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"I Know What You Need, Brother!"

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“No! I'm not going to explain it a second time!” Sherlock thundered. Idiots! Everybody he had met today had been an idiot!

“But I don't understand! Why would my niece do that to me?!” the old woman with the lilac hair and the starched white blouse sobbed.

“I. Told. You. Because she needs the money for her secret boyfriend,” Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth, gathering his last bit of patience. It wasn’t much left and there had not been a lot of it to begin with. The imbeciles who had shown up in Baker Street had only brought him the most boring cases anyone could think of. A blindfolded five-year-old could have solved them! It was a disgrace and an insult for his brilliance!

“Sherlock…” John threw in, looking a tad annoyed and even more alarmed. Well, he knew the signs of a Sherlock about to explode.

The client, of course, did not. “But why! She's had it so good, living with me and my cats and…”

He rolled his eyes. “I have no idea! Perhaps she likes to get…”


He broke off and got up so fast that his chair almost turned over. “Go, Mrs… Whatever! I have solved your case so now pi… go!”

The old woman took her purse and stood up, sobbing. “You're a nasty man, Mr Holmes!”

“Oh, am I? And I thought I just helped you!”

“It's alright, Mrs Henderson, I'll guide you to the door.” John gave him a piercing look while taking the client by her arm.

Sherlock snorted and took out his phone to fire off a text. It was about time.

Diogenes or Cabinet? SH

He didn’t have to wait more than five seconds.

Oh, Sherlock, again? Can't you wait until I get home? MH

No, I can, in fact, not! That's at least two hours! No way! SH

Diogenes. But I'll be off to a meeting in forty-five minutes. MH

Sherlock groaned. He hated to go to the Diogenes. Too quiet, this house! But the time should be sufficient.

Be there in ten minutes. SH

Very well. I might have to gag you if you are as noisy as last time! MH

Sherlock didn’t grace this affront with an answer. He just grabbed his coat and stormed off.

“Hey, where are you going?” John asked. He had been about to close the door behind the client.

“Out. Will be back in about an hour.”

“But there will be another client in…”

“They will have to wait then!” Sherlock grabbed the door handle.

“But where are you going again? You won't buy drugs, will you?!”

“Of course not! I'm clean! Need fresh air!”

“In London?”

Sherlock just growled and left 221B without another word. He had things to do. If he didn’t, he would kill someone until the day was over…


Sherlock raised a regal hand when he stormed through the office of Mycroft's PA. “Anthea.”

“Mr Holmes.” She didn’t say Mycroft was awaiting him. She didn’t sound or look curious or surprised. She didn't even look up from her phone. Sherlock dropping by at all times was nothing special.

He didn’t bother knocking but just entered his brother's office, closing and locking the door behind him without looking. Of course nobody just stalked into the British Government's office without an invitation. Not even the Queen would dare. But Sherlock always locked the door.

Of course his brother was on the phone. He was always on the phone… With the Prime Minister, judging from his silky tone. “Yes, sir, of course… It will be my pleasure…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pretended to gag and Mycroft narrowed his eyes. Sherlock just grinned and opened his trousers. He didn’t have any time to lose. Mycroft blinked rapidly a few times and turned his chair around.

Not wanting to stand around, let alone walk with his silly trousers around his ankles, Sherlock stepped out of his shoes and took them off along with his pants. He left the socks on because he didn’t want to get cold feet and because his brother loathed seeing him in socks and naked legs.

“Yes, sir, I'll make sure… Without a doubt…” He turned to Sherlock again, who was tapping on the table and glaring at him, pointing at his watch with the other hand. Mycroft grimaced and then he finally managed to get rid of his boss. “That was important!” He typed on his phone, certainly arranging any incoming calls being forwarded to Anthea – the usual procedure.

“Yeah, yeah. Everything is important for Mr Important,” Sherlock snarled. Then he turned around and prepped himself up on his forearms Mycroft's desk, which his brother had forehandedly cleared from all folders that might have lain on it. “You are the one who has to run off in thirty minutes so if you'd be so kind.”

Mycroft sighed but he couldn’t fool Sherlock. The sight of Sherlock's exposed arse right in front of his eyes would have already made his huge dick strain against his flies.

“Bad day, huh?”

“People! Why do we have to deal with people!” Sherlock whined. “I don't want them! I want puzzles!”

“Unfortunately they can't be entirely avoided. The puzzles come with the people,” Mycroft said reasonably, spreading Sherlock's cheeks even further.

Sherlock groaned quietly, his dick filling out at once at the first touch of his brother's large, warm hands. Soon it would push against the table top from under it. “Still it sucks…”

“Language, little brother.”

“Yeah, right. Says the man who's about to lick and then fuck my arse…”

Mycroft grumbled something and then he, like expected and desired, complained about the socks, but a second later his wet tongue pushed against Sherlock's quivering hole and the detective bit his lip. Mycroft had not acted on his threat to put a gag into his mouth to keep him from being loud but Sherlock didn’t have any doubt that he would do it if he couldn’t control himself. They were not that often in the Diogenes and Mycroft's Cabinet Office room was soundproof. It sucked to have to be quiet.

Sherlock did prefer meeting up in Mycroft's house but he wouldn’t have been able to wait any longer today, not with more clients to be dealt with. And there was something particularly naughty about being treated by his brother in his enclaves of power, with his PA sitting in the other room, who was oblivious or not; none of them knew that. But she would never say anything, neither to Mycroft nor to anyone else so that was fine.

Now very filthy noises started filling the room, and not for the first time Sherlock wondered what all the old men in their chairs in the other rooms of this building would say if they knew what was going on. Well, of course they wouldn’t say anything as talking was forbidden in these holy halls… They would probably silently drop from their chairs, clutching their hearts, respecting the stupid rules until their very last breath.

Ten years. That's how long they'd been doing this.

It had been the sixth time that Mycroft had come to a drug den to get him out. “What shall I do, Sherlock? What? What will keep you from doing this?” His voice had been hoarse from exhaustion and worry. They had been sitting in his car in one of the nastiest quarters of London.

And Sherlock, twenty years old and rather fucked up, had said, “Make my brain get silent. Make the voices in my head stop screaming around with deductions. Save me from being bored to death.”

“But how?!”

And Sherlock had guided his hand to his crotch, and Mycroft had stared at him with wide eyes. “No!”

“Yes. I know it will calm by brain down. And only you can do that. I don't want it with anyone else.”

And after half a minute of deducing him and biting his lip, Mycroft had nodded, not entirely sure he wasn't being manipulated underneath this pitiful posture but assuming it was the only way, and from that day on, Sherlock had been clean. And whenever he had needed distraction and whenever it got all too much or if boredom was exhausting him, Mycroft had taken care of him. It worked fine and nobody – apart from perhaps Anthea who was as trustworthy as they got – knew about this arrangement. They had perfected their ways of letting everybody believe they were rather enemies than brothers so nobody would draw this conclusion.

When he had started working for the police and then for private clients, using his brain for solving cases had helped him getting rid of the boredom and had kept his brain occupied and focused. But dealing with normal, stupid people had brought another problem: Sherlock getting totally pissed off and wanting to throw them around. John could calm him down only so much. When the exasperation and the feeling of utter annoyance got too much, he would contact Mycroft. Or when Lestrade didn’t have any cases for him or the ones thrown at him were so tedious that they couldn’t save his brain from spinning, he would always contact his brother as sex kept him from getting high, being an addiction in itself but one his brother had agreed to indulge.

And Mycroft would do what he was doing now – inserting his large cock into Sherlock's willing hole after having prepared it with his tongue and two fingers and a generous amount of non-flavoured lubrication. Due to the circumstances – being in his office – he was wearing a condom. It was not their preferred choice but Mycroft had refused to ever clean up the floor and his chair from sperm again.

The moment his brother slid home in his well-used hole, Sherlock felt already like coming down from feeling wired and tense and volatile. The feeling of being stretched and filled by nothing else than his brother's gigantic cock always thrilled him and it had never worn off even after a decade.

Mycroft was standing behind him, his trousers opened but not pushed down, his large hands on Sherlock's slim hips, and he was rhythmically thrusting into him, keeping his noises of arousal to an absolute minimum of a little panting and groaning deep in his throat. And he would go on with his hammering until the precise moment of Sherlock hissing, “Now.”

The younger man did exactly this and a moment later the grip into his waist was getting rather painful and then his brother climaxed in him, sadly not painting him inside but filling up the sodding condom. Mycroft was still very quiet but the odd moan did escape his mouth while he was shuddering through his orgasm. Then he pulled out of Sherlock and dried up his lube-dripping hole with a few tissues and removed the impressively filled condom to store it in a few of said tissues and bin it after wiping his cock down. Then he tucked himself away and closed his trousers.

“Give me,” he said after sitting down in his chair, and Sherlock turned around to push his achingly hard cock into his brother's waiting mouth. No semen flying around, please, but he didn’t mind this side of the agreement at all.

Mycroft was sucking dick as fabulously as he was topping, and Sherlock, sitting on the desk, bit on his own hand while his climax was literally sucked out of him. Of course his impeccable brother swallowed his load and lapped over his oversensitive knob until it was shiny and clean. No precious drop of come had been shed.

On shaking legs, Sherlock got his trousers and shoes, and a minute later, he was dressed again.

“Better?” Mycroft asked him in a tone of utter professionalism, the phone already in his hand again.

“Yes. Guess I'll survive the rest of the day without strangling someone. Thanks.”

“Oh, it worked wonders already!” Mycroft mocked him but there was a tiny twinkle in his eyes.

Sherlock grinned. “I'll leave you to your duties. See you soon.”

“Without a doubt.”

When Sherlock came back to Baker Street not even fifteen minutes later, John was sitting in the living room with an old man with messy long hair, who was holding onto an old briefcase as if his life depended on it.

“Good afternoon! How can I help you?” the detective asked with a wide grin.

John just shook his head, used to his strange change of moods but having no clue where it came from.