damn film with my cock in your mouth.” It’s one of the filthiest things John’s ever said out loud in his life.

But Mycroft smiles, actually smiles, and says, “You would enjoy it more then, I wager?”

John gives his cock a slow, long pull. Ah, such a haughty, snooty tone, it’s perfect. “I would, yeah.” Actually, he could just jerk off like this, too, make Mycroft watch him.

“Not particularly a fan of the film noir genre?” Mycroft asks, as he gets up.

“Guess I’m about to be.” John’s not even trying to be funny here, his cock is throbbing as Mycroft’s getting down on his knees, but Mycroft gives him another smile.

“One can only hope it will teach you something.”

Which is perfect, god. Mycroft’s kneeling in between John’s legs, and John groans as Mycroft takes his cock between his lips and gives it a soft lick. Yeah. John instantly feels like he’s back there, in that musty cinema, getting head from some random pervert. Only that was like burning, then, that aching rush to get off, he couldn’t stop it at the heat of a mouth, he couldn’t do anything else but rut and come because it was so good there was nothing else.

Now, it’s a quieter hit. John can tell there’s technique there, Mycroft’s circling and sucking, then licking again, doing something utterly decadent as he rolls his tongue. In a way, that gets John even more because he was right that clearly Mycroft’s sucked some cock in his day. John feels some righteousness at it – Mycroft’s queer, right? A faggot, he knew it all along.

It seems right that Mycroft’s down there, sucking him off, it’s exactly what he deserves. Look at him, he needs that, doesn’t he? A good cock to keep that mouth busy.

John wants to come like this. Pull out at the last moment and get it all over Mycroft’s face. He was planning on that, he was going to get off looking at the film and the way there’s a head bobbing between his knees. That’s it, that’s what he wanted. But he feels some dread now - he needs to make sure that it’s not just him. Because if it is, Mycroft will hold that over him for years to come. It’ll be in every little smirk, every remark.

John’s loathe to make Mycroft stop that sweet suck on his cock or that little tickle of a lick right under his glans, but he’s going to have to do something back, and quick. John says, “Hey.”

Mycroft’s lips slip off and show John’s glittering cock rising up. Mycroft wipes his lips. “Yes?”

It’s so hot John wants to beg him to take it in again, to just move until he’s there, but he says, “Get up.”

Mycroft sits back with a wince, and then stands. “A bit of politeness wouldn’t hurt, John.”

Mycroft walks in front of the projector and his chest and face turn into blobs of shadow as he moves. He’s hard now, too, John can see it, and it’s instantly making him feel better. Got hard over sucking me, did you? He’d probably see more if it wasn’t half dark and there wasn’t some high-pitched woman on the screen saying, “I can’t stand it anymore, darling! What if they do hang me?”

John grabs Mycroft’s trousers and mumbles, “I’ll show you how nice I can be.”

Mycroft sucked him first and that means he’s the one who’s already given in. So it doesn’t matter if John’s hands are a bit unsure on the buttons and whatever fancy closure Mycroft’s got going on there, because even when they’re open his trousers stay up - right, braces. Mycroft opens them himself, and then there’s only their breathing in the room along with the film’s hero saying, “They’re not gonna hang you, baby. I’ll make sure of it.” Mycroft’s trousers and underpants go down. He’s got hairy upper legs and a thin, long cock standing out.

John’s not going to take it in his mouth, so he stands up. Which is a mistake, he’s close to Mycroft so his whole body brushes his, and he’s smaller. Also the ground is swaying as he’s still a tad drunk, too drunk to stand up out of the blue, apparently. Mycroft puts an arm around him and John wants to push him off and pull him in, hit him in the face and rub off on him, all of that at once. Mycroft’s somehow aligning their cocks, John’s is underneath and just brushing Mycroft’s balls. It’s hot, John’s into it, into feeling Mycroft’s cock poke his stomach, too, and he holds on.

But Mycroft says, as they fumble, “Perhaps sitting down?” It’s still in that collected tone, as if this isn’t all that good but a tad entertaining anyway, and John hates it.

All he wanted was the cinema. Being twenty-two again and doing that, finding that. Being repulsed as hell, near nauseated by what they were all doing around him but so turned on that he was ready to burst out of his skin with it. But this isn’t that. At least it smells like sex in here now, like the cigarette that’s still smouldering in the ashtray, too. But it’s not nasty. It’s a bit clumsy, two middle-aged blokes trying for it, that’s all this is. And John can’t, he doesn’t… He pushes, and then pulls Mycroft around the chairs, to the back of them, facing the screen. “Go. Come on, stand like that.”

“...If you insist.” Mycroft does go along with it, but he seems a bit wary, something like ‘you better know what you plan on doing.’ John doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t, just that he wants things that he’s seen in porn and read about and imagined endlessly. And he’s not really here, right now, like the people on the screen he’s not feeling a thing. So he might as well.

John kneels behind Mycroft’s back.

His own cock is swaying between his legs and still fully hard as he sees Mycroft’s arse rise up from underneath his shirttails and loose braces, white and flickering in the light as the film goes on. John leans over it.

He barely touches it before Mycroft twitches away, turns, and - voice entirely in control still, dammit - asks, “Are you certain that is what you wish to do?”

And it’s so high and mighty, so annoying, that John hates him, he intensely hates that man in front of him for what he’s letting him do to him. If Mycroft had any sense, he’d never let himself be touched like that. If he was any kind of real man at all he’d never offer up his arse, would he? John wants to shut him up, or make him lose it, make it all about Mycroft giving in because then he’d have the power. Then, it wouldn’t be him, doing this. Then it wouldn’t be him, who as soon as he ever heard about it being done imagined it a thousand times over because it’s the nastiest thing his mind could conjure up.

“Yes.” John puts his hands on Mycroft’s arse cheeks, separates them, and leans in. He’s fast enough that he doesn’t even register whether it smells like anything down there, he just sticks his tongue out and licks.

Mycroft jerks away, then comes closer again and make some suppressed sound. John doesn’t care, he just licks into the wetness of it. He moves steadily lower and lower until his nose is nearly hitting Mycroft’s balls. John’s gone down on plenty of women and it’s like that, the same earthiness and rasp of hairs on his tongue. Except that he doesn’t exactly know where the hole is because the angle’s different like this with his face pressed in there and not a bit of light.

When he does find it, John teases that muscle with his tongue until he goes in and god, it’s exactly as nasty as he always thought it’d be.

Mycroft breathes out harshly as John gets him just right. He’s subtly rocking back and forth as well now, lowering himself over the back of the chair, opening himself up for John.

John’s tongue already aches with the strain and he’s not sure how long he’ll be able to keep it up but it doesn’t matter, he’s licking a wet, hairy arsehole. John’s pushing in until he’s fucking Mycroft with his tongue, making him tremble and moan under his breath. John can feel a fierce righteousness at feeling Mycroft like that. It figures, that he’d love this. Fuck the British government, or any trace of power - in the dark, over a chair, pushing his arse into John’s face, that’s who Mycroft is. John’s cock strains upwards at the thought alone.

John leans back, lightly bites the flesh of an arse cheek, then makes his tongue flick back and forth as he teases him, hoping for another reaction. It works, Mycroft leans towards him almost instantly, asking for it - the pussy.

John pushes his whole face there and starts licking him open, softly at first and then as hard as he can. Mycroft’s legs start shaking around his ears, John can barely breathe and he has spit spread over his face all the way up to his forehead, it’s messy as hell. But god, it’s hot to feel Mycroft’s moans more than hear them. John can feel his own cock nagging neglected as well, it’s aching with how hard he is. He could get himself off like this easily, with his face pressed to an arse, but he won’t.

John leans back on his heels. His jaw aches sharply, his tongue feels weird, and John can see Mycroft’s cock between his legs up high enough that it touches his waistcoat. There’s no denying that boner.

The film is going still, but John looks at Mycroft alone. He’s not composed now, is he? Quite a picture with his trousers around his ankles, arse out, leaning over a chair so John can lick him.

John gets up with a groan. Mycroft carefully straightens out, holds on to the back of the chair as if he doesn’t entirely trust his legs, and turns to look at him.

John asks, “Liked that, did you?” It’s an insult. Mycroft’s not doing a thing to hide that erection, so hard and already - look at it - leaking.

“It was rather... surprising.” There’s a small tremor in Mycroft’s voice.

John snorts. He reaches out his hand and puts it around Mycroft’s cock, just like that. He wipes the bit of precome on his thumb, then gives it a pull as Mycroft takes a startled breath.

It’s odd, to see Mycroft in front of him as they do this. John can’t tell what this is. Whether it’s pleasure, or astonishment, or whatever the feeling is. All he knows is that he’s getting in closer and closer until he can feel the trace of hair on Mycroft’s legs as it brushes his hand, and then he’s rubbing his own cock up against him.

There’s a change in the light. John looks over at the screen to see the credits playing, aware that he has no clue what even happened in the film. John strokes the smooth heat of Mycroft’s cock and looks him in the eye, without flinching. Want that, do you?

Mycroft’s mouth opens, his head falls back, and John can feel him come. Mycroft spills all over his hand, John moves his fingers through it and makes a slick fist for Mycroft to slide into as he comes down. Then stops.

It smells like it, come.

John one-handedly pulls his pants down properly over his knees, then says, “Turn around.”

Mycroft looks at John’s cock, hesitates, then says, “Some other preparation would be needed, if you intend to...”

John grins. Can’t take all that without lube, can he? “Not gonna fuck you.”

Mycroft nods and turns around. John makes him lean over the back of the chair again, where he belongs, fucking faggot, and moves Mycroft’s arse cheeks apart with some sense of ownership. Just want to look at my handiwork, here. They’re still wet with spit, John can see it glisten. He holds them open so he can run his cock between them and see it like that. Disgusting.

He can’t fuck him without lube, Mycroft’s right and John won’t do that, but he slides his cock over the damp skin, back and forth. He feels like he’s in a dream, now. Like this couldn’t possibly be real, the way his cock is pulsing over Mycroft’s arse, ready to come. John steps closer, but keeps his cock between Mycroft’s buttocks. Mycroft gets what he’s trying to do, he keeps his legs closed as John starts to move. It’s almost hypnotic, John’s pushing his cock in-between. He wants to slide back and forth, but the spit’s dried up a bit already, so it’s in bits, he’s sticking to Mycroft’s skin. John wants to go harder, until he’s slapping his hips to Mycroft’s arse, like the men, the ones he’s…

Out of nowhere, there’s a loud, grinding sound. John starts as they’re suddenly in the bright white light of the screen. The film’s over.

They’re throwing shadows onto the screen, and John laughs, seeing it. He can feel it burst through his chest for some bizarre reason, like it’s the most hilarious thing he’s ever seen, their shadows, clearly fucking. Mycroft even breathes a laugh in reply. He relaxes onto the chair, John can feel him.

John moves again and it’s almost, almost what he did that once. He’s so near to coming he can taste it. Mycroft’s actually helping, tensing his buttocks, trapping him there. And it’s that, not the friction, that does it. It’s feeling him do that that gets him. John groans and comes in-between Mycroft’s arse, spraying between his legs, god.

John’s still coming as he moves back and uses his hand on himself. He comes all over Mycroft’s arse, then wipes his cock there, drags his own come from one arse cheek to the other. There. He steps back.

Mycroft slowly straightens up and turns to look at him. He still looks a bit shaky. He doesn’t complain like John thought he might, he just pulls his pants and trousers up and fastens them with precise movements, even though he’s splattered in come.

John does the same, he pulls his pants up. His cock is sticky with it and it’s going to dry the fabric to his skin, but it’s better, like this. Done now.

There’s only the faint buzzing of the projector and the sound of the reel turning and turning. Mycroft eyes him, then takes a breath, ready to speak, but John interrupts, “Get me a drink?”

Mycroft looks him over and parries, “Perhaps you have had enough for tonight?”

John laughs. It sounds bitter. Yeah, he’s probably had more than enough. He’s not that drunk anymore now, though. The floor’s stopped swaying and yes, he’s sweating circles into his shirt, but that’s from what they just did. “It’d get the taste of your arse out of my mouth.”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “...I see.” He delicately turns around, takes John’s glass, and pours him a drink.

John laughs again, because of Mycroft’s face - all of this is comical right now. He was lying, it doesn’t taste like much, but he accepts the glass and chugs it down. Which was a mistake, the heat of it burns his nose, hooks in his throat, and he comes out of it coughing, snorting, and breathing away some tears.

Mycroft’s looking at him as if he’s disgusted – and oh, John’s too, John coined that two decades ago. And if he is trying to figure something out. Mycroft says, hesitantly, “I have a guestroom. If you would like to sleep it off.”

John’s surprised. Being invited for the night, is he? It’s more likely that Mycroft thinks he shouldn’t be out on the street like this, he might walk into a car. Or under a train, wouldn’t that be great. Odd, how he can’t feel his face but yet it’s circling between tears and heat and laughter all at once right now. “Only paid the sitter until one.”

Mycroft checks his pocket watch. “It is nearly two AM.”

Yeah, that’s probably why his phone had been buzzing. John ignored it, he can remember now. “Need to go, then.” He starts walking out.

“Perhaps a taxi?” Mycroft’s following him and oh, isn’t that charming, once you’ve licked a poof’s arse you get this sort of treatment, John assumes. Also, he nearly walks into a suit of armour in the hall, so maybe Mycroft’s got a point following him. Making sure he doesn’t steal the good silverware.

“Night tube. I’ll be fine.”

Mycroft lets him go.

John walks through Knightsbridge not thinking much, gets on the tube, and sits there in-between drunken teens with his trousers sticking to his skin with come. His jaw and tongue are still properly sore from what he’s done, he can’t stick his tongue out without a sharp pang of pain. There’s still some of Mycroft’s come between his fingers, too. John keeps on opening and closing his fist, feeling the sticky pull of it.

When he makes it back to the flat he pays the sitter everything he had left in his wallet, and then crashes on the sofa.

It’s not for long, as Rosie’s wailing wakes him up at four. And six. And six thirty. As the light starts coming in through the windows, John’s buzz changes into a throbbing headache and he hangs over the toilet, gagging and gasping for breath.

A few tears drip over his face.

He doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing. He just needs to get on with it, John knows that’s the answer. Just keep on going, yeah? Just a bit more. One more day. It’s fine.

He can start drinking at noon.