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Separation

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Day Zero: Mycroft's House, Master Bedroom

It is habit that rouses Sherlock from slumber. Blinking drowsily, he unlocks his phone on the nightstand next to Mycroft’s king-sized bed. Normally, this would be the time where Sherlock slips out back to Baker Street, with John Watson none the wiser of Sherlock’s newfound and illicit recreational activities.

But, today is different.

His brother sleeps on, snoring softly. Sherlock watches, memorizing every minute idiosyncrasy that is Mycroft in repose. There is a possessive bruise marking the skin at the junction of clavicle and the left sternocleidomastoid. Sherlock could feel his cock filling as he thinks about the carnal acts that has left such visible evidence behind.

The distance between his brother and him suddenly feels too far, and Sherlock rolls over until his face is buried in his brother’s shoulder. He inadvertently grinds his hard cock against his brother’s thigh.

“Mm… Sherlock…” Mycroft mumbles, inducing Sherlock to rub a little harder.

Generally, Sherlock prefers his brother awake and consenting when it came to sex. But, alas, time is ticking. As much as Sherlock wants his brother’s prick up his bum, it is more feasible for him to top in the configuration that they are in. He pulls down Mycroft’s pajama bottoms, and presses his finger against his brother’s hole, which is still loose and wet from last night. Sherlock reaches over for the bottle of lubricant, flips the cap and pours some on his fingers. He penetrates his brother with his index finger, followed by the middle one. They slip in easily, and Sherlock adds a third.

Mycroft writhes in pleasure as Sherlock’s fingers brush against his prostate with precision. Sherlock withdraws his fingers and watches amusedly as Mycroft’s unconscious form seems to protest at the sudden absence. Sherlock slicks his own cock with the remaining lube. Then, with one smooth and practiced motion, Sherlock pushes into Mycroft. Once in, he slowly rolls his hips, determined to draw out the experience for as long as he possibly could. He savours the delicious heat of his brother’s walls around him.

How am I going to survive without this?

His brother is leaving today and returning who knows when. There is a long list of engagements and legwork that Mycroft has put off in the last few years. And, international political fuckups caused by incompetent nincompoops that needs to be smoothed over by Mycroft’s brand of shadowy diplomacy for the good of England.

Sherlock wants to cry.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft is evidently awake.

Mycroft pushes back to impale himself deeper onto Sherlock’s shaft, but Sherlock forcefully holds him back, determined to keep it slow. Sherlock mumbles something that sounds oddly like patience. Mycroft lets out a huff of annoyance which sounds more like a needy whine to Sherlock’s ears.

“Not like this, brother mine.” Mycroft finally pulls himself off Sherlock’s cock. “I want to see you.”

They readjust. Mycroft lies on his back after shedding off his sleepwear, and Sherlock gets up from the bed. They are gazing intensely at each other’s eyes, as if the secrets to the universe are inscribed within. Sherlock slowly glides into Mycroft again, not once breaking eye contact. Their lovemaking remains at this infuriating adagio, but there is a gradual crescendo of desperation building up in both. Sherlock’s eyes plead please don’t leave me, and Mycroft’s say I wish I had a choice. The non-verbal conversation continues in a similar vein for several minutes, before the tingling warmth accumulating within Sherlock forces him to pick up the pace. Sherlock reaches over for Mycroft’s neglected cock, but his brother’s eyes tells him that it isn’t necessary. Obligingly, Sherlock changes the angle of penetration slightly, and fucks his brother brutally into orgasm. Sherlock comes shortly afterwards, the contractions of Mycroft’s muscles strangling the seed out of his cock.

Sherlock collapses on top of his brother. They are both panting, and the stickiness sandwiched between their bodies is slowly fusing them together. Neither cared. For the first time today, Sherlock kisses his brother. Neither cared about the morning breath. Sherlock is convinced that he pulled something in his groin during the last five thrusts, but it is worth it to see big brother come untouched. It is a rare enough sight.

Wordlessly, they both stumble their way into the shower. There is more kissing, but the emphasis is mostly on cleaning. They wash each other; Mycroft is careful enough to use Sherlock’s body wash, shampoo and conditioner on his little brother, just in case a certain flatmate gets too nosy about Sherlock’s nighttime adventures. They towel each other off, before attending to the other intricacies of their respective toilets. Mycroft heads towards his wardrobe, but Sherlock gestures for him to stop. The consulting detective hunts for all the clothes that Mycroft needs for the day and starts dressing his brother in his glorious armour, complete with sleeve garters, in the fastidious ritualistic order that Mycroft follows every day. Sherlock’s touches linger longer than necessary, but Mycroft doesn’t have any snarky banter to offer. Sherlock ties a blue tie with subtle shades of other colours around his brother’s neck, in a full Windsor – just the way his big brother prefers it.

Mycroft finds some of Sherlock’s clothes in the wardrobe and returns the favour. A blue shirt like the shade of Mycroft’s tie gets put on, followed by boxers and trousers. His suit jacket goes on last. Sherlock puts on his own socks and shoes, and the pair of them go downstairs for breakfast. Later, when his brother leaves, Sherlock will throw the bedsheets and any soiled clothing into the laundry machine, to keep their secrets from Mycroft’s housekeeper who visits weekly.

Breakfast is a simple affair of the dim sum leftovers from the night before. They eat silently, neither willing to navigate the minefield of sentiment for the time being. Simultaneously, both avoid looking at their phones, regardless of the number of notifications mounting up.

It is Mycroft who finally breaks the silence.

“Let’s take a selfie.”

Sherlock arches a sardonic eyebrow – surprised that Mycroft knows what a selfie is. He bites back the snark.

“Humour me, little brother.” Mycroft has already set up the camera application on his phone.

Sherlock nods, and they position themselves accordingly. At least with a selfie, one could easily explain why they are standing so closely together. Mycroft checks the resultant picture and is pleased. They make a strikingly handsome pair.

“We match.” Sherlock finally sees the connection between Mycroft’s tie and his shirt.

“Not a coincidence, brother dear.” Mycroft smiles. “The universe is rarely so lazy.”

“I expect pictures from your travels.” Sherlock says, “Now that I know you are capable of operating a camera.”

“And, you shall receive.” Mycroft promises, “I will miss you, brother mine.”

Sherlock finally says, “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Mycroft kisses him. “I will text you when I get to Tokyo.”

Sherlock presses a second kiss. “I wish I could go with you.”

“As do I. As do I, lover mine.” Mycroft says with great vigour. “Unfortunately, it is all work, and very little play. But when I come back, I will take some time off for us.”

“When are you coming back?” Sherlock asks.

For the first time, Mycroft looks incredibly sad, “Hopefully in three weeks. I will let you know when I know.”

Sherlock nods. There is one last long kiss, and Mycroft is reluctantly out the door, luggage in tow.

.

.

Day Zero: 221B Baker Street

Sherlock climbs the steps up to his flat, bearing groceries – and he hopes that the shock of actually doing the shopping for once would direct John’s attention away from the irregularities of Sherlock’s gait. He opens his flat door with his key and sees John in the middle of feeding Rosie her breakfast. Sherlock hangs his coat on the rack and walks over to the fridge to put the milk, eggs and other assorted groceries away.

“Oh, wow, Sherlock. Did you actually buy the groceries?” John sounds like a divine miracle has occurred.

“It is something I am occasionally capable of doing.” Sherlock remarks.

To be fair, there were three glorious weekends where Mycroft and he had played house, and they had gone to the shops to buy groceries and cook together like any other couple. John had gone to Dublin for one of those weekends, and Sherlock had claimed confidential case for his brother for the other two. Of course, John was never to know that Sherlock was capable of cooking, and other domestic chores.

Sherlock finishes putting away the teabags, and carefully walks over to Rosie’s highchair. He sits down next to her. He looks fondly at her.

“Hello, my little bee. How are you today?”

Rosie babbles happily at Sherlock while John looks at Sherlock strangely.

“Did you injure your leg or something, Sherlock?” John asks; all doctorly concern.

“Might have pulled something.” Sherlock decides that the best course was honesty, “But it is all fine, honestly.”

“Hm… You didn’t have it yesterday.” John thinks. “I don’t think you took up a new sport. Or wait, you could have –“

Sherlock winces. It isn’t a challenge at all to deduce what John’s next words were. “Remember, Rosie is here.”

John’s eyes light up with glee. “Oh, my goodness, you did! Not the virgin anymore?”

Sherlock groans. This is intolerable. He texts Mycroft.

Well, John has discovered that I had sex last night. – SH

“Are you seeing someone?” John continues his interrogation.  

“It was a one-night-stand, John.” Sherlock says casually.

He looks at his phone again.

It was inevitable. Your walk this morning practically screams you had sex, little brother. – MH

I told him it was a one-time thing. – SH

“Bird like Irene?” John finally starts feeding himself after getting Rosie sorted.

“I would hope you’d know my sexual preferences after all these years together.” Sherlock says dourly.

Another lightbulb lights up in John’s brain. “Oh! Girlfriends not your area. A bloke!”

Your paramour would be most displeased if last night was a one-time thing. – MH

“Yes, a bloke – John.” Sherlock parrots. “I wouldn’t even know what to do with a woman.”

You know it isn’t. Also, it would be easy to sell since my paramour is leaving the country for the foreseeable future. No sex on the horizon! – SH

“There was Irene and… what’s her name – Janine?” John takes another bite of toast.

“Cases, John.” Sherlock says. “You know it is easy for me to play a persona, and I have to admit that Irene was at the minimum, intellectually stimulating.”

There better not be sex on the horizon! – MH

Noted, brother dear. – SH

“Tell me something,” John resumes the conversation, “Was last night your first time?”

“No.” Sherlock sticks with the truth. “Sometimes the transport has needs.”

As out of date the concept of virginity was, Sherlock did indeed lose his with Mycroft when they got together a few months ago. Sherlock has long ceased with the notion of the transport after all those horrible games at Sherrinford. He gets up from the table to make a cup of tea for himself.

Now John wants to know if I lost my virginity last night. – SH

“Do you bottom or top?” John keeps asking.

Sherlock cringes inwardly. Why do people think everything is black and white all the time? Of course, there are people with preferences for bottoming and topping, and some people avoided penetrative intercourse altogether.

I can guarantee that you were absolutely not a virgin last night. – MH

“I do both. But I topped last night, if you must know.” Sherlock boils a fresh pot of water for his tea. “You do realize the next time you find a girlfriend, I am going to be incredibly nosy as well?”

Ditto, lover mine. – SH

“Sorry, sorry.” John apologizes good-naturedly, obviously not sorry at all. “It is just that seeing you of all people do the walk of shame is so… unexpected.” 

Plane is taxiing, I will talk to you later. Love you, brother dear. – MH

“There’s no shame in sex.” Sherlock says with a wry grin.

“No, but it’s nice that we actually had a chat like this. Nice to know that the great Sherlock Holmes enjoys sex like the rest of us mortals.”

Sherlock makes a face which Rosie laughs at and follows it up with a rude gesture. John tuts, covering Rosie’s innocent eyes, even though his eyes are sparkling with merriment.

<3 you too. Safe travels. – SH

Mycroft hates emoticons. As does Sherlock. But he knows that Mycroft could never complain about this one. It is the perfect equilibrium of brotherly annoyance and lover’s sentiment in two characters.

The water finishes boiling, and Sherlock makes his tea. He brings it back over to the table. Before he sips it, or rather before John asks him another invasive question, his phone rings.

Lestrade.

Perfect.

A case to get him out of this hell.

And probably about that new serial killer too.