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A glass of scotch.

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glass of scotch

You still have a hard time believing he’s… well… dead.

The news came a month ago and is still freshly imprinted into your memory. Sitting in front of the television you saw the whole media circus: ‘Sherlock Holmes a fraud!’ ‘Sherlock is a fake!”

Shortly followed by more darker reports….

‘Sherlock Holmes is dead.’

No card came that day, nor any other. No word from his mother, no word from his brother. Sherlock had died and no one seems to care. 


You've known the Holmes brothers since you were still a pup. Their mother is a friend of your mothers’ sister and eventually became a mutual familyfriend. Or something like that. You’ve had the opportunity to meet the young Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes during posh dinner parties.  And boy, those encounters definitely left lasting impressions. They’d be standing there together (usually in a corner), observing…. whispering… pointing. But most of all; avoiding any means of interpersonal contact with other children.

There are however a few rare occasions in which you came in contact with them. You remember playing in the sand, building a beautiful sand castle (of which you're actually still proud). Mrs. Holmes came around to complement your building skills and placed her little cocktail umbrella in the castles garden. “There. Now the princess has a safe place to shelter from the sun!”. As miss Holmes walked returned inside, Sherlock came up to you. 

“This is preposterous. The proportions are way off. You should be working from the left to right and not the other way around.  And you should be sitting here, not there.” He’d said while pointing to the patch of sand beneath his left foot.

Slightly dumbfounded, you managed to bring out a muffled ‘What?’. Which granted you a smug look from the 7-year old boy. ‘If you’re left handed, you need to work from left.’ Sherlock commented.

‘I’m not…” But before stating that you’re no ‘lefty’ Sherlock had already cut you off. “Yes. You are” and with that the boy took off after his mother.

Following his step with your gaze, you noticed the older Holmes boy leaning against the fence…. Mycroft. The older boy flashed you a grin. You blushed and ducked your head. When you’d found the guts to make eye contact once more; Mycroft was no longer there.

Strange boys. 

During adolescence you only saw them once… or twice. Mycroft was the first one to move out of his parents home shortly followed by Sherlock. They did not visit any social gatherings thereafter and appeared to have vanished.


After hearing the news of Sherlock’s dead you wanted to pay a visit of condolence to the family but failed to get in contact with any of his relatives. Mrs. and Mr. Holmes were nowhere to be found. They’d moved to an unknown location, left no new address, no telephone number… nothing.  And Mycroft has since long been out of sight. 

What about that friend of Sherlock? Watson, you believe his name was. You know he shared an apartment with Sherlock for the past year so maybe he’s able to tell you more about the whereabouts of the Holmes family.


 “Alright, this is it: 221B Baker street” You whisper, staring at the large green door. You ring the copper bell…. once…. nothing…. twice…. The door slowly opens and you’re greeted by a friendly face.  The women engages in active conversation and introduces herself as Ms. Hudson, Sherlock’s former landlady. She informs you that John hasn’t been home since the funeral, even though the apartment is still fully furnished and decorated.

Just when you start to lose any hope locating Sherlock’s living relatives, Ms. Hudson mentions an familiar name… Mycroft.

Wait… Mycroft?... You know him? You know where I can find him?” you ramble.

Well, well, dear. Calm down. “ Ms. Hudson continues. “Yes, he visited his brother just before the dreaded day…” Tears started to swell and Ms. Hudson clearly struggles to keep her emotions in check.

I don’t know where he lives… he’s a government worker…  a big fish”. She frowns and places her right index finger on her lip. “But maybe… yes…. yes… I do believe he left me a card for Sherlock once…. Let me check!”. In less than a minute Ms. Hudson reappears in the door opening and presents to you a small business card.  

You take the card and greet Ms. Hudson farewell. While thanking her once more for her help, you’re already gesturing a cab to pick you up and drive you over to the written address.  


 The golden plaque sat on the wooden door for everyone to see, the words brightly shown in the street light: the Diogenes club. You grip the golden doorknob lightly and twist. The door gave way revealing an seemingly endless dim lit hallway covered with paintings, and harboring a few doors.  You close the door behind you and silently make your way  to the back trying not to draw anyone’s attention.

You keep halt by the second door on the right. The door is slightly ajar and you hope to slide it open just a little further to get a better view of what’s going on inside. As you peak around the corner two strong arms envelop your mid-section blocking your entrance to the room. Before you manage to let out a scream your mouth is covered by a strong hand. And even though you do your best to wrestle yourself out of the grip, you can feel how you’re being dragged away.


 A vaguely familiar voice was heard.

“Put her there and leave.” You are roughly dropped into a chair and hear a door close behind you. It takes you a few seconds to realize what just happened.

“My apologies, I hope my employee was not too rough on you.”. You turn your head into the direction the voice was heard. “I’ve been watching you…. expecting you.”

The man closed a paper file he held in his hand.

He was probably in his early forties and wore a dark suit. His hair was brown with a slightly weathered face. In his left hand a cigar, in his right some whisky. You believed the man to be attractive in a rugged sort of way. As you made eye-contact warmth washed over you….

“Mycroft” you mutter. Not only taken aback by what just happened, but also by the intriguing man in front of you.

He discarded the cigar and took place in a rough wooden chair across you. He folded his arms and smiled at you grimly.

“Not every day a girl has the nerves to disrupt natural order in my club. This is a gentleman’s club…” He spoke. Stressing the word Gentleman.

While you apologize for the abrupt intrusion and unannounced visit Mycroft leans back in his chair casually sipping his whisky, face unmoving. Never taking his eyes of off you.

You explain what happened and why you’ve come to London. As you’re busily chatting away, your eyes start to roam the surroundings… his desk… the whisky… the suit….

It’s not until Mycroft shifts in his chair that you notice your eyes lingering on his crotch area.

Oh god. Why?

The sudden shifting of his legs startled you and your eyes meet his. You start to blush and directly shift your gaze onto the bottles of whisky in the cabinet. Has he caught you staring?

You have no idea, his face is like a blank sheet, unreadable. No shock, no grin, no smile. Nothing. Your stomach tightens and a lump formed in your throat.  

Mycroft’s eyes follow your gaze and he lifts the veil of silence by offering you a glass of 16 y/o Scotch. Without hesitation you accept. You’re not too fond of whisky, but at this moment, you’d even drink the whole bottle if it would allow you a minute away from his piercing stare.  

Oh man. You feel like that kid playing in the sand again. Never have you felt this much of an object.

He’s doing that thing of his. What was it called? Deduction?...

Mycroft hands you over the glass of whisky and you nervously place it on your lips. He gives you a sharp look in the eye before speaking.

“Yes, Sherlock’s dead is a tragic loss. Me and him might have had our quarrels but we are family never the less.”

To your surprise, Mycroft takes the time to explain why Mrs. and Mr. Holmes moved (“they are in mourn, we need to keep the press away.”) and why no funeral invitations were sent out. His explanation is disturbed by the ringing of a phone. His cellphone.

Mycroft pulls out his phone, gets up from the chair and addresses you “Please excuse me.”

 While you instinctively expect him to exit the room for this private conversation he stops  front of the window and answers his phone. He stares out of the window and you can hear his voice darken. The conversation switches from English to another language. You listen closely and are able to make out certain German words… or is it Russian?

This man knows his languages, that’s for sure.

You let out a sigh and take another sip of your whisky. A voice in your head tells you to get out of there ASAP. This man is danger…. dangerous… dangerously attractive to you. You shift your eyes to take another look at him.

Suit; check. Broad shoulders; check. Arms crossed; partially check.  Feet apart; check.

Yep, it’s a perfect power stance. 

Everything about this man screams wealth, power and domination.

You bite on your lower lip and feel a familiar, unwelcome burning sensation between your legs. It must be the whisky; it has to be. Or this whole situation? It’s perfectly normal to confuse anxiety with arousal… that’s what you were taught in Psychology 101.

“This needs to be done properly. If you are not capable to do so; I will see to it myself.” Mycroft concluded. He places the phone on his desk and walks over to where you are seated. He peers into the almost empty whisky glass before turning his attention to you.

He let himself fall to the back of a chair while his eyes take you in. He flashes you a grin.  

 “You’re so easy to read.”

 “I… what….?” you stuttered. 

“It’s obvious…Your primal instincts taking control…. Downing the whisky to calm your nerves trying to convince yourself otherwise. Trying to deny the wanting, the desire of being taken by a man. Your bodily reactions and pheromones indicate that it’s been at least a year since you had intercourse. You’re like an animal in heat.”  This last sentence was brought as a mere whisper, Mycroft leaning closer into you.

“And all of this… for me? You must be so desperate.” He licked his lips.

You flinch and open your mouth to respond but you have idea what to say..

“I… I…” the words won’t come out and you start to blush ferociously.

Mycroft however kept his challenging gaze, still waiting for a response. His grin turned into a mischievous smile… Or is it just your imagination.  

Not wanting to find out you quickly rise to your feet, swiftly turn and make a hurry for the door.  

But before you reach it, you feel a tug on your arm. In what seemed like less than a second Mycroft stood behind you and swirled you around so you were face to face with him.  

“Look at me.” he demands from you.

You slowly lift your gaze to meet his.

God he’s even taller up close… and more intimidating as well.

He takes a few steps forward, guiding you automatically backwards until you’re trapped between him and the door. He lifts one of your wrists and pins it slightly above your head. You lick your lower lip in anticipation; your body desperately wants to know where this is going.  

Mycroft notices.

“You’ve blossomed into a gorgeous woman, you know that?” his breathing hot and heavy.

A dangerous game you play my dear, bursting in here… wearing a dress that accentuates your curves so perfectly.” His free hand following the contours of your body ‘till comes to rest on your hip.   

“Mycroft… please…” you manage to breath out. Not even sure what you want to say, heck… you don’t even know what you want from him. 

What is it my dear?.... please what?” He huskily breathes in your ear.

‘this is a mistake…” you can’t help but notice the desperation in your own voice.

“No. This is no mistake. If you play with fire, you might get burned girl.“ Mycroft takes your free hand slowly guides it towards his groin.

You inhale deeply, fighting for air.

This. This is what you do to me.” He speaks, never breaking eye-contact.

You instinctively close your eyes and retract your hand when you feel it brush the lump in his pants. Mycroft catches it and pins it above your head with the other hand. You feel your skirt twitch as he presses himself closer to you, the large lump in his pants now pressing against your abdomen.

He pulls you closer, lips hovering just over yours. So close, you can smell the whisky in his breath.

You open your eyes and meet his stare. You see a hints of arrogance and passion displayed across his face.

“You know you want this.” he purrs seductively, pressing his lips somewhat forcefully onto yours. One of his hands travels down your sides, he grips your thigh and hoists it up his hip.

Resulting in a soft moan escaping from your lips.

“Yes, that’s right.” “We want the same.” Slipping his free hand down to lift your skirt and cup your ass while placing a trail of soft kisses in your neck.

He suddenly lets go you and takes few step backwards. The sudden loss of friction leaves you moaning for his touch.  Mycroft grabs your arm and pushes you over to his desk.

As he stalks back to you he takes of his jacket and casually throws it into a chair, continuing to work on his necktie. You place your arms around his neck and whisper “Let me work on that” while already tugging at his collar to loosen the necktie.

He moves his fingers up to your breasts and gently strips your dress downwards. You arch your back as his fingers reach your hips making the dress slip to the ground. His dark eyes bear into yours, filled with lust, passion and wanting. He pulls you towards him and locks your lips with his.

One of his fingers finds its way into the hem of your panty and grazes along your hairless folds. He gently brushes against your clit, sending a jolt of pleasure to pass up your spine. Slowly a finger dips into you earning him another loud moan from your lips.

“You’re so hot and wet for me ” Mycroft growls. Your hips buck forward; welcoming the touch of his large warm hand.   

You wrap your legs around his waist and let your back rest on the desk.

“Oh please Mycroft, take me. Take me now” . You feel his fingers continue to work on your drenched folds while you clamp both hands to the edges of his desk in order to steady yourself.

You hear the sound of unbuttoning pants and smell the release of pre-cum. Out of the corner of your eye you see his pants sliding down to the wooden floor.  His fingers leave you and are replaced by the tip of his hard throbbing member. You steady yourself and wrap your legs tightly around his back. “Yes… Please.. Take me..” you whisper in ecstasy.

He molds your buttocks as he gently pushes his member forward to enter your folds. As he enters you, Mycroft growls “ Fuck, you’re so tight”. You can feel your walls clamps around his member, urging him onward.

He takes on a faster and more steady rhythm, tugging back your hair, dominating you.  

The change in breathing pattern and his groans indicate he’s getting closer to release with every thrust. He slows down his pace, wettens his thumb and places it on your clit….

“Mycroft”. You whimper as he continues to massage your sensitive spot.

A heat of waved flashes over you. You moan out his name as you climax “Mr. Holmes….” almost sending him over the edge as well. You nip your legs together to tighten your entrance. You can feel his member starting to throb harder as you do so. Within mere seconds, he discharges his seed into you.

After withdrawal he leans forward and gently bites one of your nipples. Threading his in hands in your hair, slowly teasing your neck and collarbone…. Indicating that he’s far from done with you.