Actions

Work Header

Closed Circuit

Work Text:

Greg knew a suspicious silence when he heard one. His ears were finely attuned, having had a few years to become accustomed to the classic signs of Holmes-based mischief. Sudden, inexplicable silence when Sherlock was still present in the building was definitely one of those signs.

If you were one of Sherlock's lovers, you could usually tell where Sherlock was. He made it impossible to do otherwise. You only had to follow the sound of arguing, stomping and slammed doors; or incessant tappings on a laptop as he puzzled something out. Giveaway Sherlock sounds included the bubbling and hissing of a chemistry set; as well as the clattering, smashing noise of some poor inanimate object suffering for his boredom and his destructive tendency to take his frustrations out on other people's nice things.

If he was meditating, you'd get an announcement beforehand to remind you to shut up because Very Important Work was being done. Likewise, if he took a nap, a public announcement preceded it, often with a brusque, impolite demand for someone to cuddle up to. He barely shut up in his sleep. His masturbatory sessions were un-ignorable, for a multiplicity of reasons; and if you were foolish enough to be the last man to come home, you'd be all too aware of where he was, because most likely he was being very loudly buggered by one or two of your other lovers.

If none of these things tipped you off, you could guarantee the familiar sound of repetitive spanking and outraged howls of protest would meet your ears at some point. Possibly, you would be the one causing them.

Stealth was something Sherlock only managed on cases. He was pathologically averse to flying under the radar at home, unless he was up to something incredibly naughty.

If you were Greg Lestrade, and you knew what was good for you, you knew where Sherlock was at all times, and you kept your ears pricked for silence.

Downstairs in the Hampstead house, John and Mycroft were watching a documentary on the Cold War together, enjoying their shared enthusiasm for military and social history. Mycroft's interest was rather more professional than personal, but both could sit in front of a good documentary for hours.

Greg wasn't too fussed about non-fiction, and had taken the opportunity to do a bit of DIY. Mycroft always indulged him in his need to be useful. He was unsurprisingly keen on Gregory in Mr Fix-It mode - especially when he wore his tool belt.

Sherlock had absented himself with a disgusted snort, mumbling something about needing to do some deep thinking and not to disturb him, and God, you're all so boring today.

When Greg had finished sorting out stuck drawers and wobbly table legs, he turned his attention to the large upstairs bathroom, which he knew had a few loose tiles in need of regrouting.

It was then that the eerie absence of noise struck him. He frowned.

"Lock? You all right? Are you up here, Trouble?" he called, into the hallway.

He heard a brief scuffle, and what sounded like a small, plastic click coming from Mycroft's master bedroom, where they typically all slept whenever they were gathered here at the weekend. The door was closed. Another highly suspicious factor. A Sherlock behind closed doors was surely up to no good.

"Sherlock Holmes...," he said, warningly, "get your arse out here."

Sherlock emerged from the room, a casually impertinent look on his patrician features. His hair was rumpled and he yawned extravagantly. He stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame.

"Ugh, what?! Am I not allowed to have a nap anymore?" he snarked, like a sleep-deprived teenager.

Greg examined the evidence before him, looking his lover up and down with narrowed eyes.

"Napping, were you? In your clothes?" He took in the very uncrumpled shirt and trousers, at odds with the ruffled hair.

Sherlock shook his head casually. "Nope. Nudey nap. Which you missed, because you're so busy being tedious today. Just got up."

"Right...," said Greg, unconvinced, but prepared to consider the idea that the scuffling noise had been Sherlock slithering back into his clothes. "You weren't up to anything in there, then, no?"

He stepped in a little closer, scrutinising the suspect, trying to read his face for a giveaway flinch.

Sherlock merely snorted dismissively.

"What could I be up to in my brother's bedroom?" he asked, oozing wounded innocence, which was in itself deeply untrustworthy.

Greg scoffed. "Oh no, I'm not giving you any new ideas."

He peered past Sherlock, searching for clues. Sherlock stepped out of the way and gestured towards the bedroom to demonstrate the complete lack of nefarious activity within. The bed did look like it had been recently occupied, but Greg knew better than to assume it had.

"See? A perfectly ordinary room, Detective Inspector," said Sherlock, performing his best insolent eye-roll.

Greg looked doubtful. "Hmm. No pranks? Nothing nasty in the bed, no wanton destruction of clothing? Cos if I find out you've done something, anything even remotely horrible, you know what'll happen..."

He raised a meaningful eyebrow and pointed his finger at the wayward detective.

Sherlock tried to disguise a little gulp at this overt threat, and tossed his head with an imperious lack of concern.

"I don't know what you mean, Greg. Why is everyone always accusing me of things I haven't done?!"

"Experience," said Greg, grimly. "And you usually have done the things you're accused of, actually. With extras on top."

Sherlock pouted adorably and rubbed his eyes sleepily. "Greg, be nice to me. I only came up for a rest. Leave off.”

Greg softened and gave up his interrogation. It was pretty pointless, all things considered. Doubtless any evildoing would be exposed eventually, and then he could swing into action. That was his main forte, really. Not much discovering crime, as dealing with it.

"Aw. Didn't want company, love? Punishing us for ignoring you?"

He made his best puppy eyes, and Sherlock's mouth twitched slightly at the corners.

"Not at all," he replied. "Not everything revolves around you three idiots."

Greg bit his tongue against the word 'hypocrite' which nearly sprang from his mouth.

He shrugged. "I'll sod off back to my tiling, then.” He turned to leave but was pulled back by the disappointed throaty whine that met his ears.

Sherlock's lower lip was now working overtime. "I didn't want any company. I do now though...," he said in his rumbling come-to-bed voice. He fluttered his absurdly long eyelashes and cast a flirtatious glance towards his silver-haired lover. "And you must have worn yourself out, doing all that big manly DIY..."

His gaze flicked down to the tool belt round Greg's hips, and up to his lover’s muscular pecs, nicely outlined under the old, slightly-too-tight t-shirt he always wore when doing chores.

"Nah, plenty of life in the old dog yet. Fancy being my next project?” husked Greg, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Wanna see my slothead screwdriver?"

Sherlock frowned with mock-disapproval.

"Lestrade, if this is going to become an excuse for disgusting innuendos about big throbbing tools and hard hammerings and spirit levels..."

Greg was puzzled.

"How are spirit levels dirty?"

Sherlock tutted. "I don't know, you’re the workman, not me. Just no jokes! They make my cock go down."

Greg grinned and flicked his eyes crotchward. "Nah, they don't," he said, accurately. He leaned seductively on the doorframe and ran his hand under his lover’s shirt, dipping his fingers into the waistband of his trousers.

"Well, no,” admitted Sherlock, weakly. “But I'll tell Mycie, and he'll glare at you. You know how he glares."

Greg leered. "I do. Sexy, innit?"

"Yes, but don't tell him, for God's sake."

Greg pulled him in for a snog, humming happily against Sherlock’s warm, shapely mouth.

"Shut up and get in the bedroom, cheeky lad," he said, between kisses. Then turned the lanky man round and slapped his arse to encourage him into the room.

Sherlock yipped with pleasure. "Yes, sir. But... Can you get John and Mycie?" he asked, peering over his shoulder, grinning sweetly.

Greg faked an unconvincing jealous sulk. "Oh, I'm not enough for you, eh?"

Sherlock nodded cheerfully. "You are, just... Want you all together. Now. Been busy without me all day."

"All right, as it's you. A nice afternooner to make up for it," said Greg, prepared to indulge the boy.

Because, why not?

Sherlock's face lit up. "Great. Before we have to fetch Rosie back from that stupid child's birthday party. Because then it's potato-printing time, and none of you will get a look in once we've started decorating the kitchen."

"Please, please, don't,” groaned Greg in dismay. “I've only just got the last lot of paint off. You get in there and make yourself pretty for us."

Sherlock pecked him quickly and scampered into the room, wiggling out of his clothes.

"Oi, lads!" shouted Greg, down the stairs.

"Just text them! They'll never hear you from here, the house is too big!" called Sherlock, impatiently.

"I'm not texting people in the same bloody house! Oi. John? Johnboy? Mycie, doll? Could you come up here?"

Mycroft emerged at the bottom of the stairs, looking concerned. From the telltale flush on his face and the plumpness of his lips, Greg could tell that the documentary had either finished or been abandoned for a sofa-based necking session.

"What's the matter? Is Lock all right?" he said, a little breathlessly.

Greg chuckled.

"Nothing a good seeing to won't sort out. Horny Lockie. You're needed. And that bloody reprobate doctor."

John appeared and grabbed Mycroft round the waist from behind, causing him to jump.

"What d'you reckon, gorgeous?" said John, smoothly, making eyes at Greg with his head propped on Mycroft's shoulder. "Fancy a go round with your brother and the D.I.?" He nipped at Mycroft's ear lobe, and the taller man shivered and closed his eyes. "I'll let you do that bad thing I was talking about earlier, while they watch..."

Mycroft pulled away and grabbed John's hand to half-drag him up the stairs. Greg laughed and entered the bedroom. Sherlock was laid out like a prize. A very naked prize. But when Greg came in, he could swear those bright, mercurial eyes had momentarily darted from the wall, and were looking a little too wide and naïve for his liking...

"Look who I found," he said, as John and Mycroft tumbled in, faces alight with anticipation, trousers already open, cocks straining against their underwear.

Sherlock grinned and threw his arms over his head in open invitation to whoever could get to him fastest.

John whipped his jeans down and his jumper over his head, while Mycroft more carefully divested himself of his weekend semi-casual slacks and shirt.

Something briefly caught Mycroft’s eye and he hesitated.

"Were you watching television, Lock?" he asked, looking a little uncertainly at the flatscreen which was usually hidden away inside the wall.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "The news. Scanning for cases. Never know what might come up at weekends."

Mycroft tilted his head and shrugged. He searched for the remote control to send the screen back into its housing, but it was nowhere to be found.

"Where's the damn thing... Lock, have you got it there, the control?"

Sherlock shook his head and looked annoyed.

"No! It doesn't matter, it'll turn up," he said, waving a regal hand.

Mycroft continued to search. "I just want to put it away. I don't like having the screen exposed if we're not watching it."

Sherlock sat up, thoroughly pissed off now.

"It doesn't matter! Stop being a fusspot! Not everything has to be put away neatly before you can shag!"

"I didn't say it does, I just like it tidy!" replied Mycroft, offended.

Greg and John exchanged glances of mutual despair as their shag was waylaid by a Holmesian bickering session.

John flopped onto the bed groaning.

"For fuck's sake. Myc, just leave it, get in bed."

Mycroft bristled at John seemingly taking Sherlock's side.

"John, he is hiding the remote control!" he complained, not actually stamping his foot, but wanting to.

"I'm not hiding it, it's just lost!" shouted Sherlock, getting more worked up and going a little pink in the face at his lovers’ curious stares.

"It can't be!" insisted Mycroft.

Greg winced at the tone and moved swiftly into soothe-and-distract move. "It's probably fallen under the bed, love. We'll get it after I've fucked your brains out, yeah?" he said, reassuringly.

He shoved Mycroft firmly down onto the mattress and pressed himself on top of him. Mycroft whimpered a little as he was subdued, and leaned up for a brain-spinning kiss, trying to shake off the icky feeling he was left with when things weren't put in their proper place.

John rolled over and yanked Sherlock's ankles, pulling him squealing until he lay flat once more.

"Bet I can find something better for your gob to do than argue with your brother...," he said with confidence.

Sherlock gave up his sulk and grinned up at his smug flatmate - they grappled with each other in a passion, kissing and biting and scratching with devilish glee.

They petted and played with each other in their pairs for a while, until it was deemed time to swap over. Greg shoved Mycroft towards Sherlock, and John did the same until the Holmes brothers were trapped in the middle between them.

"Play like nice boys...,” ordered Greg, chuckling fondly as they latched onto each other, and started frotting their cocks together with well-practiced strokes.

John climbed over the top and threw himself at Greg, and they resumed foreplay in new couples until they felt it was time to swap again. Greg spooned up to Sherlock, thrusting between his legs and stroking his lover's long prick with a firm hand. Mycroft teased John from behind in the same way as they watched. The sound of groans and whimpers, and uneven panting breaths filled the room.

All was going exactly according to plan and preference, as it had hundreds of times before, when a new and unwelcome sound interrupted them - an electrical fizz, then a sudden snap and a loud pop, followed by the unmistakable smell of wires burning.

Mycroft looked up instantly, and saw that the telly was on fire.

“Bugger!”

"Shit!" shouted John, clocking it a split-second later. Greg looked up dopily, still wanking off Sherlock, who calmly ignored the whole scene.

Mycroft scrambled up and ran naked across the hall to fetch a CO2 fire extinguisher from his utility cupboard, where all kinds of emergency equipment was kept. John simply grabbed the nearest thing to hand with which to suffocate the small blaze – unfortunately, that happened to be Mycroft's dressing gown.

It was only a small fire, and it was already burning out by the time John smothered it, but it left a horrible brown scorch mark on the thick towelling robe. He winced at the revolting smell of singed fabric, coughing a little as the smoke got up his nose. Mycroft re-entered, extinguisher in hand. His face fell when he saw that his dressing gown had fallen victim to health and safety procedures.

“Oh, Johnny, did you have to?!”

John shrugged sheepishly at him. "Sorry, mate. Wasn’t thinking. Just reacted."

Mycroft sighed wearily. "Yes. You and fires, I know," he said, understanding that years in the army made John incredibly quick to respond to flames. "As long as no-one’s hurt, I suppose. But why did the damn thing explode like that? It's fairly new. And dreadfully expensive. Fitted out by my lot to be practically indestructible!"

"Dodgy wiring, I guess," said Greg. "Bloody cowboy companies selling you tat, and raking it in. I'd sue."

"This thing was installed by MI6! Actually, I take your point. I might bloody well sue," said Mycroft, darkly, his tone promising retribution for some poor sod. "It's... Hang on..."

He sounded puzzled as he investigated the damage.

"Er, forget it, come back to bed, Mycie" said Sherlock, hastily. "We were in the middle of something!"

"Not now, mate, let's just clear this up a bit," said John, reasonably.

"No! Come back and fuck me. Look, my bum's in the air... John. John-John, look. Mycie. See?"

John tutted and made a decent show of appearing unimpressed. "Yeah, lovely. Be patient, for God's sake!" he scolded.

Sherlock scowled. "Greg, tell them to leave it alone!"

"There's something here in the screen..." continued Mycroft, sounding utterly bemused and a little worried.

Sherlock grimaced, and Greg frowned.

"What?"

“There’s a… Oh, Christ…,” said Mycroft, with dread. “A camera. It’s a camera.”

John started in shock. “What?! How can that… What does that mean, Myc? Is someone spying on us? Are we in trouble here?”

Mycroft’s face was grave and ashen with shock at the unexpected discovery.

“Quite possibly, John. It’s supposed to be hack-proof. I’ll have someone’s guts for bloody garters… Look here.” John peered at it in fascination, but felt sick at the idea of a security breach here in the safest house in the country.

“It’s a domestic model,” explained Mycroft, grimly. “Specialist but not unobtainable on the open market. Recently installed.” He frowned deeply and put a finger to his lips as he thought through his options. “I don’t quite know what this means, but I’ll find out.”

He went to retrieve his phone to put an urgent call in to Anthea, but he was stopped by Greg.

“Hang on, love. I think I might know what it bloody means,” the D.I. all but growled. He looked down at Sherlock, with his arms folded. His jaw clenched with anger and anticipation of his suspicions being proven completely correct. As usual.

Sherlock swallowed hard and blinked innocuously.

“What?”

Mycroft’s features moved swiftly from deep concern to an ambivalent mix of relief, incredulity, exasperation and livid fury.

“Sherlock William Holmes…,” said the elder Holmes, dark and ominous.

John frowned in confusion. “What? Don’t know anything about this, do you, Lock?”

“No, not at all,” said Sherlock, decisively.

“Ooh, you’re in so much shit,” breathed Greg, shakily, rolling off the bed to control himself.

Realisation dawned upon John. He put his hand over his eyes and winced, shaking his head in appalled horror.

“Tell me you didn’t.”

“He did, John,” confirmed Greg. “He was in here earlier, pretending to nap but blatantly up to something. He bullshitted his way out of it, and manipulated us into this little scenario.”

There was no need to ask why. They all knew.

Sherlock had nagged relentlessly to be allowed to make a homemade pornographic film, but had been met with stubborn, iron-clad refusal - for reasons obvious to all but himself. Or rather, reasons everyone except him was prepared to accept as valid. Filming the four of them romping together was deemed far too risky and the technology too susceptible to error for anyone’s comfort, despite their proclivity for voyeurism. Although, Mycroft privately admitted he was more squeamish about the idea of watching himself than about security. Nevertheless, Sherlock had evidently ignored their vetoes and taken matters into his own hands.

“You’ve got, like, ten seconds to explain, mate,” said John, in a no-nonsense tone.

Sherlock scoffed and stuck to his guns.

“What’s to explain? I haven’t done anything. Not my fault MI6 make shit tellies,” he insisted with almost admirable defiance.

“Boy, you are picking the wrong tactic…,” warned Greg, fixing the obviously guilty Peeping Tom with a fierce glare.

Sherlock didn’t take the hint.

“You’re all paranoid.” He folded his arms and turned his head away, opting for the full-on Princeling mode of self-defence.

Mycroft paid little attention to the theatrics. He was too busy examining the camera, and gave a small hum of interest.

“Ah. Yes. I see what’s happened. It short-circuited. Wasn’t installed with much skill. Very haphazard. Amateur stuff,” he scoffed, almost to himself.

“I was in a rush, Greg interrupted me!” whined Sherlock, automatically defending his honour. His face fell as he realised he’d fallen for the oldest, stupidest, most obvious trick in the book.

Mycroft turned a smug look of triumph upon him.

“Never learn, do you, you silly boy?” he drawled, all arched eyebrows and smirk. “It’s almost as though you want to be caught.”

Sherlock huffed. “Oh, do shut up, Mycroft! I don’t know what you’re all so tetchy about, it’s perfectly safe! No-one’s going to see the footage. Only I can hack stupid MI6’s stupid closed system anyway. I’m better than literally everyone in the whole world.”

“Ha!” barked Mycroft, with exquisite sarcasm.

“I am! You know I am, Mycie!” insisted Sherlock, but received no such confirmation. He scowled furiously. He bloody was the best hacker in the world, and Mycroft knew it too.

John intervened, his voice rising with incredulity at this new frontier of bad behaviour.  

“It’s not even the danger, dickhead - it’s the not asking permission! It’s the non-consent! The pervy filmmaking which we specifically refused to participate in! Honestly, running covert bloody ops on your own partners… Unbelievable!”

“Sneaky little sod,” threw in Greg, for good measure.

Sherlock whined in protest. He felt he was being given an unfair trial.

“But Greg, you’d love us to do a bonking video!”

Greg snorted with amusement, then remembered he was annoyed. “Yeah, never said I wouldn’t. It’s not about that, you great prat!”

“John, don’t pretend you wouldn’t love watching yourself fuck me on film, I know you would!” said Sherlock, attempting another appeal. “You love fucking me in front of the mirror - you’re the most vain of us all!”

John’s mouth dropped open in outrage and mortification at the small grain of truth in this statement. So what if he did like watching himself fuck his lovers in the mirror occasionally? Only because sometimes he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to, and seeing it objectively made it feel more real. But it was unfair to have this little foible held against him.

“You rotten little…!”

“Don’t deny it, Watson! You’d love a mucky vid of us doing it. Imagine all the fast-forwarding and rewinding!”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up as he imagined the fantastically filthy spectacle they’d make.

“And pausing at the good bits, and skipping through the foreplay to the bit where Greg shoves himself in.... Ooh, oh, John, we could watch Mycie getting it up the bum in slow motion!” he exclaimed, carried away on a wave of erotic excitement.

John’s eyes glazed over a little at the imagery.

Mycroft was still fiddling with the television. At the sound of his name, he looked round, blushing as his brother described such an exposing scene.

Greg saw his lovers’ thoughts wandering and sighed as he realised he needed to get them back on track.

“Right, that’s enough bloody storyboarding, thank you, Spielberg. Bet you didn’t think twice about how we’d feel about being unwitting actors in your own private skin flick, did you? Were you going to keep it to yourself all along, or did you think we wouldn’t worry about being caught on candid camera?”

“Would’ve told you eventually…,” sulked Sherlock.

Mycroft shook his head in extreme displeasure. “Lock, this is simply appalling. A new low, even by your already low standards.”

“But it’s safe! Mycroft, you can’t tell me it isn’t - this place is signal-jammed to the rafters! Riddled with devices to alert you to any outside interference. Your telly’s unhackable by anyone but me, and you know it!”

“Irrelevant and spurious! No-one gave permission.”

Greg opened his mouth to intervene but was cut off when the telly made a sudden whirring noise. Even in its half-burnt out state, the screen flickered to life - displayed on screen was the bedroom and the four of them, apparently being recorded in real time.

“Oh, it still works,” said John, unnecessarily.

Sherlock grinned. “Yes! Excellent. I’ll have my camera back then, thanks. No need to worry.”

He scrambled to get off the bed, and was prevented by Greg’s firm grip on his arm.

“Oi, you stay put, buster.” An interesting thought occurred to him. “Mycie, love. Erm… Is it safe, do you reckon. Seriously? The camera?”

Sherlock gasped in delight, sensing his luck about to change.

Mycroft looked perturbed.

“Well… Yes, as safe as anything can be in this place, I suppose. As safe as you’ll ever hear me admit anything being. But nothing’s 100%. You’re not seriously considering letting him have his way, are you, Gregory?”

Greg gave an evil grin.

“I’ll tell you what I’m considering, my darlin’, if you bring that lovely wooden-backed hairbrush on your dresser over here.”

Sherlock’s face fell comically into a mask of dismay.

“Oh, Greg, nooo! I do my hair with that! You can't spank me with my own brush!”

Greg smiled pleasantly. 

"No, you're right. Bring your bedroom slippers too, Mycie, if you would."

"That's...cruel and unusual!" shouted Sherlock, appalled. "Don't you dare, Mycroft! Oh, why do you always do as you're told?!" 

But Mycroft had gone temporarily, selectively deaf.

Greg tutted at his youngest lover's outburst. “Don't hector your brother. You be quiet and think about how sorry you’re about to be.”

John grunted, manfully trying to suppress his laughter as the elder Holmes retrieved and brought over a truly excessive number of disciplinary implements. He handed the hairbrush over to Gregory, knowing the pecking order of such things, then passed one of his elegant, leather-soled bedroom slippers to John with gallant solicitude.

"Do take one for yourself, love," said Greg, smirking unbearably. Mycroft made a small bow of thanks, and Sherlock scowled furiously in his direction.

Ignoring him completely, Greg flipped the hairbrush up into the air so it spun, then caught it by the handle, just to show off and irritate the lad even more. But Lock's disgusted expression shifted to one of impending doom when he slapped the hard, flat wooden oval onto his palm and positioned himself to sit at the end of the bed directly in front of the telly.

Greg saw himself in the screen and frowned slightly at his image – bit more of a tum than he thought; a few more grey hairs than he realised. Ah, well, sod it. He had three blokes on the go, and none of them were complaining.

He turned his attention to the matter at hand.

“Right, my little undercover cinematographer,” he said, decisively. “Going over my knee, then John’s, then your brother’s, ‘til you’re properly bloody sorry. And we’re going to capture it all on video to enjoy later.”

Mycroft looked over at Greg to double check his role. Greg nodded reassuringly.

“You’ve offended us all, so you’re getting it from all of us,” he said, more for Mycroft’s benefit than the younger Holmes.

Sherlock fidgeted and screwed his face up in disgust.

“That’s an outrage! Probably against international law. You’re violating my rights!”

Greg simply ignored the habitual pointless protestations.

“Nope. I’m violating your arse. You can’t say you’re not used to it.”

He crooked his finger at the cringing miscreant, who tried to make an escape but was prevented by John, who shoved him towards comeuppance. Greg made a grab and hauled the struggling detective across his lap, hooking a leg round to pin him down.

“Come here, you little sod,” muttered Greg, through gritted teeth. “Teach you to bloody lie to my face. Hidden cameras, I ask you…!”

Sherlock winced as he felt Greg take aim, and his head jerked up as the hideous hairbrush rose and fell upon his vulnerable backside with alarming speed, leaving a fierce sting in its wake. He screwed his eyes shut as Greg went to town, tanning his bare bottom with every ounce of considerable upper body strength.

“Oww!” yelled the not-yet-remorseful detective - then bit his lip as he remembered all of this was being recorded and would definitely be used in evidence against him later.

Greg’s face bore a look of intense concentration as he lit a small fire upon his most troublesome lover’s soft, rounded cheeks. The hairbrush made a fearsome noise and Sherlock gasped with every wallop. He whined in the back of his throat and fidgeted uncomfortably, which only caused his bottom to wobble and present an even more tempting target.

“Greg, no!” he moaned in despair and gritted his teeth.

“Nice and loud for the microphone, now. Move over a bit, John, want the camera to get a full view. This is his best side,” chuckled Greg, having a fine time of it.

John was caught in a dilemma. He didn’t know whether to watch Sherlock being spanked on the bed in front of him, or to watch Sherlock being spanked on the screen behind him. It was deeply confusing, and in the end he settled for a combination of the two, which made his head move swiftly from side to side as though he were watching a tennis match.

Mycroft had decided to stand off to the side, away from the camera’s gaze, preferring to stay out of the spotlight. He was always content to watch his brother’s luscious backside turning a delightful shade of pink in reality, as opposed to on Reality TV.

Sherlock continued to wail without hope as the burn across his arse intensified.

“Ouch, Greg! Mean! Too…ow! Hard! Too hard, stop it!”

Lock’s howls of protest were the very definition of wasted breath. Greg stopped when he was ready, and not before. If anything, he prolonged a punishment based on the number of times he was told to stop. Sherlock had never quite gotten the hang of keeping quiet, nor of attempting a sincere apology, which might actually have worked.

“Why are you being disciplined, Lock?” he asked, giving him a chance to earn a reprieve.

“Argh! Cos… Hidden camera!” shouted Sherlock, angrily.

“Watch your tone. What about it?”

“Not allowed. Not good. Didn’t tell you!”

“Anything else?”

“Ow-ow! I don’t bloody know!”

“Oi, don’t get lippy with me.”

Greg whacked him a little harder for that, and when Sherlock was reduced to non-verbal communication once more, he stopped. He wanted to leave something for the others, rather than make complete mincemeat of the plump little peach quivering over his lap.

He assessed his handiwork and nodded in satisfaction. Blushing bright pink, with a few outstanding oval shapes adorning. Nicely warmed up.

“Over to you, Doc. Make it a good ‘un, Big Brother is watching you,” he said with heavy irony.

Mycroft snorted.

“He certainly is, darling.”

John sat and manhandled a squalling Lock over his bare thighs. He turned to look directly at the camera, raising his eyebrows as if to say to his imaginary audience, ‘honestly, the things I have to put up with’.

“Spanking Sherlock Holmes, Part 2: Watson’s Revenge, take 1,” he quipped, and winked cheekily at himself on the screen.

Sherlock growled in aggravation at being so horribly teased. “Shut up, John…OW! Oh, you’re awful!”

He threw his hand back. John grabbed his wrist and pinned it to his lower back, then carried on raining down sharp smacks with Mycroft's leather slipper. Its light weight and flexible sole meant it conveyed none of the thud or bruising potential of any number of other implements - but it still hurt like a bastard, especially over the hairbrush marks. 

Greg chuckled inwardly at Sherlock’s traditional accusation that John was the most relentless spanker. Always aimed for the same spot, that was his secret. Fiendish little bugger. Greg preferred to spread the sting around, but John had a soldier’s aim and used it to devastating effect.

Sherlock wailed as his fleshy sit-spots were peppered with smarting blows, which echoed sharply through the room. In truth, John stayed his hand a little, knowing Greg had laid down the main part of this session already, but Sherlock's conviction in John's abilities made him perceive it as worse than it was. 

“Come on, mate, what have you got to say for yourself?” asked John, firmly.

“Just ow, and nothing else! I've already had the hairbrush, it's not fair!” cried Sherlock, self-pityingly. “I was trying to do something nice!”

John tutted in disbelief. “You were trying to get away with something. We said no, and we meant bloody no. Tough shit. You. Don’t. Go. Over. Our. Heads!” he said, spanking on every word for emphasis.

Sherlock yowled and bucked until John ceased making his very valid point, then whimpered and huffed in discomfort.

“Right, think I’m done. Myc, you’re up,” said John, cheerfully, proud of the way he’d taken the bright pink globes to a more convincing scarlet.

Mycroft glanced warily at the screen, disturbed to see himself naked and taking up his position on the bed. But then he realised he had a job to do, and focused on his task.

Sherlock struggled harder as Greg pulled him over his brother’s lap, while Mycroft judged the weight of the slipper in his hand to work out how hard to go. He hoped much more would not be necessary, but knew from Lock's cries that he was waiting for this next round before he gave himself up. 

“Hang on,” John grinned and turned to the camera again. “Final part of the trilogy,” he announced to himself. “Return of the Sting.”

Mycroft flinched at John’s godawful solo banter.

“Thank you, Johnny, please don't trouble yourself further... Stop wiggling Lockie, or I’ll smack the backs of your legs too and you won’t sit comfortably for the rest of the week!” he scolded, impatiently.

“I already won’t. Ow!” exclaimed Sherlock, as the backs of his thighs were walloped with the second horrid slipper.

“Mycie, don’t! Please? I’ll suck you off really nicely, really, really… Oof! You beast, Mycroft Holmes! Mmf! You only enjoy this because Mummy used to do it to you!”

Sherlock had decided against all prior evidence to the contrary, that attack was the best form of defence.

“Be quiet!” demanded Mycroft, appalled. So appalled he momentarily forgot what he was supposed to be doing. “Outrageous lies. Mummy never slippered me. I was always her very good boy, I think you'll find!”

Sherlock recovered his breath now his spanking had been abandoned.

“Liar! I remember you blubbing your eyes out when she caught you nicking the sherry that time!”

“Shut up, you can’t remember that, you weren’t even there.”

“You told me about it when you came crying to my room, complaining about your stinging bum. You made me rub cream into it!”

“You enjoyed it!” accused Mycroft.

“Yes, I did! Aargh! No, not there!”

Mycroft had evidently remembered what he was supposed to be doing, and brought the hated item of footwear down upon his brother’s pale thighs, just where they met the curve of his cheeks.

“Serves you right. If Mummy had done this more often years ago, you wouldn’t be such a spoiled brat!”

“Ha! She wouldn’t, cos I was the prettiest, and the youngest, and the fastest at running away, so there!”

“And that’s why it’s my job, you little horror!”

“Myciiieee!” Sherlock wailed in abject misery, as his elder brother resumed his punishment in earnest. All the struggling had rather worn him out, and he felt his near-collapse into acceptance approaching.

After some unbearably long period of time the blows suddenly stopped and he sagged with relief, though he suspected relief was premature.

“Gentlemen,” said Mycroft, politely. “Could you help me? I think a more specific lesson is called for. I haven’t heard the word ‘sorry’ at all yet.”

Greg and John exchanged glances, and knew exactly what was required of them. Sherlock mewled and ducked his head into his folded arms at what was inevitably coming, and which it was pointless trying to evade.

He winced and flushed as his sore cheeks were parted, revealing his pink, puckered hole to his lovers’ eyes. Mycroft shifted slightly, and Sherlock realised he was being presented to the camera. He blushed fiercely and whimpered at the embarrassing exposure.

Greg and John suppressed their desire to coo appreciatively at the sight, and let the elder Holmes do his thing.

“Now, you ghastly boy, let’s see if you can remember your manners, hm?” said Mycroft, dryly, and brought the slipper smartly down upon his little brother’s twitching bumhole.

Sherlock screeched like he’d been burnt, and bit into the duvet underneath him.

The slipper descended again and again on his spread bottom - though Mycroft didn’t need to use much force to make the point – until the tender inside of his cleft was made as sore as the rest. He felt like he’d sat in a patch of stinging nettles.

“Please! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, all right?!” yelled Sherlock, desperately.

“Sorry for what?” tested Greg, indicating to Mycroft to lay off his task and give his sobbing brother a chance to collect himself.

“Sorry for lying…and being a sneak, and…” Sherlock’s breath hitched in his chest and he sniffled. “A bit sorry I was caught. But mostly sorry for upsetting you and…” He struggled for the right answer. “Consent. Ignoring consent!”

“Ah, there it is,” said John, approvingly.

Mycroft patted his brother’s heated backside.

“Thank you, darling,” he said with relief. “That’s it. That really is very important, you know.”

“I know,” said Sherlock, sheepishly.

“Trust is all. We are nothing without trust.”

Sherlock ducked his guiltily. “I know. I really am sorry! Being a selfish twat. Don’t be angry with me anymore, I hate it!”

Greg clicked his tongue empathetically. “Aw. Not angry with you, Trouble. You did a daft thing, you've had your arse well and truly smacked, and you’re sorry. So it’s done, yeah?”

“Yeah?” said Sherlock, sniffling and hopeful, looking forward to the nice bit that he knew was coming now he’d been forgiven.

“Yep. Up you come, bonny lad. John, turn that bleedin’ camera off, will you?”

John nodded and did so.

Together they arranged themselves on the bed, shushing and petting their very sorry lover until he was calmer, less embarrassed and no longer tearful.

Greg gathered him to lie on his chest, and soothed him with soft strokes to his hair and down his long bare back. John and Mycroft stroked a buttock each, feeling the heat emanating from it and admiring the shading, set off nicely by fast-fading oval imprints. They exchanged rueful but knowing smirks at the scrapes their darling boy insisted on getting himself into.

“Poor sore bum. Aw. How can we cheer up my Lockie, hm?” asked Greg, rhetorically, nuzzling him warmly.

“Dunno,” said Lock, mock-pouting into Greg’s chest.

“Fancy watching a video?” said John, cheekily. Mycroft chuckled.

Greg hummed with approval. “Mm, I know I do. What d’you reckon, sweetheart? Shall we see what all that fuss was about?”

“Nooo,” whinged Sherlock, feeling a blush lighting his face. But the telltale twitch of his cock against Greg’s thigh told a different story.

“Ooh, yeah, I think baby boy would like a nice little home movie,” teased Greg, huskily.

Mycroft got up and rewound the recording, then hit the playback button. Sherlock’s spanking was replayed to them in technicolour and high-quality surround sound.

“Ow!” complained Video Sherlock.

“Turn it off!” demanded Real Sherlock.

“Such a raunchy exhibitionist...," crooned Greg, seductively. "Look, there’s me warming your arse with that nasty hairbrush. I look pretty good at it, I must say.”

Sherlock groaned and hid his face, but his hips jerked forwards and he rubbed the tip of his cock against his older lover.

“Why don’t you turn over, hands and knees, there’s a lad, and face the screen for me? Johnny’s gonna let your big brother do that bad thing he likes. You know, when he puts his tongue somewhere very naughty, and just wiggles it for ages. And I’m gonna cool down that poor hot bum of yours, from the inside…”

Greg grinned as he heard the breath catch in all three of his lovers’ throats. Sherlock whinged and moved to face the screen, unable to help himself.

He cocked his head in fascination – there he was on the television, naked and draped across Greg’s strong thighs, being given a sound hiding only moments ago.

“Hard! Too hard, stop it!” his screen counterpart was saying as the cracking sound of the hairbrush rang out once more. But Sherlock wasn’t sure he wanted Greg to stop now though. It was much nicer to watch than to experience.

A thrill of delicious humiliation ran down his spine and his cock hardened further, leaking slightly between his legs and onto the bed.

John’s hand slipped underneath him and stroked him firmly.

“Ooh,” he moaned, as John brought his hand to his mouth and licked up the wetness. Sherlock locked eyes with him, and John gave him his dirtiest smirk.

“Filthy little fucker. Getting off on watching your own spanking. So vain…,” he said, with infuriating impudence.

Mycroft snorted a laugh through his nose, and tumbled John onto his front before he could say anything else, to spare his brother’s blushes. He knelt at the end of the bed, with his back to the screen, so Sherlock could see him spreading John’s arse and plunging his face into it.

John groaned with bestial pleasure as Mycroft lodged his long, hot tongue inside him and kept it there. Their combined guttural moans ratcheted up the heat in the room, and Greg couldn’t wait any longer to claim Lock for himself.

On screen, John was whacking Sherlock with the slipper now. Sherlock noted with detached fascination the look of careful concentration on his flatmate’s face. Concentration which spoke of care and control rather than the enthusiastic enjoyment he imagined when he was over his knee. That was how they all looked behind his back, he realised. Tolerant, and steady, and loving. 

Screen Sherlock made a very mortifying screeching noise. Like a cat being stepped on.

“I don’t sound like that!” exclaimed Lock, aghast. He flushed hot at the very notion.

Greg chuckled behind him. “No, course not, that’s an impressionist, that is.”

Sherlock shivered as Greg’s broad hand stroked at his blemished bottom, and ran a thick finger down his cleft to his swollen hole. “I’m never that…whiny. Am I?,” he said, doubtfully, and cast a pleading look over his shoulder.

Mycroft snorted derisively as he plundered John’s arse with his refined, talented mouth, which caused John to yelp and groan even harder.

Greg brought his hand between Sherlock’s thighs and rolled his soft balls round his palm, thumbing at his perineum.

Recorded sounds of the Holmes brothers bickering met his ears, and Sherlock cringed at the immature petulance in his voice as he heard himself brag that Mummy thought he was the prettiest…

Greg began masturbating him from behind now, smoothing his hand up and down his long, leaking prick. Screen Sherlock was having his sore bottom smacked again, and the percussive noise of it was doing funny things to his insides.

“Look at you,” whispered Greg in his lover's ear. “Dirty boy. All hard watching yourself being thrashed by your big brother…”

“Oh, Greg…,” moaned Sherlock. At the same time, Screen Mycroft beckoned for their lovers to spread his reddened cheeks. Sherlock whined as Screen Mycroft called him a ghastly boy again. 

Greg had retrieved lube from beneath the pillow, and set about slicking himself up in preparation for the shag he'd been promised earlier. With slippery hands, he parted his lover’s hot bottom at the exact same time as it happened on screen. He gazed in wonder all over again at the convulsing little rosebud exposed for his delectation.

Sherlock flinched as the tip of Greg’s finger pressed his tender hole. His head span as he was breached, and he shuddered at the combined sensation of pleasure and mild pain. His cock grew ever harder at the awful, humiliating sound of his own voice begging Greg to fuck him, and the profuse apologies he was making on film as his arsehole was slippered by his dreadful brother.

He keened as he felt Greg’s second finger slide home, and then a third almost before he’d drawn breath. Greg crooked his hand and pressed in to seek that spongy gland hidden inside him.

Sherlock’s voice hit a tenor pitch as he moaned, and Greg milked precome from him with a slow, firm, circular motion.

“Think you can take a fourth for me?” said Greg in a rasping voice, barely holding on to his restraint.

“Ye-e-ah… Oooh…!” cried Lock, desperately, as he got his wish.

“Good boy, oh, my good boy,” panted Greg, “Bet I can just wiggle my thumb in a little bit…”

Sherlock whimpered anxiously but thrust back onto his lover’s thick digits, requesting more.

“Ssh, breathe. Calm. Not gonna hurt you, sweetheart. Not fisting you, just stretching you out a bit. Cos I do like it, don’t I?” murmured Greg, gone into toppy headspace.

Sherlock nodded frantically. “Like it…too!” he managed to say.

“Yeah, he likes it, Greg, you filthy…ooh,” chuckled John, still being expertly rimmed beside him.

The video had reached the part where Sherlock issued his abject apologies, and to save him from reliving too much emotional discomfort, Greg distracted him with obscenity.

“There it is, darl. Oh, fuck me, you’re wide. Taking all four of my fingers, and just the tip of my thumb inside your gorgeous arsehole. So tight usually, in’t it? But not now. Oh, no…”

Sherlock wailed incoherently, beyond further expression.

“Yeah… Oh, yeah," growled Greg, like a beast. "He likes that. Fucking hell, he likes it big, my naughty Lockie. Look at that, lads. Fucking look at that…”

John whinged as Mycroft ceased his oral ministrations and turned to watch as their magnificent D.I. open his needy little brother upon his hand.

No sooner had they witnessed it, than Greg was carefully pulling out. They watched in stunned fascination when Sherlock’s intimate muscle clenched and released, as he bore down to let his lover’s fingers slide out. His hole was a little puffy from the engorgement of blood to his nerve-endings, and it stayed gaping open, ready for more.

Greg placed a hand on his lover’s lower back, and used his other hand to guide the wide head of his oversized cock to the fluttering entrance. He slid in slowly, eyes rolling back as he filled his partner's hot, pulsating passage until he was completely seated up to his balls.

Sherlock’s head fell forwards and his spine curved as he took it, feeling a deep, delicious burn building right through him. The video was off now, just white noise and static on the TV screen. He channelled all his attention into his own physical need.

Greg grunted and huffed as he began thrusting. Beside them, Sherlock caught John flipping over onto his back. Mycroft settled between his legs to slurp and suck at their adored Doctor’s thick, blunt cock - with one or two elegant fingers pushed up his arse for good measure.

Their combined moans created a new soundtrack, entirely more harmonious than the previous one of stinging spanks, scoldings and sobbing regrets.

Greg fucked deep and strong, angling himself upwards in the familiar way. He pulled Sherlock’s razor-sharp hips down onto his prick with every thrust, to spear him on it as far as he could.

“Oh, yeah, Greg'ry! Fuck, fuck me…,” begged Sherlock, finding his voice again. He was so near, so near...

He got a little closer when he heard John groan deep in his chest, and come down his brother’s open throat.

Greg humped even harder, knocking Sherlock's body forwards repeatedly.

Seeing an opportunity, Mycroft quickly moved underneath to take his brother's straining prick into his mouth, with the taste of John still on his tongue. He crooked his head at an awkward angle, giving himself a crick in the neck he knew he’d suffer for later.

"Mycie!" gasped Lock, with playful shock.

His voice became a continuous whine of pleasure as he was pounded into from behind and sucked so enthusiastically from below. He craned round to see his brother lying on his side. John was straddling him, giving him an efficient wank with one hand, and a hard, steady fingering with the other, intent on bringing him off ambidextrously.

"Jo-o-o-ohn..."

John looked him in the eye with a very naughty smirk. It was all too much for Sherlock. He groaned low and loud as a great wave of pleasure overtook him. He came, hips stuttering and jerking uncontrollably, which only stimulated his prostate on Greg's cock even more. A jet of hot fluid released from his body with head-spinning force, straight into his brother’s suctioning mouth. He groaned helplessly through convulsing aftershocks, brain gone completely into the stratosphere.

Mycroft moaned round his brother’s twitching cock as he swallowed him down, indulging in the combined scent and flavour of his lovers. The heady taste triggered his own primal need for release – that, and John’s twisting, tormenting fingers nudging inside him. He came seconds later, contracting and emptying himself over John’s fist.

Greg watched it all from above, feeling like the King of the Fucking Castle. Sherlock’s hot little arse and kittenish cries; Mycroft’s sex-wet face and stunned panting; John’s smug, satisfied grin and hungry eyes, watching as his big cock stretched their shared lover’s slack opening.

He grunted three times in quick succession, and then a rush of hormones ripped through him, and Greg orgasmed with such intensity his vision went shonky, like a malfunctioning TV screen.

Sherlock whimpered and rested his head on his hands, still impaled on Greg’s prick until it gradually softened enough for him to pull away. They moaned at the loss of contact, but Greg held him in place for a moment, framing his bottom in his hands.

“Do that thing, Lock, go on…,” he coaxed in a teasing voice. He parted the pink buttocks with his thumbs to reveal the very used, very tender aperture once more.

John and Mycroft scrambled back to look, knowing what was coming.

“Greg, you’re an animal!” Sherlock giggled self-consciously, still gasping for breath after his big finish, all hurt long since forgotten.

He hid his face in his arms, and pushed from deep within, sending a substantial flood of Greg’s spunk gushing from his body. It dribbled onto the bed and down his inner thighs, and he peered round his shoulder to see his lovers losing the plot all at the same time.

“Fuuuck...,” they groaned in unison.

Sherlock finally collapsed onto his front exactly where he was – head at the foot-end of the bed. He sighed with completion, and smiled at the cleansed feeling of having been caught doing something dodgy and then forgiven for it in the best possible way.

Greg’s back clicked as he flopped back onto the pillow, and John joined him, snogging him senseless in gratitude for, well, everything. Mycroft gently moved Sherlock’s large feet from his face and lay back to catch his breath properly. He rummaged under the pillow, feeling something untoward, and fished out the remote control he’d been seeking earlier.

He waved it at Greg and rolled his eyes in mock-despair.

Another unusual sound started up – Sherlockian snoring. His starring role in a triple-spanking film, and the subsequent shagging session with his biggest fans had obviously worn him out.

Mycroft turned carefully to Greg and John, who were gazing adoringly down at his napping brother.

“You know I have to delete that recording?” he whispered very quietly, with a regretful air.

Greg confirmed this with a nod. John looked like he was going to object, but relented and also nodded understandingly.  

Mycroft cast them a look of thanks.

“But…,” he whispered, “don’t tell him.” He pointed the control at Lock, as though putting him on pause. “Best to have something in the bank. I’ll threaten to show it to Anthea to deter future naughtiness.”

Greg grinned and John chuckled softly.

‘Good luck with that, mate,’ they both thought, simultaneously. They were, of course, far too polite and sensitive to say it out loud.

Sherlock snuffled in his sleep, and Mycroft’s face melted into a heartfelt look of affection.

He nodded in satisfaction and relief. Then he turned himself upside down, put his feet on the pillow, and lay his head next to his baby brother to join him in a much-needed nap.