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A Holmesian Advent Calendar

Chapter Text

Mycroft Holmes was a special man. So much was sure for everybody he met, and especially for the people who dealt with him on a more or less regular basis. His codename in the Secret Service was 'Antarctica'. Behind his back they called him 'Cold Fish' or 'Iceman'.

If someone was told to come into his office, they wetted their pants, often enough quite literally. He oozed not only efficiency, intelligence and power. He was a dangerous man and nobody would say otherwise.

When he was upset, his voice got very quiet. His blue eyes with the long lashes narrowed, and he pursed his lips in a way that augured ill. People tended to shiver and stammer in his presence, dying for getting away from him as soon as possible. Not because he was appalling in his personal appearance; he was tall and handsome and impeccably neat and he smelled nice. But he was also simply frightening and intimidating.

None of these people claimed to know him; all they knew that he was very smart and very important and a man not be messed with.

There were two facts about him they wouldn’t have guessed in their wildest dreams. The first one was a secret of huge dimensions – Mycroft Holmes, known to some people as the British Government, was, despite his cold appearance, in a loving, committed relationship with nobody else than his own little brother, the admired and famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. This very special relationship had started after the dark events of Sherrinford and was going on for more than a year now, and both men were decidedly happy with it.

The other fact was not in the least illegal, immoral or, if it had concerned someone else, even particularly remarkable. But in his case, one would say it was astonishing: Mycroft Holmes loved Christmas.

He had always done that, as the chubby kid he had been, as a young adult, living on his own, and now in his middle age. Christmas meant warmth and candles and candy and silly songs and old films. He loved to decorate his house and humming to ‘White Christmas’. For many years though, Christmas had been a challenging time for him. He couldn’t stand spending more than a day with his parents; they were simply too demanding and annoying, as lovely as they were. He didn’t have any friends as he didn’t like any other people. Apart from Sherlock, and they had been estranged for ages. So Christmas had become a time of melancholy and sadness underneath the joys of preparing it a long time ago. Something had been missing, or better, someone. Sherlock.

Then he and his brother had got together and the times of loneliness had been over. Sherlock was his one and only, which he had always been, but now Mycroft was allowed to kiss him and touch him and make love to him and indulge in all the sentiment he had pretended to despise because he had thought Sherlock despised him.

In the end they had figured out that Sherlock's feelings for him had been confused and complicated and disturbing and Sherrinford had finally made him understand that what he was struggling with was love and desire for his older brother. An older brother who had loved him in a very unusual way for ages and known it very well but of course had repressed and cursed these feelings as he had considered them to be horribly wrong. But probably he had mostly considered them wrong and immoral because he would have never thought Sherlock could return them. When they had spoken this all out, it had been surprisingly easy to accept that they did have these feelings and suddenly they couldn’t wait to act on them, and they had indulged in many physical pleasures since then, as discreet as they had to be about it and as little time as they both had.

That John Watson had not moved back into 221B Baker Street after it had been built up again after the explosion made things slightly easier. He still solved the occasional case with Sherlock but mostly focused on his daughter, his new girlfriend and his job in the clinic. So it was possible for Mycroft to visit Sherlock even though they had to be careful and restrain themselves thanks to the nosy Mrs Hudson, who had come close to seeing things she wasn't supposed to already one frightening time. During the past weeks it had been exceptionally difficult to be together though as their respective professions had kept them very busy.

Nonetheless - they were making it work and it was a pleasure to be around each other when they managed to make time for each other and Sherlock definitely enjoyed their shared moments as much as he did.

But there was a little problem: Sherlock hated Christmas.

His brother despised everything about it. He couldn’t stand Christmas songs, let alone –films. He could glare hatefully at the prettiest baubles and snort at the smallest porcelain figure on a board. People who chased the best Christmas present were anathema to him. As far as he was concerned, Christmas could just get cancelled.

It was a shame, Mycroft thought. Little Sherlock had liked the festival like every other child (except Eurus). He had stared at all the presents and the Christmas tree with glistening eyes. But when Victor had disappeared short before this one Christmas, his personality had changed completely. His brother had forgotten about Victor and Eurus, but somehow he had unconsciously associated Christmas with the loss of his friend, at least this was what Mycroft assumed. His brother had got colder and more unapproachable over the years and he had never felt anything else but contempt for Christmas and everything that surrounded it, in addition to his usual dislike of the masses.

Mycroft had tried his best the year before, the first Christmas they had spent as a couple. On Christmas Eve, Sherlock had come over for dinner and they had made love in front of the fireplace and it had been amazing but Sherlock had still glared at the decoration and hadn't been able to refrain from a few nasty remarks. Mycroft had been a bit hurt and got pretty drunk.

They had visited their parents on Christmas Day as Mummy hadn't stopped nagging and Sherlock had tried to behave as if he wasn't completely annoyed. Gleefully, he had pulled Mycroft into his room before dinner, performing a hot quickie with Mycroft pressed against the door, and it had certainly helped improving the mood. This year they wouldn’t go to their parents though; the older Holmeses had other plans, and he had to admit it was a relief.

On Boxing Day Sherlock had declared Christmas closed and Mycroft had hurried to remove every bit of decoration. He didn’t blame Sherlock for his dislike of this event; it was not his fault after all. In the end it was just something else Eurus was to blame for. But he thought it was a pity nonetheless.

It had not been as bad as the Christmas before when Sherlock had drugged his punch and stolen his laptop to sell state secrets to a criminal but it had still not been that nice.

So this year he had a plan. He would prepare Sherlock for Christmas and make him enjoy it so he could thoroughly enjoy it as well. It wasn’t that important of course. They were happy together and Mycroft adored his complicated little brother the way he was. But if he could give him a little joy in the time of year that he cherished so much, he would do everything in his power to make it happen.

And nobody could doubt that Mycroft Holmes was a very powerful man.


“It's so warm…”

“Huh?” Sherlock looked up from his phone. “It's 12.5 °C.”

John grimaced. “Yeah! But tomorrow's the first of December so it shouldn’t be so warm. And rainy…”

“We're in London, John. What do you expect? Masses of snow?”

The doctor shrugged. “No. But when I was a kid, it did snow at Christmas.”

Sherlock winced. “It's not Christmas! It's not even close to Christmas!” And who cared if it snowed then or not? How old was John – five? Would he be waiting for Father Christmas to come down the chimney, holding a plate full of biscuits, ready to tell him he'd been a good boy?!

“Barely more than three weeks, Sherlock. They'll go by like nothing. Bobbie made me an advent calendar. Rosie got one, too, of course but she also made one for me, you know, twenty-four tiny bags on a cord with cute little treats in them. I can't wait to open the first one tomorrow!”

Sherlock silently counted to ten. Yes, 'Bobbie' Roberta Connors, a tough lawyer with long, red hair, frighteningly big breasts and lots of chutzpah, had been John's flame for about eight months now. Sherlock did know a few things about being in love even though John had no idea about it. Yes, she was great with Rosie. He had not met her more often than three times but he could say she seemed to be very decent and surely John loved her a lot. But talking about advent calendars! Little treats in tiny bags! A grown, rough man like John! This silly grin! And Christmas… It was not even December for God's sake! As if it wasn't enough that the stores had started selling Christmas sweets in September already… “I wonder where this client is…” he mumbled. Someone save him from this nonsense.

“She'll be there in a minute I'm sure.”

Sherlock hoped so. She had written a request under John's blog (which wasn't getting updated anymore but he still got notifications about comments) and since John only had to work in the afternoon, he had been free to come over. It was nice. Things between them were good again. John had apologised for his violence and they were good. They were not the same as before The Fall and Mary's death. Probably they would never be; none of them was still the same man he had been before all those troubles, losses and difficulties. But they were still good.

And things between him and his brother were even better. They hadn't seen a lot of each other lately but life would probably calm down on Mycroft's side now. It usually did in the last month of the year. But Sherlock would have enough cases probably. People got insane because of Christmas… Sherlock did understand them in a way…

Would Mycroft have a Christmas tree again? Would he put grinning little angels everywhere again? Would he play those appalling songs again? Who would have known his brother was so sentimental about a festival for children? It was sweet in a way of course but still…

At least they wouldn’t have to drag themselves north to visit their parents again. Thank God for small mercies…

“I hate to know you'll spend Christmas alone this year.”


John shrugged. “Last year I had to work on Christmas Eve and the next day you were gone to your parents. And this year I'll be away for a week.”

Speaking of small mercies… Sherlock wondered how he would have got out of an invitation to spend Christmas with John and his two girls. The sheer thought made his toes curl. Mrs Hudson had given up throwing Christmas parties and preferred spending it elsewhere. There wouldn’t have been anyone to party with anyway. Molly had a nice, harmless, boring boyfriend now (she had said this 'I love you' torture in Sherrinford had somehow freed her from her pining for him and sociopaths in general; he hadn't understood that but welcomed it nonetheless) and wouldn’t be available. Lestrade had reconciled with his wife and would go on holiday with her, too. So Sherlock would spend the whole time with Mycroft. Which was very nice. More than nice. Excellent! Exciting! If his brother just wasn't so fond of all this Christmas nonsense…

“I'll be fine,” he assured John. “You know I like to ignore this childish bullshit as much as I can.”

John sighed. “You're really not a romantic.”

Sherlock snorted. “What did you expect? From me?” It wasn't even true. Sherlock could be very romantic. With Mycroft. If it wasn't Christmas…

The doorbell rang and ended their conversation. Sherlock was glad to have something to do.

And when he got a text from his brother right after he had solved the easy but not totally uninteresting case and quickly arranged a meeting for the evening, his mood got even better, and thinking of an experiment he had wanted to do for ages and had finally got the last missing ingredient this morning so he could throw himself into it as soon as the mixture was ready was the icing on the cake.


“Sorry for the delay. A tiny explosion, Mrs Hudson being annoying because of it, traffic, stupid people - you name it.”

Mycroft smiled. “No worries. And you look good with the half-eyebrow.” He took Sherlock's coat and hung it up and then patted Sherlock's arm when the younger man embraced him from behind and nuzzled his face against Mycroft's neck. “I missed you, too, little brother, and I'm very glad you didn’t manage to blow yourself up. Shall we have dinner first though?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “I'm supposed to eat again? I've got other things on my mind…” It had been way too long since they had met. Four days! It was appalling.

“I'm sure you do but humour me, please.”

“That was exactly what I had on my mind…” Sherlock gave him a peck on the cheek.

Mycroft laughed. “Cheeky boy. We'll get there, I promise. But first we both need some fuel.”

“Right, Mummy. Ow!” Sherlock rubbed his arse, delighted. Was Mycroft in the mood for some naughty play tonight? It did happen once in a while – nothing exceptionally dirty but extra exciting nonetheless.

But his brother raised his eyebrows. “Insolent brats don't get rewarded by kinky sex, Sherlock.”

“This particular insolent brat could get on his knees and suck you off.”

“He could. But before, he'll get something more substantial between his teeth.”

“Oh, I think your cock is impressively substantial.”

Mycroft laughed before he plastered a stern expression on his face. “Dining room. Now.”

“All right, all right. Feed me, oh omnipotent big brother of mine.”

“Potent I am.”

“No doubt about it.”

And finally Mycroft kissed him and damn, his brother was a great kisser. Sherlock's knees got all weak and shaky while their tongues were dancing this irresistible dance of love, passion, and desire. Yeah, and incest…

Mycroft looked decidedly flushed when he broke the kiss eventually. “You're ruining my cooking efforts.”

“Ah, I'm sure you've included this in your calculation.”

Mycroft gave him a smug smile. “In fact I have.”

Of course he had. Mycroft was smart. And Sherlock was completely crazy for him.


His brother was a great cook, so much was sure. Not that this had ever surprised Sherlock. His brother was basically great at everything if it didn’t involve being nice to the masses or annoying relatives.

In any way the fish was melting on his tongue and tasted delicately spicy, the delicious sauce engulfed perfect potatoes and the green salad was fresh and crunchy. Sherlock realised he was a bit hungry and caught himself eating with good appetite, which pleased his brother, naturally.

“More sauce?” he asked with a smile that was rather fond than smug.

“Yes, please. You should quit your nasty job and own a restaurant.”

Mycroft grinned. “I only like to cook for you and me, little brother.”

They sat in silence for a moment before they both started to speak simultaneously.

“There's something nice I thought about doing for and with you until Christmas…” said Mycroft.

“Can you believe John's girlfriend made him a sappy advent calendar for him?” said Sherlock. Mycroft's cheeks flushed and Sherlock opened his eyes widely. “No way…” Mycroft had made him an advent calendar?! Nothing so embarrassing like sweets in little bags. It would be something completely different but still an advent calendar…

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Forget it, Sherlock. It was a stupid idea.”

He was avoiding his look, going on eating, but Sherlock could see he was hurt, and he cursed himself. He knew how much Mycroft fancied this Christmas stuff. He should have seen this coming! And what now? “It's okay.” No, that sounded ghastly… “I mean I don't mind…” Dammit!

Mycroft got up and grabbed his empty plate, his face a mask of almost believable indifference. “I'll get the dessert.”

“Really, Mycroft, I…”

“Never mind, little brother.” And with this he left, and Sherlock felt very bad, his thoughts whirling.

The moment his brother returned with two little bowls with chocolate mousse, Sherlock's phone rang and he cursed himself even more. He fumbled for it to turn it off and saw that it was Lestrade.

His brother read it from his face. “Answer it, Sherlock. It will be a case.”

“I'm not taking it.”

“Yes you are. We can meet again tomorrow if you have time.”

Sherlock didn’t like this at all. But he also didn’t know how to deal with a Mycroft feeling bad about something he had done unintentionally. Sure, he had insulted Mycroft almost all his adult life as things had been very complicated between them and it had been his way of dealing with it; a bad way that was over for good. They loved each other. They were lovers in every sense of the word. And now Mycroft was hurt because Sherlock couldn’t share his adoration for Christmas and nothing Sherlock could say would make him believe he had miraculously changed his mind about it. He had acted like an idiot and he didn’t know how to make up for it so as horrible as it was, a part of him was glad Lestrade would need him tonight…

He took the call and yes, his presence was required in South London where a rich man had found an untimely death in an area he shouldn’t have been in.

“I'm sorry,” he said, getting up, and he didn’t only mean the fact that he had to leave.

Mycroft smiled at him. “No worries, dear. Everything is fine.”

But it wasn't, and when Sherlock kissed him goodbye, holding him extra close, he knew he had to make it better.

Chapter Text

Mycroft had just come out of a meeting with Lady Smallwood and the Foreign Minister and asked Anthea to come into his office to give her some orders.

She had only sat down when Mycroft's phone vibrated. He looked at the display and asked her to wait a moment.

“Anything the matter, sir?”

Someone broke into my house. Well, someone with a key who knows the alarm codes. Just not all alarms“Everything's fine.” He thinks he's so discreet… “I need you to contact these people…” He went through the list with his PA and apologised when he got the next alert. Ah, trying to figure out my password… He couldn’t suppress a smirk.

He had known Sherlock would do this. He would feel bad about last night, not only for leaving before they could even get tactile. He would have tortured his brain about how to make up for it, knowing Mycroft wouldn’t bring up the idea with the advent calendar again.

He hadn't doubted that Sherlock would come to a certain conclusion, but to act on it, he had to get into Mycroft's computer, because where else to look for a particular list as there certainly had to be one? He wouldn’t have it on his phone; he only used it for texting with Sherlock – it was a secure line but they always deleted their texting, just in case - and work matters. He could have written it down in his notebook but he hadn't, and he had 'forgotten' the small black book on his desk at home this morning so Sherlock would know that very quickly.

So now he would be fretting his attractive head about Mycroft's password. Mycroft had no doubt he would figure it out in the end but until then, he would curse and sweat. Well, his fault entirely…

“What's so funny, sir?” Anthea smiled at him.

Mycroft grinned. “Nothing. I just remembered something.”

“I see.” She got up. “I'll take care of everything.”

“Thank you.” Efficient as always, his trusted PA.

And proving to be almost equally efficient, Sherlock broke into his computer half an hour later, which was already slow for his brother. He really had to be worried he had hurt him. Of course he had texted Mycroft in the morning and apologised again (oh, some people would be surprised how sensitive his brother had become in his dealing with him…) but even though Mycroft had assured him again that everything was fine, Sherlock still felt guilty.

Excellent. He was so looking forward to this evening. Sherlock still had to find and decode the top secret file, hidden in a hidden folder, but it would probably not take him longer than an hour. Good exercise for his super-brain, so much was sure. And of course he couldn’t have made it so easy for him or Sherlock would have known it was a trap.

The game was on, and Sherlock had no idea (yet) that they were playing.

In the end, Mycroft was the smart one.


“Hello, little brother.” Mycroft chuckled when Sherlock was clinging around his neck and kissed him fiercely. Oh, nothing was more adorable than a consulting detective with a bad conscience. Mycroft kissed him back whole-heartedly before they broke the kiss simultaneously. Today they wouldn’t have dinner together; Sherlock had only been able to come at nine and Mycroft had already eaten.

“Sorry I couldn’t get away earlier. Finally solved the case from last night.”

Sherlock's face clearly said he was embarrassed that it had taken him so long. But perhaps he had been a bit distracted…

“No problem. I could make you a sandwich?”

“Nah, thanks - Lestrade brought us pizza.”

Mycroft's face twitched. How could anyone eat such ghastly stuff? But he was glad Sherlock had eaten at all. “Well then. Shall we go upstairs?”

“No. Yes. I mean, sure. But before we do something… sexy, I want to give you a massage.”

Mycroft had a lot of practice in schooling his expressions, even towards Sherlock. Of course his brother would pick something that had been supposed to happen much later so Mycroft wouldn’t figure out at once that he had read his list. “Oh? Why ever? Do I look so tense?” he asked innocently.

“Yes. You're working too hard. And… I've wanted to do this for a long time.”

Now, now, Sherlock, lying to big brother? “Well, in this case… Have you brought some massage oil?”

Sherlock's face fell. “No,” he mumbled, without a doubt thinking, 'I'm an idiot.'

Mycroft's heart melted. His brother was so far from being anything like that. “No problem. I think I have something that will do.” In fact he had already bought some to spoil Sherlock with it, well, now it would happen the other way around which was just as fine.

“I love you, Mycroft.” Sherlock's voice was heavy with sentiment.

And now his heart was practically singing. He pulled Sherlock into another tight embrace. “I love you, too, brother mine. Always, forever.” Even before they had got together, Mycroft had sometimes shown his sentiment for his brother, usually in times of high pressure like in the plane when Sherlock had come back from his extremely short ‘exile’ or, well, when Sherlock had drugged him. But now that they were together, words like these ones just flew over his lips, and he was grateful that Sherlock was able to vocalise his feelings for him so clearly as well. Sometimes, like last evening, there were still moments when his brother felt awkward and overwhelmed, but most of the time, Sherlock was as open and tender as he had been in the time before child Eurus had messed up his life.

Mycroft patted his arse when they parted. “Well then, show me what magic hands you have.”

Sherlock nodded, looking a bit nervous. Mycroft was quite sure he had never given anyone a massage before. “And after that, I would like to show you that I also have a magic mouth.”

“About this, little brother, I've never had any doubt.”

He smiled at Sherlock and Sherlock smiled back, looking a bit shy, and Mycroft knew they had a very interesting December and Christmas time ahead of them.


Someone else might have missed the twitching of Sherlock's face as it was over within a second and his brother smiled at him like before. But Mycroft wasn't someone else. And he knew what Sherlock had immediately seen after entering his bedroom.

A tiny porcelain angel on a book shelf, just one, about three centimetres in length, smiling brightly. And Sherlock had found it revolting.

Suppressing a smirk, Mycroft pretended he hadn't noticed anything and started to undress. Sherlock followed his example at once.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. “Does the masseur get naked as well?”

Sherlock blushed. “Um, yes. It's more comfortable. For you, I mean. I'll be sitting on your legs after all, and my trousers might scratch up your legs.”

“Oh, that's the plan. Fine. Very considerate of you.” Mycroft beamed at him. “Oh, the oil.” He fetched the bottle from his drawer. “I wonder why I bought it,” he mumbled.

“Um, I'm glad you did, as it was such a spontaneous decision to offer you a massage,” Sherlock hurried to say.

Mycroft nodded. “And a very nice one.” He knew they wouldn’t hold up this ruse forever. Sherlock wouldn’t believe for almost a month that he had not figured out that he had nosed out this list, and one day Mycroft would let him see it unintentionally. But he would enjoy the game as long as it lasted. It was for a higher purpose after all!

He lay down on the bed, fully naked, and he hadn't missed Sherlock's lecherous glances at his crotch and bottom. Too bad – little brother had to work for the goodies. “Well then. I'm all yours.”

Sherlock was straddling his thighs at once. “You are, aren't you?” he assured himself.

“But of course I am,” Mycroft said with genuine affection. In the end it really didn’t matter if Sherlock wanted to throw his precious little angel against the wall. He wouldn’t do that anyway, out of respect for him. Mycroft just thought it was a pity that Sherlock hated Christmas. He was simply missing the magic of this time and perhaps he would eventually realise that. But if not, Mycroft wouldn’t love him any less. Sherlock was his everything. And this fact would never change; his deep affection for his brother was engraved in his heart and soul.

He closed his eyes and smiled when the deliciously smelling oil dribbled onto his back and Sherlock started to knead his indeed tense muscles.


Sherlock had been very pissed off about himself for not thinking of getting massage oil beforehand. On his way to Mycroft, he had still been debating with himself which of the twenty-five treats his brother had hatched for him he would instead do to him tonight, and he had decided to start with the massage as it would be a means to worship Mycroft's body before the sex. He really wanted to undo his reaction from the evening before. It had been a pain in the arse to figure out Mycroft's computer passcode and then find the bloody file which had been hidden very well. At first he hadn't even been sure if Mycroft had noted down his plans at all but as he didn’t have the possibility to dig in his brother's brain directly, he had hoped for the best and come to his house at a time when Mycroft would certainly not be there. He had, against better knowledge, hoped his brother would have scribbled everything down in his notebook and that said notebook would be in his home office and not in Whitehall or the Diogenes. And he had been very happy to find it on his desk – just to realise that nothing of the strange things his brother had written down had anything to do with this advent calendar – figuring them out would have been a treat in itself but one he hadn’t had any time for. But in the end, after putting his brain to use for longer than he liked to admit, he had found the file and printed it out.

All the things Mycroft had planned for them basically belonged to following categories: Sex, mostly normal but spiced up with some kink, sexual roleplay, non-sexual spoiling and activities that were probably very normal for normal couples but not for them.

Sherlock was well aware he couldn’t just do everything on this list; Mycroft would figure out in no time that he had seen it, but he would more or less stick to these categories and change things subtly but enough to have the benefit of the doubt. And if Mycroft figured it out in the end, well, his brother would probably not shoot him for it… And if he loosely stuck to Mycroft's plans, he could at least be rather sure his brother would fancy these activities.

When he was now working over Mycroft's tense muscles in his neck and back (and Sherlock realised with satisfaction that he was a natural talent in giving massages with his large hands), he knew Mycroft had really needed this but in the end he had planned to give the massage to him! Which was very sweet. Sherlock was tense himself often enough but his brother, sitting at his desk all day with the weight of the world (or at least their nation) on his shoulders, needed it so much more, and he should have realised this long ago and offered him to take care of the hard muscles (apart from his cock). Mycroft never complained about having headaches but from the state of his neck it was clear he must suffer from them. Sherlock put even more effort in his movements, loosening up muscles that had been too hard for too long.

He couldn’t help but getting aroused by touching all this soft, pale flesh; he even loved the hair on Mycroft's neck, and soon enough his cock was threatening to poke against his brother's arse so he pulled back a bit. This was not about sex after all. Not yet…

“You're doing that so well,” Mycroft mumbled into the pillow.

Sherlock smiled, feeling a bit smug. But then his neck started to prickle, as if someone was behind him. He turned his head so fast that his neck creaked. Nobody there, of course not. Nobody but… a grinning little angel!

Bah! How could Mycroft put this, this ghastly little creature into his bedroom! Looking directly at the bed! It was tiny and certainly exquisite and of course it couldn’t really see them but still – it was a disgrace!

“Sherlock? Anything wrong?”

Didn’t he sound a bit mocking? Yes, of course he would. He would know exactly what Sherlock was thinking now even though he couldn’t even see him. “No,” Sherlock croaked. “Everything's fine.”

“You can stop now. Your hands must be hurting. And I feel really good now.”

“Oh, okay.” Sherlock slid from his brother's body and watched him rolling on his back.

Mycroft smiled at him. “Thank you, little brother. That was very nice. Kiss me?”

Sherlock was all over him within an instant, and for the next ten minutes they did nothing but exploring each other's mouth as if they had never shared a French kiss before. Sherlock nibbled and licked at his brother’s lovely mouth and was enjoying himself thoroughly.

When they broke apart, Sherlock felt rather dizzy and his cock was painfully hard now and seemed to be ready to get into a sword fight with its equally swollen counterpart.

“What do you think,” Mycroft said, pensively. “Would you fancy a nice and slow 69?”

“Oh God yes.”

Mycroft grinned and they moved about until they were in the correct positions, Sherlock hovering over the still lying Mycroft. “Come on, dip it into my mouth,” demanded the older man, and Sherlock didn’t need another invitation.


When they had done this particular position for the first time, Sherlock had been overwhelmed by the feeling of his cock being worked over in a hot, wet mouth and it had been so hard to focus on giving pleasure simultaneously. That was still a 'problem' but he had learned to multitask in this situation, and he loved sucking his brother every bit as much as he loved being spoilt by him.

He suckled at his brother's large cock as if it was the tastiest lollipop, and he could genuinely say it tasted a lot better. Mycroft's aroma was mild and somehow sophisticated. Of course Sherlock had never sucked anyone else's cock and he never would but he assumed other men would taste very different. He loved the hint of bitterness mingled with sweetness and he loved deep-throating his brother; a skill that had taken him a long time to perfect but one that got his brother every time. Mycroft was a very good cock-sucker as well but he couldn’t rein in his gag reflex as well as Sherlock could (and he never mentioned it and neither did Sherlock but Sherlock was sure it irked him).

The politician mumbled incoherent words of praise around Sherlock's cock now and Sherlock was sure he was rolling his eyes in pleasure while he was literally swallowing him down, managing to caress him with his tongue at the same time. His hands were fondling Mycroft's balls in the way that drove his brother mad with lust.

And then Sherlock looked up – and the damn angel was staring and grinning at him, and he almost choked at the thick intruder in his throat when he lost his rhythm. Drooling and cursing, he let Mycroft's cock slide out of his mouth.

“Are you all right?” Mycroft promptly asked him after letting him go as well.

“Sure. Just needed some air.”

“You should breathe through your nose,” Mycroft suggested and the mockery was impossible to miss now.

Sherlock bit back a rather nasty remark. “I will try to remember.” And then he went back to work, sucking relentlessly now, and Mycroft groaned around his cock and came with a mighty spurt down Sherlock's throat.

He managed to not choke on the thick fluid and let Mycroft gently slide from his mouth. Trying to ignore this hellish little creature on the shelf, he closed his eyes and concentrated on Mycroft's decreased sucking movements, which got firmer when his brother had recovered from his orgasm. What tipped him over the edge in the end was Mycroft tickling his hole, inserting just one centimetre of his forefinger. Mycroft swallowed his load greedily; he didn’t have any problems with that, and then Sherlock pulled out his cock and rearranged himself on the bed so he could put his head on Mycroft's chest, which was warm and a bit sweaty.

“That was so good, brother mine,” Mycroft mumbled, squeezing his waist.

“Yes. I just hope the position didn’t make your neck hurt again.”

Mycroft smiled. “My neck is just fine.”

“Good. I want to meet you again tomorrow.” And the day after, and the next day. It would be a challenge for sure thanks to his job and Mycroft's job. But he wanted Mycroft to have his advent calendar and he would make it work. And if there was a day when they couldn’t meet, he would pull off two events on the next day or make up for it otherwise.

“Well, I want that, too, of course. Let's see what our schedules say, hm?”

Sherlock raised his head and kissed his cheek. “Yes.” He would stay for another while before heading home. He didn’t stay overnight, not mainly because Mycroft got up very early in the morning and Sherlock avoided this whenever he could but mainly because of Mrs Hudson. She would be worried about him if he stayed away overnight and he didn’t want to raise suspicion.

It wasn't ideal but they were both aware that their love was a distinctly forbidden one and they had to protect it as well as they could. It had worked well so far and Sherlock was determined to never jeopardise it.

Mycroft was the man he loved and he would prove it to him again and again, even if he had to put up with godforsaken angels.

Chapter Text

What had he been thinking? Was he going mad? How the hell had he ended up here? This was hell for sure. A particular section of hell for consulting detectives!

The toy section of Harrods, full of mothers at the end of their tether, on their hands their miserable, ill-mannered offspring, screaming and demanding, pointing at all the silly things they wanted to have for Christmas.

Why had he not ordered the presents for Rosie online?! Was the Christmas-madness infectious? Had he seriously expected after applying a massage to his overworked brother he would suddenly be able to cope with this? He had wanted to get it over with and now all he wanted was to get out but since he was here…

With disgust he glanced at a little girl with a face red from screaming, snot running out of her nose, and he gasped and made a step back when she threatened to come close to his coat.

“I'll give you some good advice, boy,” the equally deranged mother told him, “always use condoms!”

Sherlock was still speechless when the unhappy pair had left but then he woke up from his stupor and giggled. That had been rather funny… Of course he didn’t use condoms. What would be the sense in that? He and Mycroft were perfectly healthy and neither of them would obviously impregnate the other one. Very briefly he mused how a child of him and Mycroft would be. Very smart, for sure. Extremely handsome, without a doubt. But also horribly precocious and an awful menace for its teachers and classmates. Still… It could rule the world and it would definitely make it better than the current people of power… Sherlock shook his head over himself. He would never have children and he had never felt the urge. Rosie was nice and quiet and she didn’t live with him. He hardly saw her so it was easy to be fond of her. But a child that was around him forever? With all the good genes but also the challenging habits from him and his brother? No, thanks…

“Can I help you?”

Sherlock winced. Over all the noise he hadn't heard the saleswoman coming. “Oh, um, no. I'm good. I want just a little doll and a ball maybe. It's for a toddler.” When Rosie got older, he would get her more ambitious toys but for now something soft and nice would certainly be better. John would freak out if he got her a chemistry set…

“Oh, over there.” She pointed in the centre of the mayhem. She was a curvy woman around fifty, her hair as impeccable as her clothes but her eyes were a little weary. She didn’t seem to recognise him which was a relief. Sherlock hated to be approached by celebrity-loving people with phones that were held in his face without permission…

“How can you even endure this all day,” Sherlock mumbled.

She smiled. “It's always the same before Christmas. People get a little bit crazy.”

He nodded vehemently. “Exactly my opinion even though I might disagree on the 'little bit' part. I've always hated Christmas.”

“Oh, that's a shame though. There is so much nice about this time. It can be so peaceful and lovely.”

Sherlock watched a little boy stomping his foot on the ground with a face like thunderclouds, his small hands balled into fists. “Just not here…”

She giggled but immediately clamped her hand over her mouth. “I know,” she whispered. “But there's something about Christmas that still always gets me. The food and the candles and the music…”

“Yeah, like 'White Christmas' when it's 12°C out there…” Mycroft loved this song, God knew why. Sherlock knew he would play it again this year… And he wouldn’t roll his eyes about it again!

They chuckled together this time. Then her face got serious again. “It's the time of year when we can show our loved ones how much they mean to us. If we have someone, that is.” Her face got darker and Sherlock deduced that she was widowed for about three years.

He nodded. “Yes. I get that.”

She watched him closely. “If you do have such a person in your life, make this time of year extra special for them. Those times might be over within the blink of an eye.”

Sherlock swallowed. The sheer thought of losing Mycroft made him shudder. And she was right. And he had already realised that, hadn't he? That's what this was all about. To make his nasty reaction forgotten and to spoil his brother. Mycroft deserved being spoilt. “Yes. I'll do. Thank you.”

She smiled at him and they said goodbye and Sherlock went through all the screaming children and their unnerved mothers (and there wasn’t a single father around…) and picked a soft, grinning doll that Rosie would love and a pink ball, also made of soft fabric. After a moment of hesitation, he also picked a wind-up clown and a little car. Sherlock didn’t like stereotypes…

On the way to the till he ducked to avoid being hit by a plastic sword thrown by the outraged boy he had seen before and he was very happy to be able to escape.

Before the afternoon was over, he had taken care of two easy cases and was ready to meet his brother for pampering him a bit more.


“Mm, what is that? Did you cook?”

Sherlock gave his brother a sheepish smile. “Not quite.” He would do that for sure but for now Angelo's fabulous lasagne had to do. “Just reheating something really good.”

Mycroft hung up his coat and gave him a bright smile. “That's very nice of you.”

It wasn't the actual spoiling part though. Of course Mycroft had not noted down something as trivial as 'making dinner'; he did that all the time anyway. He always put a lot of effort in cooking for them, Sherlock realised, and after a hard day at work above all. He would do that too!

Mycroft stopped dead when the entered the dining room after a loving kiss. “Candles?!”

Sherlock grinned. “And I managed to light them without burning your house down.”

“I appreciate that,” Mycroft mumbled absentmindedly. “It looks gorgeous.”

It really did. Mycroft's best dishes, white napkins, polished glasses – it was nothing Sherlock had ever wasted a thought on before but it looked appealing, he had to admit it. He thought of the meals he had shared with John over the years – mostly beans on mismatching plates. Mycroft had always made it nice for them but Sherlock had hardly wasted a look at it.

“You always take care of me so well,” he mumbled. “Thought it was time to… do it too,” he concluded rather lamely.

Mycroft looked seriously touched. “I don't expect this, Sherlock, you know? I love to take care of you.”

“I know. But you're not just my older brother now. I'm your lover, your… partner…”

“You are! I don't think I'm superior to you, Sherlock, please don't believe that.”

Sherlock smiled. “Even though you're the smart one?”

Mycroft pulled him close. “I think we can say for sure that we are both very smart. How you got us out of Sherrinford…”

Sherlock winced. They had talked about this before of course, before they had found together as lovers. He had forcefully assured Mycroft that he had never planned to shoot him but Mycroft had told him he had realised that the moment Sherlock had pointed the gun at himself. Still that meant he had thought it before, and that was hard to bear. Sherlock had not known at this point what his increasingly strong feelings for his brother, which had started to develop after Serbia, had meant, but he had not considered for a second to shoot either Mycroft or John. He had known he had to turn Eurus' game against her and his plan had worked out.

Eurus… For a while he had tried to bond with her, shaken and horrified about not only what she had done to the people who had died that day but also about how lonely she must have been all this time. But he had realised after three weeks of going to Sherrinford twice to three times a week that she was lost. All energy had left her. She had given up. A mild smile while playing the violin had been the only reaction he could expect from her, and then he and Mycroft had got together and he had neither had the time nor any motivation to visit her again. He had dropped her a second time; he knew that. But he had also finally realised his brother was hurt by his attempts at being friends with her and if he had to choose between Mycroft and Eurus, well, there was no question whom he would pick.

“I did what had to be done,” he said now, unwilling to spoil this evening with this awful subject. Sometimes he was still dreaming about it. Neither of these dreams had been remotely nice…

Mycroft got it and kissed his cheek. “I know. I'm just saying you were very, very smart that day.”

“Only on that day?” Sherlock asked with playfully raised eyebrows.

“Of course,” Mycroft answered with a deadpan expression. “And now get our food before it turns into charcoal.”

“Damn!” Sherlock hurried to get into the kitchen, hearing Mycroft chuckle behind him, which made him grin.


“So, my beautiful brother – what do you have in mind for the rest of the evening?”

Sherlock stared into the taller man's stunning blue eyes, feeling his throat get dry. Being in Mycroft's arms, being scrutinised by the icy blues, was something he would never get tired of.

They had both eaten with good appetite and Sherlock had insisted on taking care of the dishes while Mycroft enjoyed a glass of whiskey, and now they were in the dining room together again, Mycroft's arms firmly around his waist.

He cleared his throat. “Well, um… I thought of some nice roleplay?”

“Aha! And… Which game would you like to play?” Mycroft asked him in a seductive tone nobody would think him capable of.

Lightbulb! “Oh, why don't you choose something?” Sherlock played the ball back. He should have thought about this before! He would let Mycroft pick the activities they would engage in so he wouldn’t get suspicious and get to do what he had planned for them! Of course it would not work with everything but a simple, sexual roleplay without any equipment was always possible.

“Hm… What could we do,” Mycroft mused. “What about I'm a nasty professor and you the lazy student who has a big mouth?”

Sherlock grinned. “Excellent. A big mouth I have.” One of Mycroft's ideas from his list he had instantly liked a lot.

“And a very talented one. Well, let's see to which lovely sexual act it will lead us…”

Sherlock loved roleplay. If he had just known at once what this particular advent calendar would be about! But then – John hadn't exactly said what his girlfriend had in mind with hers; who knew if the little bags didn’t also contain vouchers for sexual favours… He shuddered at the thought.

“You don't want sex?” Mycroft asked him innocently, his eyes glistening with glee.

He knows it… Sherlock could barely suppress a groan. Mycroft had been rather mocking the day before already. Of course he knew Sherlock had come to his house without telling him and rummaged in his computer files. Oh dear, and he hadn't even been surprised about Mycroft leaving his notebook at home… Was he really so obvious? The thought reminded him of a moment he didn’t want to think about – his absolute failure in dealing with Irene, the spoilt 'flight of the dead'… He hadn't desired her but still he had acted like an absolute fool because of her… He sighed, his arms wrapped around Mycroft's neck.

Mycroft just smiled. He had easily deduced Sherlock once more. “So? Sex?”

Sherlock was grateful he obviously wanted to keep up the façade for now. They could talk about it later. Or pretend they both didn’t know that the other one knew… In any way Sherlock wanted this advent calendar now. If he did it for Mycroft or Mycroft for him – there wasn't any difference in the end. “Yes,” he said. “It definitely has to lead to sex and we will just go with the flow.”

“Oh, that's my boy. Come on then. Let's play in my office.”

“Oh!” Sherlock beamed at him. He already knew he would love it.


Sherlock, the folder Mycroft had given him in his left hand, knocked at the door.

Yes?” came a grumpy voice from inside Mycroft's home office.

“Um, it's Sherlock, Professor Holmes. I've got the essay.”

Come in.”

Sherlock entered the room he knew least of all the rooms in Mycroft's house. His brother hardly spent time in here when Sherlock was there, naturally. Of course he had been in there just a day ago… But he hadn't paid much attention to the interior, too focused had he been on finding the advent calendar list. It was a nice room, full of heavy wooden furniture, the only really modern item the expensive computer and the printer. Some tasteful paintings were on two walls, and a healthy green plant was standing on the windowsill. The room looked decidedly more homely than Mycroft's Whitehall office and also livelier than the Diogenes one.

Mycroft was sitting in his chair, a pencil in his long, elegant fingers. His tie was lopsided and he had ruffled up his hair. He did look like some dusty professor – a very handsome one though. “So… The essay.”

Sherlock proceeded to hand him the folder which contained God knew what but Mycroft shook his head with a stern expression. “It's too late. You've missed the deadline.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “But it's only the second of December.”

“Indeed. Deadline was the last November day. You know that.”

“But it's just two days, come on; I've worked hard on this. Take it.”

“No.” Mycroft crossed his arms and gave him a smug smile. “Rules are rules.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but thinking that this had always been one of his brother's mantras. At least regarding him… He didn’t even want to know how many rules and laws Mycroft was constantly breaking in his real profession. In his private life though he had always stuck to the rules. Until he had started this not only rule- but lawbreaking relationship with him. One more proof that Mycroft did everything important just for him. Okay, he didn’t have another brother but still… Sherlock knew he was special to him. And Mycroft was without a doubt very special to him, too.

He could see that Mycroft was deducing his thoughts, an affectionate smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. But only briefly… “If there's nothing else; I've got work to do.”

“You can't let me fail just because of two fucking days!” Sherlock suppressed a grin when Mycroft winced at the profanity.

“Language, Sherlock. You're too late, I'm not going to accept your essay, and this is my last word.”

“Oh is it… Why don't we work out an agreement? It's almost Christmas!”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in a rather nasty way and for a moment Sherlock wondered if this was the way his brother was dealing with annoying underlings. Well, probably yes. But hopefully he wouldn’t let them offer him something like this…

“You are trying to bribe me?” Mycroft asked in threatening tone. He sounded very convincing.

“Yes. In a way. Not with money. I'm just a poor student.”

Sherlock did remember a time when he had been exactly this. Of course he'd had his trust from his grandparents but he hadn't had access to the money – there had been and still were conditions. One of them had been that he stayed clean, and he just hadn't been able to at this time. It had ended with him dropping out of uni. It hadn't been his proudest time…

And Mycroft had nagged and admonished and looked very disappointed – but above all he had tried to help and support him. Only that Sherlock hadn't seen it like this back then. It had been the time when they had finally grown apart big time, and they had been estranged almost completely until Mycroft had helped him preparing the coup against Moriarty and his associates.

In any way this was yet another touchy subject and Sherlock wondered if this particular roleplay had been such a good idea…

The soft and slightly sad smile Mycroft gave him showed him that his brother once more knew exactly what he was thinking about. It was scary in a way – Mycroft knowing him so well. He could never hide anything from him. But it was also very comforting as Mycroft accepted him as he was and had forgiven him all the darkness and nastiness of the past.

And Sherlock was nobody who backed away from a game, especially not from one that was supposed to get even more interesting.

So when Mycroft asked, “And what does this poor student have to offer me?” he walked around the desk and dropped to his knees.

“Sherlock… We can't do that,” Mycroft pretended to be appalled.

“Oh but we can…”

“It would be coercing you.”

Damn… Yet another touchy subject… Sherlock knew Mycroft had longed for him for way longer than Sherlock had been in love with him. He had never asked him when exactly Mycroft's feelings for him had begun to change but he assumed it had been before he had turned eighteen. And even if not – Mycroft was seven years older than him and he had always felt responsible for him. It must have troubled him immensely to desire his little brother. He had got over that obviously though. “No, because I'm offering it.” And he had done that in reality as well. He had made the first step and he guessed if he hadn't done that, Mycroft would have never admitted his feelings to him.

He made an impatient noise to himself. Could his brain never shut up? They were playing a rather cheesy game that was supposed to be sexy; it was hardly the time for an evaluation of their special relationship and character treats!

He opened Mycroft's zipper rather rudely and fumbled out his hardening cock. “I want it, Professor. God, you're hung like a donkey!” It still amazed him every time…

Mycroft laughed out loud at this very honest statement, totally dropping out of character, and Sherlock felt a strange pull at his heart. How could anyone love somebody that much?

Mycroft saw it in his eyes and cupped his cheek. “I love you, too. I mean – if you're able to get me off with your hand, I might consider accepting your essay.”

“You can bet your arse I am,” Sherlock mumbled, earning a half-hearted “Language, Sherlock!” and started beating off his brother's massive cock.


Mycroft had always fancied and adored Sherlock's hands. His own ones were not ugly either but who got off on his own body parts? And Sherlock's perfectly shaped and incredibly long fingers, his male, edgy hands (in opposite to Mycroft's rather feminine-looking ones) were simply gorgeous, if he was holding an apple, a gun, a bow or his cock.

And Sherlock was very good at giving hand jobs. He just knew how to apply the right pressure because he could read Mycroft's reactions and body language so well. He let his digits move in the most arousing way, his thumb stimulating his frenulum and the underside of Mycroft's knob while the rest was gripping him hard and deftly. It felt like being in the grip of a python but a very nice one. Sherlock's eyes were darting from his face to his cock, taking in his reactions, and his tongue was slightly poking out of his mouth in concentration, and it looked tremendously cute. Mycroft wouldn’t tell him this as Sherlock would probably hate it but he loved how the pink muscle was visible between his gorgeous lips.

“You like that, Professor?” Sherlock panted, and Mycroft nodded vehemently.

“I do… You've got magic hands, son.”

Sherlock chuckled at the last word and Mycroft grinned. “I just want to make up for not being in time, sir… You think you can turn a blind eye to it?”

Sherlock calling him 'sir'… Now that was new… And strangely erotic. “Not sure… First you'll have to make me come…” He was close already and Sherlock knew it.

He bent over him with a dirty smirk and took his engorged head into his mouth, sucking hard, and Mycroft came with a cry. Sherlock pulled back and let him paint his face with white stripes.

Then he got up and opened his trousers, letting them slide down his legs along with the pants and shook them off rather rudely. He reached up to his face and ran his fingers through the semen on his cheek and then he grabbed his cock with his wet hand and masturbated, standing between Mycroft's spread thighs. Mesmerised, Mycroft watched his hand move in a rough, fast pace until Sherlock cried out and came all over Mycroft's trousers before he sat down on his desk, panting heftily.

Mycroft looked at the mess his brother had made. “You can forget me accepting your essay, boy. Look what you did to my clothes!”

Sherlock giggled and scooped up some sticky fluid, smearing it over Mycroft's face so they were even. “And what do you say now?”

“That you should better be able to run very fast.”

Sherlock laughed and turned to flee but Mycroft shot up and grabbed his waist, pulling him onto his thighs when he sat down again.

The detective grimaced. “I've got cold come on my arse now.”

“As you should have. That was ghastly. And lovely.”

Sherlock beamed at him. “Yes, Professor. But I would really love to have a kiss now.”

“A kiss you will get.”

And when Sherlock finally got up after several minutes of excessive lip-locking with come-smeared faces, he was almost glued to Mycroft's trousers (which needed to see a dry cleaner more urgently than ever before in their existence) but neither of them cared.

“You know I've seen your list…” Sherlock mumbled when they left the office to head to the bathroom.

“What?” Mycroft asked with a deadpan expression. “I have no idea what you're talking about!”

Sherlock paled but then he narrowed his eyes and pinched Mycroft's side. “Bastard.”


Sherlock laughed. “Touché. I should be sorry for breaking in and spying.”

“It's not breaking in if you have a key,” Mycroft smirked. “And you know you're always welcome here as long as you don't come to blow up the house or place some of your dubious friends here again. And I have nothing to hide from you. There are no state secrets on this computer.”

“You've secured it rather well for that!”

“Well, I can't make it so easy for you. You didn’t have to do that, you know. I know you don't like this Christmas sappiness.”

“Oh, but I definitely like spoiling you. And being spoilt by you. I was stupid to react like this.”

“It's very much okay. But I'd love to go on with our naughty advent calendar. Not everything I'd planned was naughty though but most of it. And the rest, well, we can always add sex to it.”

“I'm absolutely up to this,” Sherlock assured him and Mycroft pulled him close.

“Great. Tomorrow will be my turn to spoil you.”

“What do you have in mind? Will you follow the plan now?”

Mycroft thought about it for a moment and then he shook his head. “No. You know it already so let's just be spontaneous if possible.”

“Fine. It was great of you to hatch this. It was a nice idea. I can live with this Christmas stuff in the end I guess. Apart from the, you know, angel…”

Mycroft laughed. “I took it away in the morning. But I couldn’t resist.”

“And I can't resist you.”

And this was a very good basis, wasn't it? Mycroft didn’t doubt that this Christmas time would be the best one he and Sherlock had ever had. He was determined to enjoy every moment of it and he hoped that Sherlock would do the same. Even if his brother never started loving Christmas, he would perhaps learn to not hate it anymore and have a really good time doing nice and sexy things with him.

Chapter Text

“Tomorrow then.”

Sherlock looked up from his phone. “Sorry?”

John gave him a wry grin and shook his head. “You didn’t hear a word I was saying, right?”

“You were talking?” They were sitting in a cab once more, driving away from the crime scene they had been at. John had been able to come along as he had to work in the afternoon only.

The doctor rubbed his forehead. He looked a little stressed. “Okay. So again: Bobbie wants you to come over for some pre-Christmas dinner tomorrow.”


The jaws of the doctor clenched. “And why not? Having something better to do?”

In fact he did. And in fact he couldn’t tell John… Usually he didn’t mind the secrecy his and Mycroft's forbidden relationship required. In the end he had never really spoken about sentiments with John. And there were not as close as they once had been. Too much history between them. Forgiven but not forgotten etc. etc.… In any way he didn’t want to spend an evening with John and his girlfriend instead of being with his brother, especially not now, but he couldn’t say it. “What about lunch?”

“Um, I'm working, Sherlock, I do also work on Sundays sometimes. You don't have to stay long it if makes you feel uncomfortable.”

Sherlock wondered what John was implying with this. That he was jealous? Actually he was. Jealous that his friend could be completely open about his new relationship. Nobody would ever say it was wrong, immoral and disgusting. Some people might say it was too soon after Mary's death but that was everything John had to fear, and it was stupid anyway. He had found someone new he loved and that was fine. If it had been a man, well, then people would talk – two men raising a little girl was still something people didn’t fully accept. But still John would have been able to be open about it as he had never cared what other people said. Sherlock and Mycroft never would, not because they cared about it but because what they had was a little too much out of the ordinary. But that was fine in the end. It was the price they had to pay for loving each other in ways society and law didn’t accept. If Sherlock had to choose between being with the man he loved more than anything or have a boring relationship with anyone else, well, of course he'd always choose his brother.

“Okay,” he gave in. He would go to Mycroft afterwards then. No big deal. Mycroft would understand of course. His brother understood everything…

“Great. Seven?”

“Yes, fine. Shall I bring something?”

John smiled. “Nothing but yourself. Or… No… Perhaps not.”


“You could ask Mycroft if he wants to tag along.”

Sherlock swallowed and then huffed out a hysterical little laugh. “Mycroft? You mean our Mycroft?”

John snorted. “I seriously don't think there's anyone else with this name on this planet.”

“But why? You can't stand him!” And he can't stand you Not that Mycroft had ever explicitly said that but Sherlock knew it of course. And Mycroft had said that he wouldn’t let John get away another time if he took to violence against him again. Sherlock had not answered anything to this, just nodded and taken Mycroft's hand.

John shrugged. “The last time I actually saw him was in Sherrinford. Does he ever give you cases anymore? He hasn't when I was there.”

No. Mycroft didn’t show up with cases. Never. Why should he? He already had Sherlock's attention. And Sherlock had been exceptionally blind all those years. Giving him cases he or any of his agents could have solved themselves anytime had been his way to reach out to him. And Sherlock had always rejected him, even betrayed him when a certain memory stick had been concerned…

Sometimes Sherlock felt the urge to slap his former nasty self in the face. But he had felt this urge just days ago after all… Seems he hadn't changed that much… But Mycroft had forgiven him like he always did…


“Oh. Was thinking of something. For a case… No, um, not very often.”

“Do you ever meet or talk to him at all?”

Where had this come from now? It was clear John didn’t suspect anything. Sherlock wondered what would happen if he just told him, 'Yeah, we meet quite often and have very good sex and we love each other.' His friend would probably just laugh. He wouldn’t believe it…

But what now? Pretend they were still at odds? He couldn’t do that. Mrs Hudson did know Mycroft came along every few weeks, sometimes more often. He probably wouldn’t do it until Christmas as their plans required complete secrecy. They didn’t get tactile in Baker Street often anyway; it was simply too dangerous. But it had happened and Mycroft did visit him from time to time and if Mrs Hudson mentioned that to John, he would know they had something to hide.

“I do,” he said. “Mostly because of family stuff, you know. Things are better between us.”

“Great. So ask him.”

“What? No. He doesn’t have time anyway.”

“Well, you won't know that until you ask him,” John said with annoying reason. “And Bobbie wants to meet him. She's curious.”

Great… Mycroft as an entertainment for John's woman. His brother would be over the moon… He would never agree to this… “I can ask him but I don't think he wants to.”

“You know what? I'll ask him. Right now.” John pulled out his phone.

“Um, I'm sure he's in a meeting. He always is.”

But John just gave him a nasty grin. “Hello? Mycroft! It's John… Sure, you've seen that…” John rolled his eyes at Sherlock. “Long time no see… Yeah, pretty busy, too… Listen… It's about Sherlock…”

Sherlock tensed. Oh no…

“Nah, but I have a question. Will you be tied up tomorrow, seven pm? No? Excellent! I've just invited Sherlock over to my place to have dinner with my girlfriend and me… Yes… And I want you to come, too!”

Cunning… It had been a rather obvious trap and Sherlock was amazed his brother had fallen for it. Probably he had been doing four things at the same time, weekend or not, and John had given him the cue he would always react to, distracted or not – Sherlock possibly being in danger…

“Great! Do you have the address?... Of course you do… See you then… No, just yourself… Bye.” He ended the connection and gave Sherlock a smug grin. “Well, he'll be there.”


“You'll behave, will you? You just said you're getting along better.”

“Yes but he's still Mycroft and you know how he is…” And they would still have to pretend to be like cat and dog. Not in an overly harsh way but still… They couldn’t give anything away. At least they would be together, and afterwards they would go to Mycroft's house and have hot sex. If Mycroft was still in the mood after about two hours with John and a rather cheeky woman…

“I hope he is. I bet Bobbie will love him.”

Sherlock had no idea why she should be fond of his brother. Nobody was. Except for Anthea maybe. The Smallwood woman. Mummy and Father again after having forgiven him for Eurus. More or less... And himself, of course. “I really can't wait,” he mumbled.

“Me neither. Oh, someone's pacing before the house.”

They had reached 221B. And indeed – a client was waiting for them. Good. A case was good. And meeting Mycroft later would be even better. Getting spoilt by him… Oh, he really couldn’t wait for that…


“Hello, dear.”

Sherlock slipped out of his coat while entering the house. “Hello, big brother. So sorry!”

Mycroft smiled. “For what? For John outmanoeuvring me? That was entirely my fault. I was in the middle of avoiding a little crisis in two small countries. And it's no big deal.”

Sherlock embraced him after hanging up his coat. “Yeah, we'll stay for an hour or two, bicker a bit for them, and then we'll come here and fuck.”

Mycroft laughed. “Well if that's not a plan! I just hope his girlfriend can cook.”

“Oh I bet. John gained at least a stone since they've got together.”

“So it's serious, hm?”

“Yeah. Bet there'll be another wedding soon…”

“This time I'll come with you. If he invites me, that is.”

Sherlock gave him a sad smile. Yeah. He couldn’t come as Sherlock's plus one.

Mycroft rubbed his back with both hands. “I should have come when you asked me. I just thought…”

Sherlock stroked his face. They had never spoken about this. “You thought I was reaching out to you because I was so jealous that John married someone else.”

“Yes. Stupid me, huh? But… Why did you? Want me to come?”

Sherlock pecked his cheek. “I can't even really say. It wasn’t a conscious decision. I just felt so alone there among all those people and my feelings for you had started to change months ago even though I had no idea what they really were about. I just felt I wanted you to be there when John would leave my life even more than he'd already had, and yeah, I knew you were right about 'domestic bliss' and all that. I just felt the urge to let you know…” He broke off. He knew that now but he hadn't known it back then…

Mycroft kissed his nose. “Sentiment, little brother. We've never been very good at it.”

“But we're now! I hope I am. You definitely are.” He knew he could improve himself in that regard. He still, well, struggled was too hard a word but there were times when he was still a bit overwhelmed by his own feelings.

“Yes.” Mycroft smiled. “I'll just get easier with time and practice. But I guess tomorrow we'll have to fall back into bad habits.”

“Just as a ruse, Mycroft! Please, whatever I say to you – don't take it seriously.”

“I know, love. Likewise.”

Sherlock wasn't sure it would be so easy. So easy to pretend not much had changed between them and so easy to not get hurt if they started to bicker around in a way John would buy it. But they had to do it if neither of them wanted to back out of the dinner party. And that would probably not be a good idea. It wouldn’t do to make John think too much about their changed relationship.

“We'll be fine, Sherlock. We're big boys with big brains.”

“And big…”

“…yes. That, too,” Mycroft chuckled and kissed him properly for the first time this evening.


“What do you want me to do?” Mycroft stroked over Sherlock's hair. They had both undressed already and were sitting on his large bed.

“Spoil me.”

“Without a doubt. Any special wishes?”

Sherlock nodded. “Use your tongue. Only your tongue…”

“Oh, I see. Want me to lick you from head to toe?”

Sherlock grinned. “You can leave out my head and neither of us has a foot-fetish, and you'd have a very dry mouth if you tried to cover it all. Just focus on the important bits…”

“Ah. I know exactly what you mean. What do you think – shall we make it even nicer and blindfold you?”

He got up and walked over to his wardrobe, fetching a very soft, dark-blue scarf.

“Definitely,” Sherlock agreed. His cock was filling out rapidly at the prospect of being eaten up by his brother, so to speak. They’d had dinner so he would probably refrain from biting anything off. Sherlock shook his head about himself. It was a strange time to think about that case he had read about, taking place in Germany, where a man had asked another man, a stranger he had found online, to cut off his dick, and they had eaten it together. In the end he had killed the man who had wanted to get butchered. People were very strange. Still there was something fascinating about the image of becoming a part of Mycroft very literally.

He winced when the scarf was slung around his eyes.

“Hey, little brother. You're all right with this?”

Sherlock smiled. “Of course I am.” He didn’t tell Mycroft about his very un-christmas-y and rather disturbing thoughts. He guessed they had come to him because he was feeling they were becoming 'one', as much as he would have despised such a statement before their relationship had started, but in a solely emotional way of course. Sometimes being a detective who solved murder cases had some strange impact on his thoughts…

He let himself fall onto the bed when the scarf was tied around his head, and crawled up on it until he was lying in the middle of it. Mycroft stuffed a pillow behind his head and Sherlock nodded when he asked him if he was comfortable.

“Very. Now give me your mouth. Kiss?”

“Everything should start with a kiss,” Mycroft said, the smile audible in his voice, and for the next minutes they lost themselves in intensive lip-locking, Sherlock relaxing into the tenderness and the promise of a love he never wanted to give up on again.

Eventually Mycroft broke the kiss to nibble at his chin, then his neck, and kissed and licked his way down to his collarbones and his nipples.

It was amazing to feel Mycroft worshipping him, and the fact that he couldn’t see anything allowed him to focus completely on the softness of his lips and the incredible things he was doing with his tongue, especially when it was playing with Sherlock's small but extremely sensitive nipples like that, turning them into hard little pearls that attempted to crawl into his busy mouth.

Sherlock reached out to stroke his brother's shoulder, and Mycroft nuzzled his face against his chest before he moved southwards, letting his tongue swirl in Sherlock's navel before licking his way down to his pubic hairs.

Sherlock's cock was hard as a rock already but Mycroft paid it no heed and batted Sherlock's hand away when he reached for it. Instead he urged him to spread his legs so he could lick the inside of his thighs.

“Torturer,” Sherlock mumbled, and he heard his brother chuckle.

“Sorry what?”

“I said you're a torturer!” Sherlock couldn’t suppress a grin.

“Oh, fine. Thought something was wrong with my hearing. I'm just spoiling you, brat.”

“No, spoiling would be if you finally sucked my cock! You've missed how hard it is?”

“Since it is, very impolitely, poking into my face, I can't say I have, no. Show some patience, Sherlock, as foreign a concept this is for you. We'll get there.” Mycroft kissed his thigh and Sherlock pinched his ear.

“Okay, go on, make me beg for it.”

“I think you just did. Didn’t help.” Mycroft lapped over his swollen balls and Sherlock groaned.

“Yes, do that again!”

Mycroft sighed but it sounded decidedly fond. “So demanding… All right then.”

And then Sherlock's full sack was engulfed by warm wetness and it felt devilishly good, and a second later he grabbed for his cock again and stroked it roughly, and before Mycroft could react he exploded right over his groin and stomach.

Mycroft tutted and a moment later the scarf was pulled from his eyes. “I wasn't nearly finished, you impatient boy.”

“I'm sorry?”

Mycroft laughed. “No, you're not.” He straddled Sherlock and rubbed his own erection against his sticky skin, bending down to kiss him, and Sherlock plundered his mouth and reached around him to rub his entrance while Mycroft was searching friction, his large cock poking appealingly against Sherlock's groin, and it didn’t take the older man very long to add his own semen to the mess on Sherlock's stomach.

He let himself fall onto the bed and watched Sherlock rubbing their combined seed into his skin. “Naughty boy.”

“Very. Sorry I interrupted your worshipping.”

“Ah, no worries. It was nice as long as it lasted.”

“Very nice.” Sherlock turned his head to kiss him and then Mycroft took some wet wipes out of the drawer and cleaned them up so they didn’t have to get up so soon again, postponing their mutual shower a bit.

Sherlock snuggled against his body, kissing his throat. “Love you, brother mine.”

Mycroft embraced him tightly. “Love you, too, little brother. You taste great.”

“Sure I do.” Sherlock licked over Mycroft's collarbone. “Mmm. Tasty big brother.”

Mycroft chuckled and kissed him on the forehead. And then he reached for a small remote on his nightstand and a moment later Sherlock groaned when he heard the first tones of 'Silent Night'.

“How dare you?!”

Mycroft smiled and pinched his nose. “I love this song. It's beautiful.”

Sherlock sighed and squeezed his waist. “Torturer. Told you.” He had almost forgotten that it was Mycroft's goal to make him cherish Christmas – a very ambitious goal for sure.

“Guilty as charged.”

And they were lying together, listening to one of the most often played songs of all times, and Sherlock had to admit it wasn't even that ghastly when it was sung by a really good singer and he was listening to it while he was in his brother's arms.

Chapter Text

“What the f…”

“Sherlock…” John glowered at him.

Bobbie laughed. “You don't like our decoration?”

“Oh, it's… opulent,” Sherlock mumbled. He couldn’t believe his eyes. It was the fourth of December and John's flat looked like some sappy German Christmas market. He had cringed when an inflatable man-sized Father Christmas had been waiting directly next to the front door already, his first instinctive reaction had been wanting to hit it but he had contained himself.

The living room was even worse. Little figures – more Father Christmases, reindeers, snowmen, and, of course, angels – were impishly smiling at him from everywhere in the room. Sherlock felt as if he had been put into a Christmas themed horror film… Mycroft would love it…

“Lovely,” he croaked. “Impressive.”

John chuckled. “Okay, lad, let it rest. Sit down. A beer?”

“Oh yes.” Sherlock sat down at the lushly laid table with the red tablecloth and the approximately forty lit candles.

“What do you think your brother will drink?” Bobbie, dressed in a short red dress, which wasn't exactly flattering her typical English-rose-hair, and high-heels, asked with concern.

Mycroft had not accompanied him of course; they had spent the morning together but then duty had called once more so Mycroft had gone to the office for a few hours and it would have probably not been a very good idea to show up together anyway. He would certainly be here in a couple of minutes. It made Sherlock nervous and no matter how much he loved him, he wished his brother wouldn’t come at all – neither of them, actually. Mycroft and John had not met each other since this awful day in Sherrinford so Sherlock had never had to pretend he and Mycroft were still more or less estranged brothers. John knew him rather well, and he had seen Mycroft's vulnerable side this last day – Sherlock wasn't sure he was so easy to deceive. And his girlfriend was rather smart for a goldfish… He shook the worries off for now.

“I think a good wine would be fine. Or the most expensive whiskey on earth.”

John grinned. “We have some pretty good wine actually. Probably not good enough for Mr Important but he'll live.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Why had John even invited Mycroft if he still couldn’t stand him? Before he could ask the doorbell rang. Showtime…

“Oh, I'll open up!” Bobbie squeaked and hurried to the door.

“Where's Rosie? In bed already?” Sherlock asked John, suddenly nervous to the bone.

“Yeah. Sleeping tight, our sweetie. So if you get in a row with him, try to keep your voice down.”

“I'll do my best,” Sherlock said dryly and turned to the door when Bobbie, smiling widely, returned with his brother in tow. And Sherlock's heart made a jump; he couldn’t help it.

Mycroft looked fantastic. He always did, especially naked, flushed and aroused (and that was a thought Sherlock pushed into the back of his mind at once) but now, in this rather dim candle light, he was gorgeous to say the least. Wearing a dark-grey suit with a burgundy waistcoat and matching tie, his black hair tousled a bit by the wind, his light-blue eyes directed at him and a slight smile playing upon his pink lips – he was breathtaking. And for a brief but intense moment it felt as if there was nobody else in the room, no grinning John, no chirping Bobbie, no ghastly decoration. Everything in Sherlock screamed for embracing his brother and kissing the living daylights out of him but instead he forced himself to say, “Mycroft. Smelled the food?”

Mycroft's mouth turned into a frown at once but his eyes sparkled when he retorted, “Sherlock, your politeness is heart-warming.”

“Says the Iceman…”

“Boys, please. Try not to be at each other's throats, hm? Mycroft, sit down.”

John gestured at the chair next to Sherlock's and Mycroft followed the invitation. “Your decoration is wonderful, Ms. Connors.”

“Oh, thank you. But please call me, Bobbie, Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft tilted his head. “With pleasure. Mycroft, please.”

John grimaced. “I told you to call me John for years on end and you still always called me 'Doctor Watson'. But with my girlfriend it's so easy, huh?”

“Well, don't be offended, but you're not quite as lovely.”

John snorted but it didn’t exactly sound as if he was offended. Bobbie giggled and patted Mycroft's arm and Sherlock could barely suppress a smile. She had taken to him so quickly and Mycroft was really charming. It was a side of his brother he had never quite seen. This was the diplomat – suave, kind and likeable. Of course – he knew sides of his brother Bobbie would never get to see and he almost cursed loudly when a picture of Mycroft's unclothed behind came to mind at once. This was not what he was supposed to think about now!

“You must feel like you're in heaven, Mycroft,” he said in an attempt to get control over his reactions. “All those sappy decorations – right up your alley.” Was it a good idea to give this away? Sherlock suddenly felt as if he had stepped onto a minefield. What was right and what was not?

“Really? I'd have never thought,” John said, watching Mycroft with interest.

Mycroft smiled. “I have always liked Christmas. It's a wonderful time and I find it rather appealing if people honour it like this.”

Sherlock felt a little bad, recalling his behaviour a year ago. Obviously Mycroft hadn't liked him any less for it but still. His brother deserved better than being mocked for his love for this childish festival. Oops… And now he even had to mock him for it as John would expect it…

“Deep inside he's still a little boy,” he said with a condescending snort.

Bobbie glowered at him. “Not sure which of you is…”

John chuckled and Sherlock wondered if Bobbie would ever invite him again… Well, if not, he wouldn’t mind. He didn’t reply but huffed.

“Well then, dinner should be ready,” John said. “I'll get it.”

“And I'll take care of the wine,” Bobbie said eagerly. “You're drinking some French red wine, Mycroft?”

The politician nodded with a friendly smile. “Of course.”

“But only if it's a bottle for two-hundred pounds,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Just ignore my brother, Bobbie. He's had too much beer.”

“I didn’t even sip at it!” Sherlock hissed but Mycroft just smiled in this infuriating way Sherlock had hated for a very long time. And even now that he knew Mycroft didn’t mean it (and had probably never meant it) it irked him and he didn’t like that.

“Be right back!” Bobbie said and hurried out of the room.

Sherlock was up and bending over Mycroft at once, kissing his cheek, desperately trying to make up for his ghastly thoughts.

Mycroft squeezed his arm and then gently put his hand onto his chest to push him back. “Not now, love. Too dangerous.”

Sherlock nevertheless pecked his lips before he sat down again, rubbing Mycroft's forearm. “You all right?”

Mycroft smiled. “I'm fine. Don't fret, love. We'll have a nice evening and then we'll go home and have an even nicer night, hm?”

Home… Only that it wasn’t their mutual home and would never be. Sherlock nodded, trying not to show his sudden change of mood. This homely flat full of warmth and elaborate (albeit crazy) decoration. A real home for the new family. Something he and Mycroft would never have.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft looked worried and Sherlock knew he had deduced his thoughts.

“All fine,” Sherlock mumbled and then sat straight when he heard John and Bobbie come back.


“This was a very nice evening, thank you very much.” Mycroft gently shook Bobbie's hand and Sherlock wouldn’t have been surprised if he had even kissed it. “Dinner was amazing.” He shook John’s hand as well and the doctor looked pleased.

“Thank you so much, Mycroft. You're the perfect guest.” Bobbie gave Sherlock a side-glance that implicated he hadn't been quite that perfect.

“Shall I give you a lift, little brother?” Mycroft had called his driver to pick him up.

“Driving me home at public expense?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him and Mycroft sighed.

“You can also walk if you prefer.”

“Nah, fine with me. Bobbie, John, goodnight. It was nice.”

Bobbie gave him a doubtful look but John just grinned. “They are always like that, Bobbie. Two too-smart alpha males.”

“One of them at least,” the redhead mumbled.

Sherlock wasn’t sure he liked her all that much. She and Mycroft had got along splendidly. Mycroft had studied law as well, among a few other disciplines, and they were both crazy for Christmas, so they'd had a lot to talk about. A little too much for his taste. He had teased and mocked Mycroft during dinner, maintaining the façade, and Mycroft had played his role of the exasperated older brother pretty well, and Bobbie had shown very clearly that she was on Mycroft's side. It had made him feel stupidly excluded despite John’s efforts to keep up a conversation with him and he had even caught himself thinking that Mycroft could find a better-suiting partner than him, genius or not.

What did Mycroft even see in him, he had wondered when he had watched him interact with Bobbie. Forever the baby brother he was worried about? A rather good-looking man he physically desired, no doubt about it. But he was so perfect in everything, and he was even able to fit into a dinner party with someone he had never liked (John) and a complete stranger and appear as if he loved it.

Sherlock could never do that. He sucked at diplomacy. He was rude and impolite. An ex-junkie who hated what his brother was so fond of. Their jobs couldn’t be more different from each other. What did they really have in common? Their brains, certainly. Their love of music. Sex. Was this really enough? He loved Mycroft like mad and he would never want to give him up but he had seen him interact with someone with the same interests and he had grown cold inside when he wondered if Mycroft hadn't wasted his life with wanting him instead of finding a more suitable partner he could be open about above all.

He was silent when they walked over to Mycroft's waiting government car he could also use in his free time. Of course it wouldn’t bring him to Baker Street but take him to Mycroft's house as well.

He could feel Mycroft looking at him, worried, when they approached the car but he didn’t say anything. But when he had told the driver to bring them to his address, he closed the privacy screen and took Sherlock's hand.

“Brother, whatever you're thinking – you're wrong.”

Sherlock blinked heftily and only then realised that he had tears in his eyes. He didn’t know what to say so he just nodded.

“I was just playing my role, and so were you, and it was fine. All this was about was to let them believe not much has changed between us.”

And that had been a delicate task anyway – pretend they had just got a tiny bit closer, which explained why Mycroft visited him in Baker Street, and still be nasty enough to not let anyone suspect how much closer they had actually become.

Sherlock nodded again. “I know,” he croaked. “But it sucks.”

“It does. But it's the only way.”

“I know that!” Sherlock suddenly barked. “But you wouldn’t have to play such silly games if you found someone…”

Mycroft grabbed his hand and interrupted him. “Someone what? Less related to me? And then what? I love you, Sherlock. You and nobody else.”

“I know but… Why? I'm not…” Sherlock impatiently wiped his cheek. He couldn’t sit here and cry, dammit.

Mycroft looked terrified. “Sherlock, love, you're everything I've ever wanted. You don't seriously think I fancy that woman just because I was able to hold up a conversation with her for not even two hours? Whatever should I do with her? I'm gay. And no, I also don't want another man.”

“You've never tried, have you? You could have found someone else.” What had just happened? Was he going mad? Was he trying to push Mycroft away because he felt he was the wrong man for him? Sherlock felt as if he was drowning in pain.

“Oh Sherlock…” Mycroft unfastened his seatbelt and moved over to him until he could pull him into a tight embrace. “I've always known it was you or nobody else. You know I've dated other men, long ago. None of them ever was what I was looking for and they couldn’t because they were not you.”

“But you've much more in common with her,” Sherlock sobbed, hating himself for being so vulnerable.

“You think studying the same stuff and liking angel figures makes us the perfect match?” Mycroft kissed his cheek. “That's not what love is about. Love is… when I see you and my heart jumps. Love is when you smile at me and tease me and I feel like I'm floating. Love is my perfectly imperfect little brother in all his beautiful glory, his sharp intellect, his humour, his rudeness, his gorgeous face and arse and his love for me. Nothing, Sherlock, nothing's going to change that. And I don't care that we have to lie and be discreet. I do not like that, of course not, but just because I can't show people how much I adore you, not because I think it's a reason to find someone else. There is nobody else.”

And Sherlock was clinging to him until the car stopped in front of Mycroft's house, feeling loved and silly and touched to the core, craving for making love to his brother, the crazy man who loved him so much. But a part of him was still feeling incredibly sore.


Mycroft had planned this evening to be a feast of wild sex. What had just happened had shown him that a) plans were quite redundant for this matter and b) that this was not what they would or should do now.

Sherlock's reaction had shocked him. He had thought his brother knew how deep his feelings for him were. This emotional outburst had shown Mycroft how much he meant to Sherlock; this was the positive side. But it pained him to hear that Sherlock seriously thought he could have done better with someone else when there had never really been someone else. The few men he had seen in his youth had been nothing but stupid attempts at getting over his allegedly wrong feelings for Sherlock, and he couldn’t even remember them.

It had been nice to talk to this woman as she was witty, friendly and entertaining but he would have never expected Sherlock would become so jealous and insecure because of it. He had meant for this advent calendar to spoil and please Sherlock and make him reconsider his dislike for Christmas so he could enjoy it, too. But now he even feared he was risking losing Sherlock's love and trust, because being unjustifiably jealous of a woman Mycroft had had nothing but a harmless conversation with was one thing, but thinking he wasn’t good enough for Mycroft because of their differences, and his dislike for Christmas was a – completely unimportant – difference, was another thing. He didn’t want Sherlock to believe he had to change because of him. He loved him, no matter if he blew up his Christmas decoration and spat at Father Christmas figures. He needed Sherlock to know that he loved him just the way he was and that he didn’t need to make up for anything.

He grabbed Sherlock's hand as soon as they were in the house, and pulled him to the stairs. “Go up, dear, and make yourself comfortable. I'll get some water and glasses and be upstairs in a second.” He hadn't drunk that much wine and Sherlock had only had two beers but he wanted them to have a clear head when he hammered his message home, quite literally.

“Okay,” Sherlock said meekly and proceeded to climb the stairs, still looking shaken and hurting, and it broke Mycroft's heart.

He hurried to follow him when he had got the refreshments and found Sherlock sitting on the bed, naked and slumped against the pillows. Mycroft poured them both a glass of water and handed one over to Sherlock, who took it with a mumbled 'thanks' and sipped at the cold fluid.

Mycroft emptied his glass, quickly undressed and opened the top drawer of his nightstand, taking out the lubricant. He gave Sherlock a questioning look, and his brother nodded.

“Yes. Please. Take me.”

They both needed this now. Mycroft helped Sherlock to rearrange on the bed and put a pillow under his bottom for easier access.

He coated his right hand's fore- and middle finger with the strawberry-flavoured lube and gently eased them inside his brother.

Sherlock gasped and he stilled until he was sure Sherlock could take more. Inch by inch he invaded him, working him open for his cock so he wouldn’t suffer any physical pain in addition to the emotional one he was still going through. He considered licking him, too, but decided against it when Sherlock gave him a pleading look. Next time then.

He grabbed his so far rather flaccid cock, hoping he would be able to perform under these circumstances, and stroked himself rudely with his sticky hand. Looking at his brother's beautiful form and the quivering opening brought him into the right mind set when he had managed to push aside his concerns for now, and soon he was sinking into Sherlock's tight canal, feeling his brother's heat engulfing him, drawing him in, and then he cursed when Sherlock grabbed his neck and forced him down, entering him way faster than he had planned to.


“Don't fret, just do it. Take me,” Sherlock urged him and he reluctantly started to move, only being able to enjoy it when he realised Sherlock wasn't in any physical pain at least.

He kissed him and Sherlock kissed him back hungrily, his arms and legs slung around Mycroft's body and soon Mycroft fucked him in an increasingly relentless rhythm, urged by Sherlock's heels on his arse.

“I love you, Sherlock,” he panted into his mouth. “Never doubt that. It's you, it's always been you.”

Sherlock nodded, their teeth clacking against each other, and grabbed Mycroft's balls from behind, pulling at them in an exquisitely painful way. Mycroft cursed once more, his eyes closed now, and he hammered into Sherlock, hammering his love into him, until he came with a groan, biting down on Sherlock's shoulder and he rode out his orgasm, trembling and twitching until his cock softened and slipped out of Sherlock's arse.

He rolled onto the side, not surprised that his brother hadn't climaxed yet. He closed his fingers around his not fully hard cock, pumping it to a veritable erection while maintaining eye contact, and he sent his message ('I love you') again when Sherlock cried out and spurted all over his hand and his own body.

Mycroft refrained from getting the wet wipes, instead he bent over Sherlock and licked the sticky fluid from his body.

“Fuck, that's hot,” Sherlock mumbled, sounding a bit like a porn actor, and Mycroft smiled and urged him to roll onto his front when he was finished, and then he cleaned his backside and thighs up as well, lapping up the mixture of lube and his own semen.

“Naughty brother,” Sherlock mumbled into the pillow, sounding pleased and much more like himself and Mycroft knew the message had been received without being vocalised – he would have never done something like this for someone else.

Sex was only one and certainly the easiest part, the most effortless way of showing what Sherlock meant to him though, but in the end this whole advent calendar thing was about nothing else and Mycroft hoped that it would erase the doubts Sherlock obviously had and prove how much he loved him. Sherlock would more actively participate in it than he had thought after all so it would probably make it even clearer. But he had to set things straight.

“I love you, Sherlock,” he said now, pulling his brother into a tight embrace. “Just the way you are. I didn’t plan to spoil you every day to change you in any way. All I wanted is to show you that there's nothing nasty about Christmas, this entire commerce aspect aside. I wanted you to see the magic I can see, even though you might find it very silly.”

Sherlock grabbed his arm. “I don't think it's silly. Well… A bit maybe. I don't know why I disliked it so much.”

“I do think I know it. Victor… He disappeared only days before Christmas that year.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “And that's why I can't stand little angels and grinning Father Christmas figures? I think it's way easier. I'm a man of logic and reason and this is the very opposite of reason. I don't believe in God or Jesus so it just seems so… out of place for me. Or maybe it's just me who's out of place…”

No, not again… “You're not. You're with me.”

Sherlock smiled. “I know and I love to be with you, no matter when. But you don't believe in any higher power either! Except for the Queen… So how can you like this stuff so much?”

That was a really good question. And it was a very justified one. One he couldn’t answer though. “I don't know, actually. You're right. It doesn’t make that much sense.”

Sherlock laughed. “Oh no. Have I turned you into a Christmas hater now?”

Mycroft grinned. That would have been indeed an unexpected outcome. “No. I still like it. I like the food, don't laugh! and the lights and… that I can be sentimental at least once a year.”

Sherlock nodded. “Okay, that does make sense. Especially the food aspect.” He grinned just to turn serious again. “But you can be sentimental with me, anytime.”

“Yes. And I love that. But this time has still something extra magical.”

“I won't spoil it again, I promise.”

“That sounds good. Just let me spoil you a bit and enjoy it.”

“But I want to spoil you, too.”

“No objections whatsoever.” He cupped Sherlock's cheek. “I love you. You, nobody else.” He just felt he had to say it again. “It has never been different and it never will be. And the only thing I regret is that I didn’t act on my feelings earlier.”

Sherlock nodded. “We were both quite good at hiding them from each other. But I'm not sure if I would have been ready for acting on them before Sherrinford so you shouldn’t regret that.”

“Point taken. And I don't regret not being able to show my love for you to the world. The world just wouldn’t understand.” He wondered, not for the first time, if that was really true for everybody. John had been nasty to Sherlock because of Mary but he had watched them together this evening – it had changed their bond but not destroyed it. John liked Sherlock very much. Would he really oppose their relationship if he knew how much in love they were with each other? And Lestrade, the policeman. Would he sack them for breaking the law after all that Sherlock had done for him and despite liking him like a son or a younger, well, brother? Mrs Hudson, who adored Sherlock, definitely like a son? Well, she wasn’t exactly fond of him. She might think he had a bad influence of Sherlock. But if Sherlock told her that he had made the first move? Mycroft knew it was very well possible that all of those people would accept their love – but also that all of them or one of them would freak out and endanger them… And on his side? Well, there weren't many people on any personal basis. Nobody, in fact. Anthea would support him; he didn’t doubt this. Lady Smallwood would be shocked to say the least as she still seemed to believe Mycroft had a bit of interest in her, which he decidedly did not.

It was a waste of time to speculate about this though. They just couldn’t risk it, period.

“The world is stupid,” Sherlock mumbled, sounding sleepy.

Mycroft pulled him even closer. “That's very true.” He watched Sherlock drifting off to sleep. He could stay for a while longer but then Mycroft would have to wake him up so he could go home.

Some things did suck. He watched his sleeping brother with a melancholic but at the same time deeply affectionate smile. It did suck that their love could never dare speak its name. But being allowed to live and experience this love was pretty damn good.

Chapter Text

Sherlock solved two cases for private clients this Monday morning. They were not overly exciting and without John, who had to work, it wasn't that much fun but the people were rather desperate, begging for his cleverness and eager to generously pay him for his time so he sighed just briefly and did them the favour. After all he could use the extra money for this special month… He didn’t have that many clients anymore these days.

When he was finished explaining to the second of the two women why it was a good idea to immediately leave her husband, he made himself comfortable in his chair, his laptop on his thighs.

It might be a miracle that his brother had chosen him of all people but Sherlock did believe him that he wouldn’t drop him for being with someone less complicated and easier to deal with. In any way he was exceptionally lucky to have his brother and he wanted this Christmas to be special for him, and not just because he would let him spoil him. Mycroft loved Christmas and Sherlock loved him, so there.

During the next hour he did some research on a variety of sites. Some made him blush, some made him laugh out loud. In the end he ordered a very special present for his brother that would hopefully make him laugh as well a few items Sherlock might need for the advent calendar, and if they didn’t get to use them this Christmas, they would do it the next year. Sherlock planned to spend many Christmases with his brother, in fact every single one from now on. It wouldn’t always be as easy as this year though, when everybody had other plans so they would have all the time for themselves. But Sherlock was sure they would deal with it accordingly when they got there. And if they had to visit their parents again, well, having sex in their childhood rooms (which were now guest rooms) would be rather hot, too.

He went downstairs to visit Mrs Hudson after a brief texting session with his busy brother as he needed some distraction. He caught her making Christmas biscuits…

Mrs Hudson. How dare you do this and not tell me?!” he said, licking his lips.

Forget it, my boy. They are for Christmas or a few days before. They get even better when you don't touch them for a few weeks.”

I bet they're quite tasty already,” Sherlock disagreed and reached out to a plate with finished ones that smelled delicious. “Ouch!” He rubbed his hand.

Sherlock Holmes! Did your mother allow you to nick fresh bickies?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. She never made any.”

What?!” Mrs Hudson gasped with an expression as if he had told her his mother used to worship the devil under the Christmas tree.

Well, my mum was always very busy, and she did cook as we didn’t have a regular housekeeper – somehow they never stayed very long – but she doesn’t have interest in baking, never had. She used to buy lots of stuff a couple of days before Christmas but she didn’t make any herself. And Mycroft ate them all up before Christmas Day,” he added darkly, internally grinning. He had totally forgotten about that. He would remind Mycroft of it for sure when they met later.

Okay, you know what? You're going to help me making cinnamon stars.”

Sherlock froze. Not in this lifetime.

But Mrs Hudson had this no-nonsense look he had learned to fear. “Oh yes, you will. One time in his life a boy should help making biscuits.”

Mrs Hudson, I'm not a boy and you're not my…” He broke off when he saw her face. Damn sensitive people with their damn Christmas obsessions. “Okay. I'll do it but…” he raised his forefinger when she beamed at him, “you're not going to tell John, is that clear?”

She smiled and he knew he had been outwitted once again. “Cross my heart!”

Sherlock bit back a nasty reply about the existence of said organ in her case and sighed. “So – what shall I do?”

The great consulting detective making Christmas biscuits. What a disgrace… But of course they would be perfect then.


What's that?” Mycroft looked at the little plastic bag with imprinted snowflakes he had been handed over.

What does it look like?” Sherlock smirked while hanging up his coat.

It looks like… Don't tell me you've made them!” Mycroft said in awe.

Kind of. Mrs Hudson forced me to help her.” That he didn’t want her to tell John didn’t mean he wouldn’t tell Mycroft. He knew he could tell him anything.

And his brother didn’t mock him; instead he was impressed. “Wow…”

They started walking through the hallway, holding hands. Sherlock would have never thought he'd enjoy walking hand in hand with anyone but now he loved it. And yes – he wished they could do it outside of this house, too. Well, they couldn’t and it was okay. Actually not quite okay but something he had to accept…

At first she refused to give me any now; she thinks they have to be saved for Christmas,” Sherlock said with a headshake when they entered the living room, shaking off these redundant thoughts.

Annoying woman!” Mycroft teased him.

Yes, yes. In the end she gave me five for all the work I did. Isn't that generous?”

And you've brought them all here?” Mycroft had obviously counted them at once.

Sherlock smirked. “Well. I remember a time when a certain Mycroft Holmes loved Christmas biscuits and they were always gone until…”

Great! That's what you remember, huh?” Mycroft embraced him and kissed his nose. “I wasn’t fat because of too much air and water.”

You've never been fat,” Sherlock said sternly. “Just a bit… round. And now you're just perfect.”

Says the most perfect man on earth.”

I thought I was perfectly imperfect?”

Mycroft grinned. “Yes, but your six-pack and your arse and thighs, not even mentioning your package, and your eyes and your lips and your ears and those curls… All hellishly perfect. So… Any nice plans for tonight?”

Sherlock had been in the mood for some more sex. But his brother looked tired, having worked too hard again. He knew Mycroft would indulge him but perhaps it wasn’t the night for sexual adventures. “I'll just feed you the biscuits and we'll cuddle.”

Oh. That sounds nice. Can we have some nice music?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “'Nice' meaning…”

Mycroft chuckled. “It doesn’t have to be 'White Christmas'. The biscuits are a sufficient attempt at Christmas spirit already I guess. And we're going to share them. But some nice sappy ballads?”

Sounds horrible,” Sherlock purred.

Awful,” Mycroft agreed.

Can't wait. Now let's have dinner,” he held up the bag with the Chinese takeaway his brother had agreed on to his surprise, “and then we'll cover your bed with crumbs.”

Awful,” Mycroft mumbled again, darkly, but his eyes were giving him away. “Fine. Let's do it your way.”

Crumbs and cuddles,” Sherlock said happily.

My new mantra.”

Better than 'caring is not an advantage', isn’t it?”

Mycroft kissed him. “A lot better.”


Sherlock couldn’t really believe he was lying on the bed with his brother, kissing and cuddling (which was totally fine), feeding him a biscuit he had personally made and was listening to… Lionel Richie. He wondered what John would think if he could see him now, the incest aspect aside. He would laugh his arse off for sure.

Mmm,” Mycroft made, chewing the first cinnamon star. “Delicious.”

Sherlock nibbled at one corner. “'s good.” Which was more than could be said about the sappy music. Dear Lord… Mycroft had not exposed him yet to this particular torture since they had got together. Sherlock knew he loved old, boring films but this was the seventh circle of hell. He didn’t say anything but as this was Mycroft he was with, it wasn't necessary…

The older man just gave him an impish smile. “More, please.”

Sherlock grinned and nudged the second star against Mycroft's lips, and when Mycroft bit into it, Sherlock closed his mouth around the other half to bite it off and, shedding crumbs onto Mycroft's chest and the bed, they both chewed, grinning at each other.

Losing no time, Sherlock lowered his head and kissed the crumbs he could find off his brother's hairy chest, kissing and licking a large, pink nipple in the go.

Mycroft started to breathe a bit faster, his eyes suddenly dark, and Sherlock wasn’t so sure anymore that there was no sex on the schedule for tonight.

He grinned up to his brother. “Like that?”

Mm-mm. Oh, there's another one.” Mycroft had broken off a corner of the third star and let it drop onto his equally hairy stomach.

Sherlock chuckled and lowered his head to pick the crumbs with his lips, licking over the soft, furry skin in the go. One of the tasty pieces had managed to fall into Mycroft's navel and Sherlock removed it with the tip of his tongue.

He realised something was poking against his throat. “Hm. What's that? Someone woke up?”

Mycroft licked his lips above him. “I know you said you just wanted to cuddle.”

That was because I thought you looked too tired for sex.”

I'm never too tired for sex.”

Sherlock laughed. “Yes you are, sometimes. You work too hard.”

Mycroft reached up to his heart. “And that from my little brother, who always thought I just sit around, being lazy.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I've never thought that. I just liked to, you know…”

“… annoy me?” suggested Mycroft with a smirk.

“… wind you up a bit,” Sherlock finished his sentence.

Oh, that's what it was.”

You know I'm sorry for so much,” Sherlock mumbled. He had apologised for basically everything nasty he had ever done to his brother, not just teasing him with being fat or lazy. The entire Magnussen debacle for example, including physically assaulting him (and it was probably what he was most sorry for), drugging him, betraying him and the country and bringing him into a dire situation with shooting the blackmailer in the end. It had been a very low point for Sherlock. Mycroft on the other side had assured him that he wouldn’t have let Sherlock die in Eastern Europe (not that Sherlock would have believed that). At this time, John and Mary had been closer to him than Mycroft and he had been rather obsessed with his vow for them. And not much had changed about this until John's violent revenge during the Smith case.

In any way they had left those dark times behind. They would never come back, not for him and John and not for him and Mycroft. Sherlock wouldn’t allow it.

Don't be sorry, Sherlock,” Mycroft said with his soft, beautiful voice. “It's all ancient history. Right, my stomach is still too soft and…”

It's perfect!” Sherlock hissed and placed a big smooch on the deliciously soft skin.

Ah, I'll never be as toned as you are,” Mycroft said with a hint of regret.

You. Are. Perfect,” Sherlock insisted, his hand wrapping around Mycroft's heavy cock. “I love your body. And now I want my lollipop.”

Mycroft laughed but the laughter turned into a moan when Sherlock's lips closed around the dark-red crown of his cock, sucking relentlessly. Then he grabbed the rest of the third biscuit and put it into his mouth, noisily chewing it, and Sherlock chuckled around his cock, biting it involuntarily in the go.

Watch your teeth, boy,” Mycroft said with sparkling eyes. “Or do you think while I'm eating your fabulous pastries, you can eat my, oh, meat…” He moaned again and Sherlock sucked him extra hard, playfully pulling at his balls.

The cinnamon stars were great but if Sherlock had had to choose, he would have preferred sucking Mycroft's tasty dick over eating them.

He worked his brother's massive appendage over as well as he could, and he was pretty good at it if he might say so himself, and only let go of it to take his brother's giant sack into his mouth, too, while using his hand on his blood-filled penis.

Mycroft came sooner than he had expected, spilling over his own stomach, groin, and chest with a growl.

Sherlock frowned as he had wanted to swallow his brother's seed, but then he took the fourth biscuit and dipped it into the puddle of come on Mycroft's belly just to put the whole thing into his mouth.

Mycroft was watching him with wide eyes. “Pig!” he accused, sounding thoroughly impressed.

The detective poked his tongue at him, showing him the rest of the come-bickie, and Mycroft laughed out loud. “I want some, too.”

With a smirk Sherlock took the last cinnamon star, saturated it with semen, and offered it to his brother.

Mycroft took it and chewed it, grimacing for Sherlock's entertainment, and he hurried to get up to demand some of the biscuit, taking it from Mycroft's mouth.

That was ghastly,” Mycroft stated, carding his fingers through Sherlock's curls.

It was. Wonder what Mrs Hudson would say to this way of eating her precious pastries,” Sherlock giggled.

She'd get a stroke,” Mycroft stated. “Hm…” he made, tapping his forefinger against his long nose.

Nasty man! I need this woman!”

I know you do. And what else do you need now?”

Your hand.”

All right. Give me your cock.”

Sherlock happily obeyed, and soon Mycroft's long fingers were deftly massaging his prick, eliciting a strong eruption from him within two minutes.

Sexually sated, Sherlock snuggled against his brother's body after cleaning them both up. “I liked that.” Even though Lionel Richie was still singing something about 'Endless Love'. Well, Sherlock could relate to this…

I bet you did. Our bed is full of crumbs though.”

Our bed… Sherlock liked how that sounded. Still he couldn’t stay overnight. Well, he was a grown man. He could do whatever he wanted. But Mrs Hudson would be worried because of, well, the stupid things he had done in the past. “It won't kill you,” he said, slightly sad.

Hey… This, Sherlock, is what this is about…” He pointed at the CD player.

Sherlock smiled. “I know. But sometimes…”

I know, little brother. But some things won't change and we'll have to deal with them. And I told you before – I won't trade you for anyone else just because it would be easier. There's just you for me.”

I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to spoil the mood,” Sherlock said, cursing himself for forcing Mycroft to reassure him of this again.

Oh, love, you didn’t! I just don't like to see you sad.”

“… about things we can't change and have to accept, I know. It just hits me sometimes.”

Believe me, I know what you mean. But it's worth it, don't you think?” Mycroft pulled him closer.

Absolutely. You're not going to get rid of me, brother.”

Good. Because I won't let you go.”

They kissed deeply and tenderly, and Sherlock was happy. He looked his brother deep in the eyes when they parted for air, showing him the depth of his feelings for him, and Mycroft smiled, his eyes telling the same thing, and then they kissed some more.

Chapter Text

“You're one tough negotiator, Holmes.” Lord Pemberton gave him a wry grin that deepened the wrinkles in his tanned face.

Mycroft felt generous enough to smile at the sloppily dressed older man. “It's all in your best interest, too.”

“I'm sure it is. You know how to convince people…”

Mycroft thought if he didn’t know that by now, he would be doing a very bad job… “Well then, I…”

“You owe me something, Holmes.”

“Do I?” What was this man on about?

“Yes you do. So, here's my request: I'm giving a little Christmas party tomorrow evening and you're just the man I need there.”

Mycroft gaped at him, having been caught off-guard which didn’t happen very often. “I am… Oh, certainly not.” He avoided parties like the plague. And he had heard about this party. The PM would be there, too, along with Lady Smallwood. If he needed any more reasons to not want to be there... Yeah, there was one…

“Come on, just drop by for an hour, casual dressing. Do you even own casual clothes?” the lord teased him, his light-green eyes glistening.

“Really, I'm flattered but I have other plans.” Like shagging his brother into the right Christmas mood… He had not even remotely got him there…

“Ah, nonsense. It starts at seven; you can be home at nine or even eight-thirty. I will be very hurt if you don't say yes.” The old man gave a very good impression of a pout.

Mycroft sighed. He hated parties and it would show. He was the very last person anyone could want at a party. And in opposite to the dinner with John and his girlfriend, he couldn’t bring his brother as a plus one. Well, not that Sherlock had officially done that but he would certainly not accompany Mycroft to this event. And probably he wouldn’t even do it if it wouldn’t be so out of the question because if there was one man who hated parties more than himself… “All right…” he gave in because he really didn’t have much choice.

“Great! I have the best whiskey this side of the Thames and the buffet will blow you away. And to be honest, I want to introduce you to my wife. She will love you.”

Mycroft doubted that very much. “There will be press, won't there? I don't like to see my picture…”

“Oh, no, no,” Lord Pemberton interrupted him. “No photographers at my parties! And I don't want to see anyone taking pictures with their phones, nasty habit. It's all about relaxing and having a good time, nothing else, and I mean it: you don't have to stay long. It's just a bit tough to get such intellectually stimulating company.”

Well, there was nothing to say to this. Mycroft hoped Sherlock would understand. But he knew he would. He just hoped his brother wouldn’t think again: if he was with someone else, he could bring him there. That was true. But that was not the criteria for love. Even if they had to live in a sinkhole to be together, Mycroft would do it. And if one day push came to shove and their secret would be revealed due to unforeseen circumstances – Mycroft wouldn’t hesitate for a second to take Sherlock's hand and run… He had never mentioned it to Sherlock but in fact he was prepared for this. Someone with his intellect and position starting an incestuous relationship had to think this all through thoroughly and make sure to have a plan B.

He really hoped it would never come to this but this was how much he wanted to be with his brother. Power and influence and respect were fine but Sherlock's love meant so much more to him. He had not seen a reason to tell Sherlock about it. Perhaps he should have, given his brother's insecurity about being 'the right one' for him that had popped out of nowhere two days ago. Strangely enough, he didn’t doubt that Sherlock would leave it all behind for him without hesitation as well – his friends, his job, his life in England. He pushed the thought away. They were fine. They were safe.

“Fine, sir, I'll be there.”

“Awesome.” The old man got up with a smile. “You know people fear you and they're right, but I think deep inside you're a great guy with a soft heart.”

Mycroft gave him a wry smile and thanked him for this dubious compliment while accompanying him to the door, thinking he might have to work on his Iceman image a bit more…


“You're kidding me…”

Sherlock smiled smugly, as far as he could see it. “Watch your mouth, young man. Have you been a good boy?” His voice was extra deep.

“You've got to be fucking kidding me…” Mycroft never used such language, well, except for times of high arousal. He was sitting on his bed, naked, but Sherlock was fully dressed and standing two metres away so arousal was not the reason for his choice of words right now.

They'd had dinner together once more and he had told Sherlock about the party that would keep him from seeing him the next evening until late. Sherlock had been very understanding and suggested that, if his schedule allowed it, Mycroft could visit him in Baker Street during the day instead as he might need his rest afterwards. Mycroft had eagerly agreed. Before the start of their unusual advent calendar, they had not met every day but he definitely wanted to do it until Christmas if possible, and he wondered if they would be able to return to their twice-a-week-pattern afterwards so easily. After these few days he was more in love with Sherlock than ever before… But they would see how things worked out after the holidays. There was no use for any more pressure on this already challenging-enough-relationship – challenging, surprisingly enough, due to the necessity of keeping it a secret, not their characters that complemented each other breathtakingly well.

After dinner Sherlock had told him to get naked and then he had retreated into the bathroom with the bag he had brought, refusing to tell Mycroft what he had planned.

Now Sherlock chuckled in his deep baritone. He patted his huge belly (and Mycroft wondered how many towels he'd had to put under the costume to look like this) and walked over to the bed to let himself drop onto it, sitting next to Mycroft.

“Come here, onto my lap.”

“You're crazy.”

“Watch your language, boy, or you'll get no presents.”

Mycroft wondered what he should get Sherlock for Christmas. Last year it had been a new coat which Sherlock was wearing with enthusiasm; he had got some rare books for Mycroft, which Mycroft had loved. They didn’t need to buy gifts for each other of course but Mycroft didn’t buy anything for anyone else and he wanted to spoil his beloved brother for Christmas, not only with love and sexual favours but also with something material. Well, he would find something for sure. Right now he had to focus on this hilarious situation.

“And what presents do I get if I do watch my language?”

Sherlock gave him a mischievous glance. “Oh, you'll be pleased.”

Mycroft didn’t doubt this at all. He gave in and sat on Sherlock's thighs, which wasn't that easy with this large but soft belly but Sherlock curled his arm around him to hold him in place.

“The white beard suits you,” Mycroft chuckled. And red was definitely Sherlock's colour…

“Don't mock Father Christmas' beard, boy!” Sherlock thundered most impressively.

“Sorry,” Mycroft said meekly. “Do all boys sit on your lap naked, Father Christmas?” he asked then in his most innocent voice.

Sherlock snorted but narrowed his eyes a second later. “What are you implying, Mycie?”

Mycroft grimaced at the nickname but decided to play the game. It promised to be rather funny. “Impel… Iply… What does that mean?”

Sherlock's eyes were sparkling now. “Ah, don't fret your pretty head, little one.” He briefly touched Mycroft's decidedly not-little cock and Mycroft burst out laughing.

He was an inch taller than Sherlock, and sitting on his lap, he was looking down on him. He tried to make himself smaller. “Okay,” he said, tapping his forefinger against his lips, attempting to make saucer eyes. He briefly wondered what the honourable Lord Pemberton would say to this performance…

“So… Tell me… Have you been good this year?” Father Christmas asked in a most sincere tone.

Mycroft nodded vehemently. “Very good. I was told I'm so good at doing certain things.”

“Like helping your mum in the kitchen?” the white-bearded man suggested.

“Ahem… Yes. Doing all these hot things, I mean, baking and cooking and stuff.”

“Hot things, aha. And were you nice to everybody?”



“Why should I? People are stupid.”

“So you are even proud of being a bad boy?” Father Christmas seemed appalled.

Mycroft gave him a cheeky grin. “Yes.”

“Oh, you're leaving me no choice.”

Suddenly Mycroft found himself draped over Father Christmas' thighs. He struggled theatrically. “No, please! Don't hit me!”

“Bad boys get spanked!”

Mycroft didn’t think the traditional British Father Christmas actually spanked the naughty children but if this particular specimen thought he had deserved it… They had indulged in such games before but so far he had been the one to deliver the spanking, but he was all for it. He wasn’t sure who was getting spoilt tonight but as soon as Sherlock had been willing to take over the spoiling part after spying out the list, it had been clear it would be a win-win-situation.

And damn – that first blow was exciting. Sherlock's hands were large and strong and he felt the stinging and yes, he liked it. “Ouch!” he cried out. “No more hitting, Father Christmas!”

“You'll get ten blows to remind you to be kind and polite next year,” the other man threatened.

“Aha. And how many will you get?” Mycroft chuckled and then gasped when Sherlock landed the second blow.

“Insolent brat!”

If this wasn't a nice way to turn the tables… Mycroft sobbed and pleaded but Father Christmas showed no mercy whatsoever. When he had delivered all ten blows, Mycroft's arse was stinging quite a bit and he would have loved to see how red it was; probably it was bearing the imprints of those wonderful violinist's fingers.

“Are you sorry now?” the vicious basher asked him.

Mycroft nodded into the sheets. “Very sorry. Make it better?”

“Hm… You think I should?”

“Yes, Father Christmas. You must cool it. With your tongue.”

“Oh, that's what I have to do. Well then, get off of my lap.”

Mycroft hurried to find a comfortable place on the bed and even put a pillow under his groin himself, making sure to give his already veritable erection a comfortable place.

He gasped when his cheeks were spread – and then giggled when he felt something pretty tickling touching his sensitive skin. “Oh please – you're still wearing this beard?”

“What do you mean, boy? It's attached to me!”

“Oh, I see… Well then…” He grinned against his arms when the beard tickled him at an even more delicate place, and giggled when Sherlock cursed most un-Father-Christmas-y. “Not that easy with this beard, huh?” That brought him another stinging blow and he laughed even more. And then he moaned when he felt a wet tongue lapping at his exposed hole.

Sherlock had not taken off the beard but probably shoved it under his chin. It was a strange feeling to be feeling the soft hairs at his thighs while being licked expertly. Every few seconds Sherlock's wonderful lips moved away from his entrance so he could lick over the hot flesh of Mycroft's abused backside or the underside of his swelling balls.

Mycroft felt as if his groin was on fire. Sherlock really had a magic mouth and he was putting it to excellent use. Eventually he used two fingers to open him up enough to lick him inside and Mycroft moaned and wiggled in ecstasy.

When his brother felt he was getting close, he gently rolled him onto his back and took his now rock-hard cock into his mouth, sucking him in earnest from the first moment.

Mycroft arched his back when he spilled into his baby brother's mouth, being beyond control and thinking. He shuddered through his orgasm and felt absolutely boneless when Sherlock was licking him clean. “Give me… a sec…” he brought out, and Sherlock chuckled.

He had taken off the beard now but he was still wearing the costume. “All right, boy,” he teased him. “Whenever you're ready…” He sat up and opened the zipper of the baggy red trousers. “Father Christmas likes a blowjob as much as the next guy.”

“Dirty, depraved Father Christmas, having little boys sucking his cock.”

The man in red was thoroughly unimpressed. “But they love it so who's depraved here?”

Mycroft grinned and manhandled himself into a sitting position just to slide from the bed and onto his knees and between two muscular legs. Something big and pink was poking out of the soft trousers and it wasn't soft at all when he wrapped his fingers firmly around it.

“That's a good boy. Now show Father Christmas how much you like him.”

“And what if I don't like him at all?” Mycroft asked, winking.

“Then, my dear boy,” a deep voice rumbled, “you won't have to do it but he will spank you again!”

“Oh. In this case…” Mycroft bent down and took the tasty thing into his mouth, suckling at the wide head.

“Oh, Father Christmas likes that very much.”

Mycroft didn’t doubt that as he tasted the droplets of pre-come that were appearing in the tiny slit. He lapped them up and hollowed his cheeks, taking as much of the big prick into his mouth as he could. Sadly, he wasn't able to deepthroat Sherlock like his brother always did for him. It was certainly not due to a lack of practice but his gag reflex wouldn’t cease and since he thought it was worse to retch and puke than to do it as far as his limits allowed him, he stuck to the latter, and Sherlock had never complained and neither did Father Christmas. In fact he obviously liked it so much that he filled Mycroft's mouth with bittersweet fluid within a couple of minutes. Mycroft cleaned him up with his tongue as well before they both cuddled up on the bed, Sherlock still wearing this insane costume.

“Will you never take that off?” Mycroft teased him, patting Sherlock's clothed arse.

“Never,” Sherlock confirmed. “I'll wear it when I solve my cases, I'll shower with it.”

Mycroft grinned. “You're a crazy, crazy man.”

“I am.”

“Ready to hear 'White Christmas' now?”

“Looking for some more thrashing?”

“Not really, no.” It didn’t hurt and he would be able to sit down without any problem. Sherlock was a very kind spanker. When Mycroft had – very rarely – done it to him, he had of course kept it very harmless, too. They were not really a kinky bunch.

“I loved that,” Sherlock said, kissing his cheek.

“So did I. Love you, little brother.”

“Love you too. So you'll drop by in Baker Street tomorrow?”

“Yes. I'll bring lunch.”

“Sounds good.” Sherlock sounded rather sleepy now.

“Take a nap, Father Christmas. You must be tired from visiting all those naughty children.”

“Mm-mm. None of them is as naughty as you.”

“I should hope so.” Mycroft held him, smiling. His brother was really something else. Special and spectacular. And his…

Chapter Text

“Yes, I know, I was great. I really need you to leave now,” Sherlock urged the elderly woman.

“But I haven't thanked you enough for all your…”

“You have, believe me.”

“Do you have enough warm socks?”

“Pardon?” Sherlock asked with a grimace.

Mrs Ritter or Bitter or Hitler or whatever her name was nodded vehemently, her purple curls bouncing. “I can knit you a pair or two! My grandsons say they are the best socks they've ever…”

“That is exceptionally nice of you but I do have plenty of socks so please don't bother,” Sherlock hurried to assure her.

“All wool ones?” she insisted with feverish eyes. “They are the best! Nothing keeps your feet warmer than…”

“Please, would you just leave now?!” Sherlock thundered, having reached the limit of his not very considerable patience.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” she sobbed. “I just wanted to do something nice for you…”

All at once Sherlock grinned. “Please, I'm sorry. And when I think about it – I'd love to have two pairs if you could be so kind?” One for Mycroft, one for John. Or… “Ah, could you make it three?” Lestrade might be in need of some, too. Perfect Christmas presents! Of course the ones for Mycroft would be just a joke and he would get him something decent but John and Lestrade would certainly be over the moon. Or not, he didn’t care.

“Are you sure? I don't want to be intrusive…”

“Oh, please, you never could. I would adore that,” Sherlock purred.

The woman with the crumpled Ann-Taylor-dress beamed at him, exposing all of her yellow teeth. “I'll start right away when I get home!”

“I appreciate this so much,” Sherlock assured her and finally managed to get her out of the flat. And he had thought Mrs Hudson was crazy in her never-ending concern for him. She would get some really good chocolates, just like Molly and Mummy.

Mummy… Their parents wouldn’t be available for Christmas – what a shame – but Mummy had threatened them with visiting them a few days before the holidays instead. Well, as long as he and Mycroft didn’t have to go there… They would endure them for a couple of hours. And they would have to play their roles very well. Father, kind-hearted and reliable and loyal as he was, would never sense anything but Mummy was another matter. She had sharp eyes and her brain still worked quite well… But he and Mycroft were smarter and sneakier so it would be fine. Hopefully…

He had never thought about what their parents would think about their relationship. They hardly ever met them. Sherlock loved them in his own way and so did Mycroft but they didn’t really matter in their everyday lives. Mummy had always tried to understand her complicated sons but she had never really succeeded. Sherlock didn’t blame her for that in the least. He knew that he and Mycroft, not to mention Eurus, had never been the children parents even remotely understood… They had never been open about their feelings or what was going on in their lives with them. And of course what was going on in them right now was the very last thing they would tell them. Sherlock wasn’t sure though that they would react badly to it. They would certainly be shocked but they, more than anyone else, had to see that they were so different from anybody else that getting together had been inevitable if they didn’t want to stay alone forever; at least Sherlock knew this was true for him, and yeah, Mycroft had assured him it was the same for him. Perhaps their parents would eventually accept it. Not that they would ever risk that… They had been good parents; they had always done their best but they were no real part of his life, or Mycroft's, and this had never been that much different.

When he thought about his childhood, he remembered nothing but his brother. He had regained some memories of Eurus and Victor Trevor but he had quickly dismissed them again. They didn’t count now; Victor had been lost for so many years and Eurus had never counted for him. And Eurus had always known that. This was the reason for the games she had played with them. She had wanted him to see her, and for a short while he had tried his best to do that but… For him she could very well not exist. Perhaps she had realised that in his dealing with her when he had gone to Sherrinford. Perhaps this was the reason she had never started talking again. And he didn’t actually care.

But he did remember a lot about his childhood he had chosen to forget while eliminating Eurus and Victor from his conscious mind. There were entire days he recalled and snippets of other ones. And underlying the events he remembered now was this one presence that had always been there, always looking after him, always concerned, always just there. Mycroft had been wrong when he had told him in this first conversation about Eurus that the man he had become was his memory of Eurus. Sherlock knew he had become the man he was now, with all the strengths and the flaws, because of what Mycroft had meant to him, if he had wanted to acknowledge this or not. Things had become difficult between them for many reasons but mostly because he had been found it necessary to rebel against him like he had rebelled against basically everything. But for a long time Mycroft had been his hero, his idol, and he had always been the man he had known he could turn to if he was in need. And now he was so much more than this. His brother, yes, of course; he would always be. His lover, oh yes. And what a lover he was. But he also was his best friend. John had long ceased to be that. They were good again but they were not what they had been in the early days; too much had happened between them and he guessed he would never be able to fully trust him again. But Mycroft… He knew he could trust him with his life. His rational mind was sure Mycroft would not drop him for someone he could be together with without hiding it. Perhaps it was the part of him that constantly remembered all-too-well how nasty he had been to his brother for so long that still feared he wasn't good enough for him. How ironic that nobody else than John's girlfriend had made him aware of this…

When he heard the door-knocker being straightened, his heart started to beat faster. He was here. So was Mrs Hudson so they couldn’t do a lot but Sherlock didn’t bother. They would get there again, if not today, then tomorrow. Being close to him was everything he craved. Yeah, okay, sex too but that was not all this was about, not by far.

Sherlock had found out in a very remarkable way what love really meant when he had realised he was in love with his big brother.


Mycroft chuckled when Sherlock almost crashed him while obviously trying to crawl into his mouth. He indulged him of course and let his mouth be plundered by an eager detective's tongue before he broke the kiss to get some much-needed air.

“So, did you miss me?”

Sherlock grinned and grimaced at the same time. “No good phrasing, Mycroft.”

“Ah, our decidedly dead friend Jim didn’t invent this expression, little brother, nor can he claim a patent on it. So?”

“Yes. I missed you. And I'm going to miss you tonight.”

“We can still meet afterwards.”

Sherlock nodded. “We could. But you won't get any rest until this party, will you?”

Mycroft had to admit that. Some unexpected occurrences had let this usually quiet time before the holidays become rather strenuous and he doubted that things would calm down so soon. “Probably not, no.”

“Well then you should rest afterwards. We can text during this boring party if you want though.”

“Oh…” Mycroft considered the possibilities. Suddenly the party didn’t seem like such a chore anymore. Well, it still would be ghastly but there was a bright spot on the horizon. “I think that could work. I might not be able to answer all the time though…” And he would delete their texting after the session, like they always did when they indulged in this.

“Of course not; that's fine. But it will keep you from strangling someone who might annoy you.”

He probably meant Lady Smallwood, who still hadn't given up hope she would get him one day. “You're not jealous of certain people, are you?”

Sherlock, his arms tight around his neck, raised his eyebrows. “Should I?”

“Oh no. Definitely not. I will hate to be there and I won't stay long.”

“Ah, such things tend to drag on,” Sherlock stated darkly, and Mycroft had to agree.

Probably he wouldn’t get away after an hour… “I want to see you tomorrow night though.”

“Of course.” Sherlock nibbled at his ear, his hands starting to stray.

“Well, little brother, we should have lunch now and then we can fool around a bit. Clothed…” He remembered one particular day when Mrs Hudson had almost caught them doing something without many clothes on… It was too dangerous.

Sherlock pouted. “I want my Mycroft and I want him now.”

“I know you do and he feels very flattered and wants you just as much. But's he's a reasonable man who knows sometimes one has to restrain oneself for the sake of safety.”

“He could very well be a bit more adventurous,” Sherlock sulked and Mycroft knew it was only partly a ruse.

“He will be tomorrow, promised.”

Sherlock huffed and sat down at the table, grabbing his meal. “All right then. Let's eat.”

“You say this as if it was a punishment,” Mycroft said with affectionate mockery.

“It is.” Sherlock started to eat his curry though, shovelling it into his mouth to be precise as if he wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible, which he probably did.

Mycroft smiled and followed his example, albeit a lot less frantically.


“I have to go, Sherlock,” Mycroft mumbled against his brother's luscious lips.

“Uh-uh. Not now.” Sherlock's right hand was in his shirt, stroking his chest, and Mycroft was hard in his pants, gasping every time Sherlock's fingers rubbed or tweaked a stiff nipple.

He knew if he didn’t go now, they would end up having sex on Sherlock's couch. Not a good idea with a nosy old landlady in the house… “Sherlock… You know I would love to but it's too dangerous and I have to get some more work done unfortunately.”

Sherlock huffed but pulled away. “Damn work,” he mumbled.

“Very damn work.” Mycroft kissed him again and closed the shirt buttons Sherlock had opened. He was already missing the feeling of his brother's hand on his skin. He had the strong feeling he had already become more addicted to their love than ever and obviously it was the same for Sherlock, judging by his sulking. “Tomorrow we'll do it all, little brother.”

“May I fuck you then?”

“You may insert your penis into my anus, yes,” Mycroft said with a stern expression and Sherlock giggled, which had been his goal. “I'll go refresh myself a bit,” he told him and hurried to the bathroom.

“Can I watch?” Sherlock shouted after him.

“Better not,” Mycroft said with regret in his voice and wasn’t surprised that this earned him some more huffing. He didn’t envy anyone who was searching for Sherlock's help today.

When he came back, Sherlock was standing at the window, looking down on the street. Mycroft embraced him from behind and kissed his cheekbone. “You all right?”

“Yes.” To his relief Sherlock smiled at him even though it was a rather sad smile. “Will miss you tonight though.”

“We can still…”

“No, it's all right. You’ll need your rest. And we'll text if you can.”

“I will. Bye for now, little brother. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Don't pour champagne over anyone later.”

“Not if it's good champagne.”

They kissed some more and then Mycroft grabbed his coat and his umbrella and left the flat.

When he had reached the second last step, the door of 221A opened up, and he stopped dead before forcing himself to walk on.

“Oh, Mr Holmes. I didn’t know you were there.”

Had she really not? Or had she waited for him to leave so she could catch him? Was it crazy to think that? Why would she do that, considering how little she liked him, if not because she already suspected something. She couldn’t though; there was no reason.

“Mrs Hudson. Good afternoon.” He glanced at the bin liner in her hand and relaxed.

She smiled at him, which made him feel suspicious once more. She had never smiled at him… He was grateful that she was looking after Sherlock so well but he didn’t trust her in any other way. She would do anything for Sherlock. She thought he was an overbearing, nosy, heartless robot who had nothing else in mind than controlling his brother. Why would she smile at him all at once?

“Good afternoon,” she said, her face friendly. “How is His Majesty?”

She sounded genuinely kind which was suspicious in itself. “He's fine. Just discussed some family matters with him.” Why was he justifying himself? He could visit his only brother as often as he wished to. Only that they had been estranged as long as Mrs Hudson had been in Sherlock's life…

“You know… I'm a bit worried about him,” she whispered.

Mycroft was all ears. “Why ever?” Was Sherlock up to something he had no idea about when he was here on his own?

“He's alone too often. And Christmas is coming and neither John nor myself can have an eye on him. It might not be a particularly dangerous time per se but still…”

Mycroft felt relieved but he didn’t show it. “I am well aware of this. That John is with him so rarely these days can't be easy for him. But we have agreed that he will be spending Christmas with me.” There was no use in lying about this. In fact telling her that they were getting along way better was the only way he could be here more often and not raise suspicion. They would have to change their behaviour if John was with them next time, too. There was nothing questionable about two brothers getting along and spending time with each other after all. Well, 'normal' brothers at least but he thought it would still be better than pretending he was only coming here to discuss problems.

“Oh, that's nice,” Mrs Hudson chirped. “He's away every evening nowadays. I was worried but I shouldn’t have been, right?”

It was hard to keep a straight face when everything inside him was screaming 'she bloody knows it!!!' She couldn’t though! And her tone hadn't been in any way suggestive. But it had caught him off-guard (which seemed to happen quite often as of late) and he had hesitated with his answer for too long. “Don't worry about him, Mrs Hudson,” he settled for saying. “He is fine.”

“Oh, I know he is. Never seen him so happy. He didn’t even freak out when I forced him to make cinnamon stars with me.”

How sneaky she was. She knew Sherlock had brought him the biscuits, he could see it in her eyes. And dammit – she might be a goldfish but he knew she could see the realisation in his eyes, too… She had been living very close to Sherlock for a long time. She might have learned at thing or two from him… “That was a very nice idea,” he calmly said. He wouldn’t admit anything. And she wouldn’t right-out ask him if he was sleeping with Sherlock. She wouldn’t, would she?!

“He's very talented.” She even winked at him. “He hates Christmas though. But perhaps he doesn’t hate it quite as much this year. Well, I have to get this out, and I'm keeping you from going back to work I guess. It was nice talking to you.”

“Likewise. You don't think I'm a reptile anymore?” Damn… Where had this come from? Why did he even still think of this? Not that he would ever forget this day. The day John Watson had violated his brother. He should better never do this again.

She stepped closer and patted his arm, which made him freeze in shock. “No. Well, perhaps you are. But I've heard they are nice to their families even though one shouldn’t think that.” Mycroft swallowed and she smiled. “I know you have always just tried to protect him. I was just upset that day. It was a hard time.”

“Yes. For all of us.”

“But they are over, aren't they?” She scrutinised him with her piercing brown eyes.

Mycroft nodded firmly. “Yes, Mrs Hudson. They definitely are.”


Sherlock didn’t know if he should laugh or scream when he saw Mycroft's text. Dear lord… He had underestimated his cunning old landlady for sure, even after she had forced him to climb into a trunk… Who else did he underestimate?

And she didn’t mind it… He had hoped for this even though he hadn't thought it would ever come to this. It made his life so much easier all at once. He could stay over with Mycroft now. He could just tell her he would visit him but then… he didn’t have to because she knew it.

He hadn't known how much this meant to him. It made him feel so much lighter. Should he talk to her though? Was that wise? He trusted Mycroft's judgement though; if his brother thought she knew about them, she did. And of course he would see it in her face the next time they met. It made him feel giddy and strange and happy. If he just could tell John, too… They might not be the best of friends anymore but the doctor still meant a lot to him.

But he wouldn’t risk anything. And he knew he had to talk to Mrs Hudson and let her know she should be completely discreet about it. Well, she wasn't an idiot – she knew that of course. But she even had to keep silence about it towards John.

Tomorrow morning he would confront her. No, just talk to her, if she was up to it.

He was pacing around in the living room while he was thinking. And then he stopped dead. What the hell…? He stalked over to the shelf and stared at the ghastliest creature that had ever crossed the threshold of his flat.

And then he started to laugh until tears were running over his face. Not just because of the damn little angel his cunning brother had placed in his flat on a day where nothing they had done or would do had had anything to with sodding Christmas. It was also out of sheer relief and joy. And finally he conceded that this year's Christmas time was indeed a very special one.


Hey… Just escaped my host… How are you? MH

Hide well! Fine, doing an experiment. How is the party? SH

Will Baker Street be still there tomorrow? As expected. Lord P. is talking me to death. Lady S. is already pretty tipsy and I think she tried to pinch my behind but I got away. MH

I am positive it will. It's not an explosive experiment, just some DNA research. And certain people should keep their hands to themselves or they might regret it. 😈 SH

I'm outside now. It's pretty chilly. Nobody can see me. Or pinch me. MH

Ooh, things get interesting. What are you wearing? SH

Really? 😂 MH

You are using an emoji? I’m impressed… 👏 So? Waiting for your answer. SH

A suit, Sherlock. Grey, dark-red tie. MH

You know I didn’t mean that… Underwear? SH

What I always wear. My boxer briefs. MH

You totally suck at sexting, Mycroft. Touch yourself then. Make a picture of the tent. SH

Sherlock… MH

Come on. You said nobody can see you. SH

I didn’t mean that. I do think our phones are secure but a picture? MH

I will delete it at once, like I will do with our texts afterwards. I promise. SH

Okay. Just to humour you. MH

And for making up for the you-know-what. SH

No, I don't? MH

This, Mycroft! 😇 SH

I don’t know what you mean. MH

Oh, please. I know you put it there! SH

Where? MH

On my shelf! Don't play stupid with me! SH

I honestly don't know what you're on about. But… Here you go. MH

Ooooh… Nice! And BIG. God, I want to worship it… SH

I bet you do. Deleted? MH

Yep. It's a shame though. And if your phone isn't secure, whose should it be? SH

Still. Just cautious. MH

Thank you for doing this. This picture will forever be imprinted on my retina. SH

Even though you have seen the real thing so many times? MH

A picture is still special. And it proves I turn you on even when I'm not with you. SH

You always do. I adore you. MH

I love you, Mycroft. More than ever. SH

So glad, love. Can only say the same. MH

Damn, the lord is coming for me. Thank God this made my cock shrink at once… See you tomorrow, okay? MH

Sure. Drink some champagne on me. SH

I will. Love you. MH

Ditto. SH

Chapter Text

“Oh. Good morning. You're up early.” Mrs Hudson smiled brightly at him.

Sherlock nodded. “Yeah. Hope I'm not disturbing you…”

“Of course not. I've just made tea, come in. And of course you haven't had breakfast yet.”

“Not really, no. If you have some toast?”

“Sure I do.”

Sherlock followed his landlady into her kitchen and sat down, watching her pouring tea for both of them, and he was still silent when she provided him with toast and jelly. He had eaten one piece of toast, Mrs Hudson sitting opposite of him, totally relaxed, before he found the courage to speak. “Um… I… You…” He broke off when he realised he still didn’t have the courage…

“Oh, Sherlock. It's all good. It is, isn’t it?” She didn’t mean between the two of them.

He nodded fiercely. “Yes. Very good. How did you know?”

She gave him a fond smile. “I didn’t, not a hundred percent, until yesterday. Your brother is a very smart man, just like you, and he thinks he can hide his feelings so well, but well, perhaps he's not quite as perfect at that.”

Sherlock grinned. “Oh, that will irk him…”

“It was nothing big, you know, no wide eyes or shock or anything. I just saw it because I've been living with you for so long I guess. Just one second of not quite holding up his shields and I was sure that he didn’t come along more often because you suddenly get along better as brothers. I've had my suspicions for weeks. One time I think I…”

“Yes,” he interrupted her quickly, blushing. Sex really didn’t alarm him, at least not anymore, but Mrs Hudson almost catching them in the act… “One time it was close. We didn’t really do much afterwards,” he hurried to add.

She took his hand. “Oh Sherlock, it's your flat and you're a big boy; you are allowed to indulge in any pleasures you like, well, if they don't include getting high…”

“I do though,” he said without thinking, and she giggled, knowing at once he meant 'getting high on Mycroft'. “You really don't mind?” he asked then, seriously. “Even though he's my… brother?”

Because he's your brother, I don't mind.”

Sherlock looked at her, confused, but then he nodded. “You know he'll never do anything bad to me.”

“Exactly. For so long I hoped it would be John but now… I wouldn’t have liked that anymore.”

There was no doubt what she was talking about. “You've never said anything.” And he had never told her that John had violated him. But Greg knew. Molly knew. And Greg would have arrested John if Sherlock hadn't talked him out of it.

She sighed. “You know I love him and I love Rosie. He was going through a very hard time. And I know you've forgiven him. So no matter how wrong he was to do this and how much it horrified me, it wasn’t my place to tell you to… be careful.”

“He'll never do something like this again.”

“Because you won't give him a reason,” she said, reasonably. “You hardly spend time with him anymore. So there's not much danger you'll ever get into such a situation again.”

“He's very sorry about it.” Sherlock felt strange, defending his friend. He couldn’t name the feeling. It was just strange.

“I do believe that. I'm surprised though that your brother didn’t… do something.”

“He would have, if I hadn't forgiven him.” Sherlock knew it even though Mycroft had never vocalised this. It hadn't been necessary. “And he wouldn’t let him get away with it again.”

“I wouldn’t either. I may be old but…”

Sherlock remembered the day she had threatened him and forced him to get into her trunk, racing to this house to make him and John reconcile. It seemed to be ages ago. “You're more dangerous than my brother.”

She laughed. “I guess I am! Never underestimate an old woman. You're like my son, Sherlock. So was John. But he's changed. I hardly ever see him anymore, either.” She sounded sad.

Sherlock had never wasted a thought on her missing John – and Rosie. “He's started over new. He's found a new mother for Rosie. But you won't lose them.” He would talk to John. Mrs Hudson had done so much for them; it wasn't fair to neglect her just because John had a girlfriend again and wasn't living here anymore. “Mrs Hudson… It's great that you are so accepting towards my brother and me. What we have… It's still forbidden by law and if it ever came out…”

“I won't tell anyone, Sherlock, never. I know most people would not understand. They would just see the taboo and they would find it… icky maybe.”

Sherlock winced. He knew what she meant, of course, but… icky? Yeah. They would, no matter how attractive a couple they made for. He nodded. “Yes. I have no idea what John would say but…”

“…I won't mention a word, to anyone, including John. It won't hurt to let him know you've reconciled though; it's always better to stick to as much truth as possible.”

Sherlock smiled. “Yes. We think so, too. We've visited them together, a few days ago.” He hadn't mentioned it to her before.

“Oh! How did it go?”

Sherlock smiled wryly and told her about the evening with John and Bobbie. He even mentioned his weird jealousy and Mrs Hudson patted his hand.

“It's very normal to react like this. To pretend nothing has changed between you two, except for being on a bit better terms; it can't have been easy.”

Sherlock nodded. “I even thought he would be better off with someone he has more in common with. Well, except for the same parents…”

“But you do! Whenever I watched you together, as estranged as you might have been… it was always like… dancing.”


“Oh yes. He always watched you, so intensely, when you looked another way, and you did the same as soon as he looked elsewhere. You always behaved as if you didn’t like him but he definitely did matter to you. You're not half as different from each other as you think. You're both so sensitive, so devoted to what you do, so protective of the ones you love. You've gone off to different paths in life but you are so similar. I know I said he was cold and yes, I've called him a reptile when he didn’t want to leave when John saw his dead wife on this DVD but if you are concerned, he's so far away from being cold, and he always was. You're two sides of the same coin. He might be more manipulative, even though you're quite a handful, too, in that regard, more focused on power and serving the country, which is an honourable thing to do, and you are focused on helping people and solving crimes, but both of you merely do that to occupy your brain. You put it to good use nonetheless, no matter which reasons you have for it. You are both very decent men, underneath all these layers of arrogance and coldness and drama, in your case. And he's always looked out for you, and deep inside he's always mattered to you. You are both brilliant and both passionate in what you're doing, even though he always seems so dispassionate but that's just because of his occupation and because he doesn’t want anyone to see what a softie he actually is.”

“My God, Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock was seriously impressed by her accurate evaluation of their characters, and it was a huge comfort to hear this from somebody else than Mycroft – that they were basically meant for each other because they were, in fact, very similar.

She smiled sheepishly. “That was a long speech, I know. And one more thing – you might seem so different but these differences are just manifestations of the same basics and it's the differences that spice things up. You've got more temper than him but I bet he loves that.”

“Oh, he does have some, too…” Sherlock blushed.

She giggled. “I do believe that. Never doubt that you're the one he wants, and needs,” she added in a serious tone. “I should have seen it long ago. Neither of you can be happy with someone common and normal. It wouldn’t work. I wanted so badly to see you happy with someone, and I thought there was something between you and John, despite his 'not gay' rants. But even if he was – he's not what you need. You need someone strong and calm to rein you in if you go over the top. You definitely don't need anyone to beat you up when you do…” She reached for the teapot. “I know you in the best of hands with your brother. I don't care if it's forbidden and all that. You are both adults and I know you would never do something you don't want to. And all he's ever wanted was to keep you safe. You can't get any safer than with him.”

“Mrs Hudson – I love you.”

“Oh!” She giggled and blushed and Sherlock smiled.

“By the way – did you smuggle a little porcelain angel into my flat?”

She was all big eyes. “Why would I do that? I know you hate such stuff.”

Sherlock nodded and bit into his cold piece of toast and his heart felt warm and fuzzy.


They were standing in Mycroft's bedroom, kissing, and their clothes seemed to vanish by themselves. Sherlock was lost in his brother's taste, the softness of his lips, the hardness of his penis, pressing against his own throbbing member. He had missed this the night before; God, he would become one of these clingy partners who couldn’t live a day without the other one, and they had even met yesterday!

He felt dazed and dizzy when Mycroft let him go and said, “I'd like some music to being topped. You mind?”

“What music?” Sherlock asked, grinning.

Mycroft winked. “My choice.”

“Okay,” Sherlock said with a sigh.

Mycroft quickly walked to the CD player (and Sherlock was surprised he even used CDs and not LPs; his brother would probably never take to streaming anything) and soon the room was filled with sounds Sherlock had not heard before. “A gospel choir? Singing… Oh no…” He didn’t know the song but he had quickly identified the word 'Christmas'…

His brother smiled. “They are good. Give it a chance, hm?”

Sherlock nodded. If his brother wanted to hear a choir singing Christmas songs while Sherlock was fucking him, well, then so it should be. He would be able to blank it out, probably. “Get on the bed, you sappy Christmas lover,” he demanded.

That brought him a raised eyebrow. “Oh… Getting all stern, are we? And who's sappy here?”

“On your knees, man, and present your arse.”

“You won't spank me for the music, will you?”

Sherlock chuckled. “Nah. You deserve it though. But let's see if I can get you being louder than them.” He shuddered at a particularly theatrical moment in the song. If Mycroft had had any direct neighbours, they would have probably shown up already or hammered against the wall. But then they would have to be quiet during lovemaking and that would really suck…

“Do your worst then,” Mycroft challenged him, wiggling his perfectly round arse at him.

The sight made Sherlock's mouth get dry and his cock rise even more. Grabbing it with one hand to get some instant friction, he joined his brother on the bed and proceeded to take him apart.


Mycroft almost passed out at having Sherlock's hot tongue up his arse again. His wicked brother knew how to make him squirm and hoarsely beg for more. He died for returning the favour but Sherlock wouldn’t let him now and Mycroft was rather sure he wouldn’t be up for another round. They'd had so much sex lately; it was a miracle that he, a middle-aged man who used to sit most of the day, was able to get it up that often anyway.

Sherlock wouldn’t even think of such problems. He was approaching forty, and he was approaching it fast, but his brother still had his boyish looks and that boundless energy. And when he pushed into him a few minutes later after lubing him up thoroughly, Mycroft knew he was in for a wild ride.

Doggy style was not his preferred position as he couldn’t see his brother like this but he assumed Sherlock would eventually change positions if he didn’t lose it right away. And his brother was, without a doubt, very aroused, having enjoyed this particularly naughty way of preparation.

At first Mycroft had felt rather uncomfortable when Sherlock had licked him. Nobody had done that for him for a very long time and Sherlock was still his younger brother, whatever he also might be now. It had just felt… wrong. But when Sherlock had clearly enjoyed himself very much and had demanded to let him do it, he had forced these thoughts away and allowed himself to cherish this (and he had never had a problem with doing it for his brother in the first place). Getting fucked, especially as fast-paced and hard as he was being taken now, was something he deeply craved. It was a way of giving up control to someone he knew would never misuse it and just letting himself go, and a certain part of him was very responsive to getting stimulated. Of course he had never allowed anyone to do this before but he had never doubted he would love it when Sherlock did it to him.

He was shivering under the hard thrusts, held up mostly by Sherlock's hands on his hips. He felt dizzy and boneless and tumbled when Sherlock pulled back abruptly.

“Come, get on your back, I want to see your face when you come,” Sherlock breathed, and Mycroft let himself being manhandled onto the mattress, slinging his legs around Sherlock's slim waist when his brother had entered him again without much resistance.

Their eyes kept being locked while Sherlock was pumping into him even harder than before, the gospel choir accompanying their pants and moans with enthusiastic singing.

And a woman loudly sang 'Jesus' the moment Sherlock came in him, and Mycroft almost choked from laughing while his brother was flooding his passage with hot fluid and chuckling against his neck, but his laughter turned into moaning again when Sherlock grabbed his cock and pumped him to completion within mere seconds.

They lay pressed against each other for a long moment, their bodies shivering, and Mycroft's arms were wrapped tightly around his brother lithe, muscular form.

“That was great,” Sherlock brought out eventually.

“The sex or hearing our saviour's name when you spilled your seed into your big brother?” Mycroft chuckled.

“Both. Naughty brother.” Sherlock sounded positively awestruck.

“I knew you'd learn to appreciate this.”

“You haven't got tired from fooling around every day?” Sherlock asked him, seriously.

“No way. You?”

“I'll never get tired of that.”

“Good.” Mycroft used the remote to turn the music off. Sherlock had suffered enough. “Shower?”

“Yeah, guess we'll have to. I love you.”

He would never get tired of hearing this, either. No words on earth could mean more to him than these ones. “I love you, too, little brother.” Being allowed to say them was just as important to him.

“More than Christmas?” Sherlock teased him.

“More than anything.” And nothing could be truer.

When they were walking to the bathroom, Sherlock said, “You did put the angel in my living room.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Course I did.”

“I'm going to drown you under the shower.”

“I'd love to see you try.” And Mycroft kissed him and yelped when Sherlock pinched his arse.

“Evil brother!”

Mycroft gave him a smug smile. “Yep. I'm the evil one.”

“Love you anyway.”


And when they stepped under the hot spray together, they kissed each other senseless until the water turned cold but it didn’t cool their desire, and back in bed, they indulged in it some more.

Chapter Text

“And… was that a juicy case or what?” Lestrade patted Sherlock's back.

Sherlock grimaced. “I wouldn’t have called it juicy, no…”

“And so great to have had you on board again, too,” the DI turned to John, ignoring Sherlock's grumbling.

“Yeah, it's awesome to chase some criminals again for a change,” the doctor agreed.

Sherlock snorted. “Chase… I told you where to look for him and he confessed at once. I wouldn’t call that 'chasing' anyone.”

“If you're finished with nagging, boy… Care to head over to the Yard with me? I've got some cold case files you might be interested in.”

“Why do you even have them?” Sherlock flared. “You could have as well asked me to solve them when they were still hot! Or at least warm. Lukewarm…”

Greg grinned and shook his head. “They weren't my cases, sunshine. And you know the other DI's are not quite as keen on working with you…”

“Yes, because they're idiots.”

“Are you coming now or what?!”

Sherlock sighed. “Yes, Garth, I'm coming. John?”

“Yeah, it's my day off, Rosie is in day care. I'm free like a bird!”

“What about Bobbie?” Sherlock asked when they walked over to the police car. He had ceased taking cabs if it wasn't necessary.

John smiled. “She's at work, git. Everything's fine. She keeps talking about your brother by the way. Made quite an impression…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I bet. Bored her to death with his chattering probably.”

“Chattering? Mycroft Holmes?” Greg was stunned.

“He was really a great guest,” John said, sounding as if that still surprised him. “Didn’t even know he'd studied law.”

“I bet he studied every subject Oxford provides,” Greg said with inaudible admiration in his voice.

Sherlock shot him a fierce glare. Was he interested in his brother? He wasn’t even gay!

“Anyway they talked as if they'd known each other for years,” John blathered on while they were getting into the car.

Sherlock bit his lip. He didn’t need a reminder of this evening. He knew he had behaved childishly but he still feared it hadn't been completely unjustified. Not because of Bobbie of course but of the general problems his forbidden relationship with Mycroft entailed.

“Ah, don't be jealous,” John said to him when the constable had started the car, and Sherlock turned to him so fast that his neck hurt. “What?”

“She still likes you, too. Even though you were rather petulant that day,” John chuckled, and Sherlock immediately relaxed.

He couldn’t have cared less if John's girlfriend liked him or not. He realised Lestrade was watching him from the passenger's seat rather weirdly when they drove off. Probably he thought Sherlock was jealous of Bobbie indeed, but because of John… If only he knew… And what if John knew? Would he ask them over again then, spending an evening as two couples? He would like to think so but he knew he could never risk that.

He decided to change the subject. “I hope your cases are worth my time, Griff.”

John laughed next to him and Lestrade sighed. “If you put as much effort in being nice as you do in finding new names for me, everybody's life would be much easier.”

“I have no idea what you mean, Ghandi,” Sherlock said, winking, and this time everybody laughed, and he felt a lot better.


“You've got to be fucking kidding me!” Sherlock turned on his heel to run off but Lestrade grabbed his arm.

“Please, don't leave, it will be fun! Just for a little while, hm?” He had to speak rather loudly to drown out the noise (and if Sherlock hadn't been so deep in his thoughts about what he wanted to do with Mycroft later on and blanked everything else out, he wouldn’t have even entered the bloody building).

“You asked me to come here under false pretences!” Sherlock flared.

“Yeah, as if you'd never done that.”

Sherlock glowered at him, knowing very well he was right, before he turned to John, who could hardly suppress a grin. “And you! You knew it!”

“Yeah, okay, I did. Shoot me.” John shut his mouth with an audible noise, and Sherlock wouldn’t have needed to be a genius to know what he was thinking of.

He was about to say, 'I wish I had' but he refrained from doing it in the last moment. Of course he didn’t. He would forever be grateful that neither of them had been hurt in Sherrinford. Still… “Traitor,” he hissed, and he realised there was a true core in this accusation. John knew he hated stuff like this. How could he let Lestrade lure him here?

“Hey,” John said, raising his hand. “It wasn't my idea and I played along because I think you might even like it if you tried.”

A Christmas party at the Yard, with stupid coppers running around with silly hats on their empty heads, drinking punch instead of doing their job, no matter how poorly they used to do it anyway – that wasn't Sherlock's definition of fun and if John didn’t know that by now, he couldn’t know him very well. And he realised it especially, yes, hurt, after this godforsaken dinner party.

“I'm sorry, Sherlock,” Lestrade said, sensing that Sherlock's mood wasn’t a ruse. “You don't have to stay of course. I just thought it would be fun, even for you. And I really do have a few cold cases I would love you to have a look at.”

Sherlock sighed. Christmas. He had always known people were getting all sentimental and unreasonable in this bloody time of year, and if they already were rather sentimental and unreasonable to begin with, what else was to expect? “Fine. I'll stay for half an hour, I will take the folders with me and solve your cases, and I want some punch.”

“On the way!” Lestrade beamed at him, obviously happy that Sherlock had agreed to give his insane party a try.

“Are we good?” John asked him when they walked over to a spot without too many drunken cops and a few chairs to sit on.

“I don't know – are we?” Sherlock shot back without thinking, letting himself drop onto a very uncomfortable chair.

“This is not about this party. I did apologise and I meant it.” John looked and sounded desperate all at once.

And it didn’t even have anything to do with his violence. At least not much. Sherlock had always understood why he had done it. He had deserved in a way. Without his loose tongue, Vivian Norbury would probably not have fired at him. Even though they couldn’t be sure about it. She'd had nothing to lose. Still… Sherlock had provoked her like an idiot, and it had cost Mary's life. It had been her decision to sacrifice herself for him but there was at least a possibility that she would still be alive if Sherlock had just shut up.

John had crossed a line that day in the hospital though. He had kicked and beaten their friendship into the bin after refusing to meet him for months beforehand until the Smith case. But then he had done what Mary had wanted and what Sherlock had tried to achieve with everything he had done – he had saved Sherlock's life and in the go restored their friendship.

But it would never be the same again and that Sherlock had a lover now he couldn’t tell John about made the rift between them even wider but of course John didn’t know that.

He shook his head, seeing Lestrade coming with three glasses. “It's okay, John.” He was feeling tired all at once.

“It's obviously not in the least okay,” the doctor mumbled but he shut up when the DI reached them.

“Your punch, boys.” He looked from one of them to the other one. “You don't look exactly amused…”

Sherlock didn’t answer but took a gulp from the beverage just to grimace. “That's awful!”

I've made it.”

Sherlock sighed deeply, looking up to the person who had joined them from behind Lestrade. “And you've poisoned my glass, Donovan, haven’t you?”

“You got me,” she said dryly. “Never thought you would come to a Met party, Freak.”

“Sally!” Lestrade narrowed his eyes and she held up her hands.

“Sorry, sir. But what if he starts deducing us to shreds as usual?”

“Why would I? You're still fooling around with Anderson, who is still married. Nothing new under the sun,” Sherlock said darkly and downed the punch. He was rather sure he wouldn’t stay for the full thirty minutes he had said he would. Five minutes seemed to be completely sufficient to figure out he didn’t like it. Damn, make that five seconds.

She snorted and stalked away with an impatient gesture.

For a moment none of the three men said a word, then Sherlock watched John exchanging a look with Lestrade before saying, “I've got to go to the loo.”

“You know the way.” Lestrade sat down next to Sherlock. “What's wrong, lad? Can I help?”

Sherlock slumped down in his chair at the sympathy and affection in his voice. “No, Greg. Some things can't be solved.” He hadn't even realised before that he was smarting under the need to be so discreet about his beautiful relationship with his brother, even and especially towards John. Perhaps it had come up now because he spent so much more time with Mycroft than he had in the months prior to this. Why hadn't he even been with him more often? To show he was not dependant from his brother? Because he'd had so many other things to do? Was solving cases really more important than being with him? It clearly wasn't. In fact he had been falling in love with Mycroft more with every day since they had started this funny and arousing advent calendar. There was no way going back to meeting only every few days, and the fact that Mrs Hudson knew about it made meeting much easier. But the more he loved his brother, the more time he spent with him, the further he moved away from everything else. John was still a part of his life even though they didn’t see each other that often anymore. But they were growing apart more and more, with John's domestic life with a woman Sherlock hardly knew and who didn’t like him a lot, and Sherlock's secret life with a man John would not in a million years believe he was his partner, and God knew what he would say or do if he knew it.

It was yet another end of an era and Sherlock had never been very good at this. When he had lost Victor, he had chosen to forget he'd ever existed, along with his own sister. When Mycroft had disagreed with his drug habit, he had turned his back on him and been a brat towards him for decades… He had tried to accept Mary in John's life and even forgiven her for shooting at him but look how this had ended… Mycroft had said not too long ago that he'd never been very good with humans. Compared to Sherlock he was rather splendid at it…

“I really don't like to see you like this.” Greg looked seriously devastated. “So sorry bringing you here didn’t cheer you up but made you sad instead. I will talk to Sally; she can't still call you…”

“Never mind. It has nothing to do with her. So what about your wife?” Sherlock rudely changed the subject. “Everything fine on this front?” Greg definitely looked happy. Or he had before Sherlock's dark mood has spoilt his day…

Greg was taken aback at this unexpected question. “Yes. Everything's fine. Hey, you've never met her, have you? Why don't you come over and…”

“No, please no,” Sherlock burst out. That was the very last thing he needed: spending time with another happy heterosexual couple…

Greg bit his lip. “Yeah, stupid idea, sorry.”

Great… Now he had insulted and hurt him, too. “No, it was nice of you to offer it, I just… can't…”

“I wish you'd find someone, too. I know it would have to be a man, and that's fine. I've always thought John…”

“I'm not interested in John!” Sherlock hissed, suddenly feeling deeply annoyed.

“Wow, thanks, man.” The doctor sat down, rubbing his head.

“You know what I mean…” God, Sherlock only wanted to get out. This day was horrible! “Everybody always thought we'd get together even though you had one silly girlfriend after the other even before you got married and had a kid. It's just stupid.”

“But it never irked you,” John said, tilting his head. “We both knew it was nonsense but you always just ignored these hints. Why are you so pissed off about it now?”

Because now I do have somebody I love and who loves me. And still I'm getting pitied for being alone even by my friends because I can't tell them about him… Sherlock got up. He just couldn’t endure this anymore. He looked at the laughing people who were enjoying themselves, normal men and women with a challenging job but normal lives they went home to every evening. Oh, some of them did have secrets nobody knew about; he could have deduced several of them right away, but not one of them was in the same league as his secret was. He had never fitted in, never belonged anywhere with the common population, and it was somehow very fitting that he would choose the one man who shared this even though he had learned to blend in much better than Sherlock did. He definitely couldn’t have found anyone else who was fitting him nearly as well and Mycroft made him happy and he would forever have to lie about it even to his friends.

“I have to go,” he said, avoiding the men's looks. “Send me the folders or mail the stuff over, Lestrade, and I will take care of it. Oh, and John – call Mrs Hudson sometime soon. She thinks you've forgotten about her.”

“I will. Sherlock…”

“Everything's fine, John. Don't fret.” And with this Sherlock left, ignoring Lestrade's apologises and John's question where he was going.

There was only one place to go now, and Baker Street wasn’t it.


“Thank you, Anthea,” Mycroft said when his PA put the tray with the mugs and the teapot along with sugar and cream onto his desk. “Send my brother straight in, please.”

“Of course, sir.” The attractive brunette smiled and left the room.

Mycroft knew Sherlock wasn’t about to pay him a visit for bringing a Christmas surprise. Something had happened and Sherlock needed to see him. He had texted him and asked if it was convenient, and Mycroft had agreed at once and cancelled a meeting with Lady Smallwood. His brother should never doubt he was his number one priority. Not his job, not the country, not the Queen – Sherlock.

He tried to focus on a report in the meantime but it was difficult. He was afraid that his original plan to make his brother enjoy Christmas was backfiring at them. It had brought them closer together, which was wonderful, but it had also caused his brother pain he had never planned for. It had nothing to do with Christmas of course; it had to do with their very unusual and decidedly illegal relationship. But now that Mrs Hudson was clearly accepting it, it should have been easier. If he had to guess, he would say whatever had disturbed his brother today, it had to do with John Watson. Him having saved Sherlock's life on the first day they had spent together aside - every bad thing that had happened to him in the past years had had to do with the bloody doctor, if it was Sherlock's wish to protect him, along with Lestrade and his landlady, from Moriarty's companions by risking his life all over the world for two years or being shot by his damn wife or Sherlock killing someone cold-bloodedly because of the Watsons. And he couldn’t even think of the violence John had inflicted on Sherlock without balling his hands into fists. He had avoided talking about it with Sherlock that much. But when he had learned about what had happened, he had been terrified, not only by the extent of John's violence but also by Sherlock's obviously boundless forgiveness towards everybody with the name 'Watson'. Having learned the hard way how much Sherlock despised him meddling in his affairs, he had refrained from teaching the short doctor a lesson he wouldn’t forget. He had no right to tell Sherlock to kick him out of his life. He had even played nice with him and his girlfriend, a likeable and decent woman without a doubt (and Sherlock had not liked that very much) but he would never forget this and he was glad John had somewhat left Sherlock's life. They still met for the occasional case and they were still 'friends' - whatever this actually meant for a man who had used Sherlock as a punching bag – but at least they didn’t live together anymore and saw each other way less than before. For a long time he had, despite John's liaisons with women, feared they would end up as lovers, and he had no idea what he would have done then. It would have been horrible to see Sherlock with anyone else of course but with someone who had treated him so badly, and not for the first time…

But in the end Sherlock had chosen him, not John, and nothing could have made him happier. But still the doctor had a lot of impact on his brother's life, and he was rather sure whatever had just happened was yet one more example for this fact.

He got up when Sherlock entered the room, carrying a medium sized paper box, a cautious smile on his face.

“Sherlock. Come in.”

His brother closed the door with his heel and approached his desk, putting the box next to the tray before taking off his coat. The name 'Louise's' was printed on it – the name of a new, very exclusive bakery just around the corner of New Scotland Yard.

Mycroft had locked the door with a switch that was placed under his desk. He didn’t do that very often but it was nothing overly suspicious. Anthea would see it from her office but she wouldn’t question it, at least not loudly, and if there was one person in his life, except for Sherlock of course, that he unconditionally trusted, it was her. Which didn’t mean he would tell her about his forbidden relationship with Sherlock of course; they had never been exactly personal with each other anyway.

He greeted Sherlock with a kiss when his brother bent over his desk, tasting tea and punch on his lips. Punch? “How are you?” he asked and sat down again, watching Sherlock dropping onto the visitor's chair.

“Good,” Sherlock said, and there wasn't any deduction ability needed to see that he was lying. “I'm sorry to disturb you,” he added, making Mycroft's heart clench.

“You're not disturbing me at all.”

Sherlock gave him a wry smile. “Liar. I know you're very busy. You've postponed a meeting because of me.”

Of course his brother would deduce that. “It was with Lady Smallwood, so thank you.”

Sherlock chuckled and Mycroft liked this much better. “Sit down, have some tea. And what have you brought there?” He filled the mugs.

“Oh.” Sherlock smiled like the Cheshire cat. “Cake. I've brought cake.”

How the times had changed… From all the nasty remarks about his weight to getting a cake that probably had 3,000 calories – per slice… He didn’t show any reaction that could give away that he had thought about Sherlock's infamous diet 'jokes' but of course it was pointless.

Sherlock's face darkened. “I was an idiot, Mycroft, you know that.”

“No, just a brat. Brats are cute.”

“Cute!” Sherlock gasped.

Mycroft winked. “You'd prefer 'idiot' over 'cute'?”


Mycroft laughed. “Okay, will we need plates and forks?”

“Nah, not if you don't insist on using fine porcelain.” Sherlock opened the box and presented two paper plates and plastic forks.

Mycroft winced at this blasphemy but he thought it wasn’t necessary to ask Anthea in again. “I don't mind.”

Sherlock grinned. “You're lying again, and you're lying badly. But you'll love the cake.”

Mycroft didn’t doubt this in the least. It was a small monument of chocolate, cream and calories. “It looks exceptionally tasty,” he agreed.

“Tastier than me?”

“Nothing, Sherlock, is tastier than you.”

“Likewise, brother mine. I'll bring cake again next week,” Sherlock decided after giving him a sweet smile and a little bow. “Home to you, I mean. And I'll smear half of it all over your body and lick it off, and then you can do the same with me.”

“Sounds delightfully messy.”

“That's the plan.”

“A good plan,” Mycroft conceded. He had a washing machine after all. And towels to cover the bed. “Thank you.” He took the rather unstable plate from Sherlock's hands and they ate the first bite simultaneously – and rolled their eyes in delight equally simultaneously.

“Excellent cake, eh?” Sherlock said with his mouth full, and Mycroft felt overwhelmed by tenderness when he looked at his beautiful, complicated brother, certainly enjoying the indeed excellent goodie but at the same time trying to cover the anxiety that had brought him here in the middle of the day.

“It is,” he softly said, and after tucking in in companionable silence for two minutes, he wiped his mouth with his handkerchief and set his fork onto the desk. “Your day wasn't that excellent, hm?”

Sherlock's face fell. “Not quite, no. There was a party in the Yard…”

Mycroft tutted. That explained the punch-taste. “A nasty affair, without a doubt, but…”

“Yeah, that's not the end of the story.”


Sherlock was up from his chair and sitting on his thighs practically a second later. “No. I'm sorry for being a brat again.”

Mycroft curled his arms around his waist and they shared a peck. “You are most certainly not, Sherlock. Tell me – what has upset you so much?”

And Sherlock nodded and told him a rather confusing story about John and Lestrade and trust issues and he listened carefully until Sherlock stopped abruptly.

“I know I'm not making any sense. This is so idiotic. I love you and you love me and that's what counts, and John is still my friend in a way, and yes, I know you don't approve, no matter how nice you were to his girlfriend and him and…” He stopped, seemingly running out of breath.

“Sherlock. It's not idiotic in the least. It's just reality. You do still trust John to some extent but not nearly enough to trust him with the truth about us, and rightfully so. Nobody can say how he will react as he is simply unpredictable in many ways. And yes. I know it's not my business if you are still friends with him or not but I don't actually like it. The real problem is, or I think is, that it hurts to have to lie to him because he still means a lot to you.”

“Not nearly as much as you do,” Sherlock said with deep sincerity.

“And I'm glad about that. It's not something we can solve, Sherlock. It's not a case and not a problem that can be disposed of. Well, I could have disposed of him…”

“I bet you were tempted…”

“I was.” He was brutally honest but he saw no disgust in Sherlock's eyes, rather admiration, which surprised him.

“Personally?” Sherlock wanted to know, his tone pure curiosity.

“This was very personal, so yes, of course.”

“My big bad brother.” Sherlock kissed his cheek.

“I am. I don't have a solution for this, Sherlock.” He squeezed his slim, strong body. “I can only offer you my support, my comfort and my love.”

“And your sexy body?”

Mycroft smiled. “By all means. It's hard, Sherlock. And it's my fault.”

“What? How can you say that?” Sherlock looked appalled.

“I mean… It wasn't like this before we started this advent calendar thing. It brought us closer together if I'm not mistaken.”

“And you think that's your fault? I don't regret that, Mycroft.”

“No, I didn’t mean that, I…” Mycroft sighed. “I love it and I love you more every day but it brings you pain.”

“Sod the pain, brother. What we have is so much more important than anything I've ever had with John.” Mycroft winced and he shook his head. “You know I didn’t mean that! We're friends, nothing more.”

“And nothing less, despite all that happened. It's no wonder you're struggling with it.”

“That ends right now.” Sherlock made a brief gesture with his right hand. “So – struggles gone. Thank you for listening and for saying what you said, Mycroft. I'm healed.”

Mycroft gave him a wry smile. “You think it's so easy?”

“Yep. Can I give you a blowjob now?”

Mycroft gasped and laughed. “I'm afraid not.”

Sherlock slid from his lap. “Thought you'd say that. Later?”


“I'll leave the rest of the cake with you. Share it with Anthea.”

“Leave me two pieces and take the rest for you and Mrs Hudson,” Mycroft suggested.

“Great idea!” Sherlock manoeuvred two big slices onto Mycroft's plate and closed the box with the leftovers. He put on his coat and walked around the desk, and they shared a deep, chocolate-y kiss before Sherlock left, looking relieved and strong again.

Mycroft just hoped it would stay like this. He hated to see his lover suffer and he would do everything in his power to take away all pain Sherlock ever had to endure.

Chapter Text

Sherlock stirred in his half-sleep, sniffing the air. “Coffee,” he mumbled, his eyes still closed. “You don't really have to go now, do you?”

“I'm afraid there are things to do that cannot wait until Monday,” Mycroft said with regret in his voice while sitting down on the bed. Sherlock grumbled, making a sudden move that caught his brother off-guard. “I beg you, brother mine – don't do this again if you don't want to be showered with hot coffee…”

Finally the detective forced his eyes open and managed to sit up without pushing against Mycroft again, taking the mug from his hand. “Thanks. But really – it's Saturday. You're not Her Majesty's slave.”

“Right. You've never solved any cases on weekends? At least I have the nights off, unless a real emergency occurs.”

Sherlock thought they've been lucky that after the first day of their little adventure he had never had to leave again for a case. He doubted that he would have anyway. Corpses didn’t run away after all. “So do I, most of the times. It was very nice,” he added then, quietly. “Staying with you.” He sipped at the coffee. Strong, black, two sugars – just as he liked it. Of course Mycroft's coffee was as perfect as everything else he did.

“Sleeping all over me.” Mycroft smiled. “I could get used to that.”

And he could, after all. Now that Mrs Hudson knew, Sherlock could very well stay over whenever he wanted to. He wouldn’t do it all the time though. It would make him even more addicted to his brother's closeness than he already was. And they were still two very independent men, having their jobs and their habits. Mycroft might want his peace and quiet in the morning from time to time. And Sherlock simply hated to get up so early… Not everything had changed. “Imagine, Mycroft,” he surprised himself with saying. “Imagine a life without having to go to work every bloody day. No old Lady S. sniffing around you, no ungrateful country to be ruled without ever getting any recognition for what you do…” Where had this come from? They had spent a lovely evening and Sherlock had felt splendid and had not wasted a thought on John or any problems. And now he challenged his poor brother with eloping-fantasies? So much for 'struggles are past'…

Mycroft touched his leg under the blanket. “And do what instead?” he played along.

“Living. Enjoying your peace and freedom.” With me…

“Sounds good. But what would my brain say to this?”

“There are ways to entertain it. A whole world inside a computer. Making money in whole new ways. And besides that, working out. Enjoying the fresh air. Living. Loving…”

Mycroft nodded. “You think this would work for you? I concede – it could work for me. But your brain is even more demanding than mine.”

“You think I'd fall back into old habits? I don't think so. No – I know I wouldn’t. Got a new drug.” You…

“But would that work forever?”

That was the tricky question. Sherlock knew he was addicted to action and adventure. Sex was definitely part of this, and he could power himself out with sports. But if it didn’t work forever – there would be no way back. Because what he was imagining here was something that would only happen under one condition – they would have to 'die' for the world they were living in now. “I think it would,” he said, stubbornly. Then he sighed. “Never mind, Mycroft. I'm just painting pictures.”

“I like them. And I don't say they can never come to life.”

Sherlock stared at him. “You're serious.”

“Of course I am. And be assured – if it ever becomes a necessity, I'm prepared.”

Sherlock was stunned and wondered why. Of course his brother would consider this. Of course he would do what was necessary to make sure if the worst-case-scenario became true, they would have a plan. “That's good to know.” Naturally, Mycroft would not do it if the situation wasn't dire. He had so much more to lose than him. Well, Sherlock did have people to lose. But… Mrs Hudson wouldn’t live forever. John… It would be hard. But not as hard as it had been last time. He would miss the work for the Met. He would even miss Greg. But he could live without all this and without them. He knew he couldn’t live without his brother though.

“I've never considered this a fleeting affair, Sherlock. And I'm not going to give you up, not even under pressure, unless you want it to end.”

“I'll never want that,” Sherlock said, almost spilling the coffee. He knew this situation could arise – being given the chance to avoid facing legal charges by giving up what they had, especially considering the status of his brother, who was not untouchable, not standing above the law, but irreplaceable enough to give him this way out.

Mycroft's face was as mask of determination. “Me neither, be assured. And if things get too hard, even unbearable, for either of us, we will still have this option, brother mine. Even if it doesn’t blow up.”

“You would really do this.” Sherlock was more touched than he could have expressed. He knew that Mycroft didn’t want to give up his power and influence, his house and his country but the sheer fact that he was willing to do this if circumstances became seriously dire meant so much to him.

“There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.” Mycroft's voice was quiet and completely serious. And he smiled when Sherlock downed the coffee to be able to cling around his neck.


Sherlock knew at once that he was alone in the house when he walked in. Saturday morning – Mrs Hudson was doing grocery shopping. Hopefully she would buy lots of biscuits!

He went upstairs, his brain still filled with this unexpected, awesome conversation. If that had been possible, he would have loved his brother even more for what he had said. And he had meant it. Images of a life on a tropical island, just the two of them, using new names, being married even, flashed through his mind. It was a dream though. Mycroft was a wealthy man but he couldn’t buy an island for them. And Sherlock didn’t want to do this to him – leaving it all behind. Not without a reason. He could live with going on like this. He loved their moments together. It was all fine. For now…

He had just put on fresh clothes when he heard the front door opening up. But he heard at once it wasn’t Mrs Hudson. It was John and he had probably not come to visit their landlady.

Great… His bright mood vanished. He really didn’t want a confrontation with his friend now. Or ever… Why had he provoked him like this? He should have known John wouldn’t let it rest. John had also texted him but Sherlock hadn't answered, successfully deleting he had even received anything. But he could ignore and delete a text but not the man himself.

Sitting in his chair, he watched John coming in. He was wearing black jeans and one of his hideous jumpers and his hair was tousled from the wind. “Hello.”

“Hello, Sherlock.” John smiled at him but it looked a bit… weird. “You're up pretty early.”

“Lucky for you I'm even dressed.”

“Yeah.” John grinned and let himself drop into his chair. “Any nice plans for today?”

Yes, shagging my brother when he comes back from his duties. “Not much. You?”

“Ah, working this afternoon. Bobbie has just gone shopping with Rosie. She needs some new clothes.”

“And you didn’t want to go with them?”

“Nah. You know I hate going shopping.”

Sherlock nodded. “Good that you have her.”

“Oh yes. And not just for such chores! I called Mrs Hudson by the way, and you're right… She thinks I'm neglecting her. Again… Will do better.”


“Listen…” He took a deep breath that Sherlock didn’t like. “Do you know where her office is? Bobbie's?”

What kind of a question was this? “No.” Why should he care?

John nodded. “I'm sure I've told you but you probably deleted it.”

“Probably, yes.” Sherlock was feeling tense now. This was going somewhere. But he couldn’t deduce where. Or perhaps he could and didn’t want to be right.

“It's in Regent Street.”

Sherlock tried to look completely nonchalant. “Interesting.”

“Nah, not really. But… She said she saw you yesterday on her way back from a meeting with a client. With a box from 'Louise’s'.”

“Well, they've got great cake.”

“Oh, they do. Awesome. It was after you'd left the Yard.”

“John, this is fascinating but…”

The doctor went on talking as if he hadn't said a word. “You were walking towards Whitehall with a box of very expensive cake, right after you'd behaved so weirdly towards me and Greg.”

“Define 'weird', John. You know I'm not the most common-behaving of people.” He hardly knew what he was saying. Which conclusion should John draw but the right one?

John bent forward as if he was about to jump up and attack him. “You were on your way to Mycroft. With a cake. To Mycroft, whom you treated rather ghastly a week ago after telling me you were getting along better. It irked me, you know. You always complained that I see but don't observe. Well, this time I did observe.”

Great timing for that… Sherlock knew his face must have paled. “John, let's end this conversation before…”

“How could you!” John yelled, getting up. “You're… dating your brother, aren't you?”

Sherlock was standing now as well. “This is not your…”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Sherlock gaped at him. “What?” He dropped back into his chair as his knees had got weak.

John started pacing through the living room, ruffling his hair. “You're in love with someone and you keep it from me, something so important, because you think what, that I'll make a scene?”

“Like right now…”

“Please… Sherlock, I know I've been an arsehole towards you. Worse. I was… You know it. But I thought we're still friends…”

“We are, John. But I couldn't know if you'd react like…” He closed his mouth with an audible noise.

“Like whom? Whom did you tell? Mrs Hudson…”

“Not really. She figured it out, too. And she's even pretty fond of it.”

John let out his breath noisily and nodded. “How long has this been going on? If you want to tell me…”

By now Sherlock knew he could even though his brain was still whirling. “Pretty soon after Sherrinford…”

“Dammit. That's way over a year! I wish you'd trusted me.”

“I do. But…”

John sat down again, slumping in his chair. “I would never sabotage this, Sherlock. I know your brother, at least in certain ways. He is an annoying, arrogant control-freak of a smartarse even worse than you are but I've always known you mean everything to him. I'd never thought it would come to this though. You were always so pissed off about him and you had never any interest in sex!”

Sherlock had winced at this unflattering description of his lover and actually himself, too, but he didn’t verbally react to it. “Me neither. But… It happened slowly, starting when he saved my arse in Serbia. I had no idea what my feelings were about until he offered to die… You remember…”

“Oh, I do. And I know you would never do anything you don't want to. And he wouldn’t try to make you…”

“I made the first step to be precise. But for him it had started much earlier.” The words were freely streaming out of his mouth now. “I'm sorry, John. But I…”

“Nah, it was stupid to accuse you. You didn’t have any reason anymore to think you'd know how I'd react. You must think I'm a loose cannon, unpredictable and dangerous… I'm not like that anymore, Sherlock. I swear I'll never hurt you again, or anyone else who's close to me. And if you give me a real chance, we can be best friends again. I know I can't make it undone but… don't write me off.” He didn’t sound as if he pitied himself. He sounded desperate.

“I never did, John. But this secret was so big and so dangerous…”

“I get that. And believe me – I'm not going to tell anyone, never. Not even Bobbie if you don't want that even though I’m totally sure she would be okay with it; she was surprised to see you going to Whitehall but I just made a joke and changed the subject.”

“And don't even think of telling Lestrade…” A cop and a lawyer. Really not the people he'd want to know this delicate fact about him and Mycroft… On the other hand… He saw Bobbie and Mycroft laughing together in his mind's eye. Saw himself sitting next to them with a petulant face…

“He'd never give you away, Sherlock, never. You have no idea how much he adores you. But of course I won't tell him. And I'd never use this against you. I'm sorry I've been such a lousy friend that you had to consider I'd do that.” His voice was full of self-loathing now.

And to Sherlock's horror, he saw tears in John's eyes. “Please, it's okay, John. This happened so unexpectedly and things were still difficult between you and me, and then you found Bobbie…”

“…and you thought I didn’t care about you anymore?” John shook his head, his face not angry but agitated. “I wish I had more time for you; I really do. But I'm being torn between being a father and a doctor and a partner for the woman I want to spend my life with, and yeah, I know how that sounds after punishing you for Mary's death, and I do know how unfair this was in the first place. There's just never enough time and I'm happy every time I can join you solving a case because I do miss it. And I did ask you to have dinner with us because I want to still be a part of your life even though I might have been a bit too harsh about it.”

“I know all that. It can't be easy and I'm not angry at you for not being here more often. Actually I think I won't be here that often anymore myself.”

John tilted his head. “You want to move in with him?”

“Not quite but now that I don't have to hide it from Mrs Hudson anymore, it's easier for me to stay away. I would like to move into his house; on the other hand the chaos I'd be bringing with me would drive him mental.”

John grinned, and Sherlock felt something around his soul loosening. “He'd tolerate it. He tolerates everything you do to him.”

“He does way more than tolerating me, John,” slipped out of Sherlock's mouth and he blushed, and John laughed again.

“Oh I bet. But yeah, maybe it would be a bit much to be together all the time.”

“That wouldn’t work anyway; don't forget he's also the British Government.” He wondered what Mycroft would say to this – John knowing about them and they talking about it so openly. But probably he would be okay with it; there wasn’t much choice anyway except for letting John disappear and Mycroft would hopefully not take to such measures.

John nodded. “I'm well aware. He hates me, right?”

“I wouldn’t say hate but you might not be in the top five of his most favourite people,” Sherlock said diplomatically.

John grinned. “He doesn’t even have five most favourite people. Not even two. He only likes you. I should have known how much and in which way when he had me kidnapped on the first day.”

I didn’t even know it by then so why should you?”

“True. I wish you two all the luck in the world,” John said seriously. “If I'm sure about one thing then it's that he will never hurt you and that's all that matters to me.” He grinned wryly, certainly thinking that he'd had a strange way to show this when he had hurt him but thankfully, he didn’t speak it out as Sherlock didn’t want to go down that path again.

“It doesn’t… appal you?” Two people knew about them now and neither of them seemed to mind the fact that they were biological brothers.

“No. I mean… if either of you was a woman…”

“…this wouldn’t have happened in the first place,” Sherlock finished dryly.

John laughed. “No, probably not. By the way… you totally fooled me when you told me you answered to Irene's texts.”

“Well, technically I told you two different stories, and you decided to believe the one that wasn't true. I've blocked her number now, wouldn’t do to have her text me when I'm… busy with my brother.” He shuddered at the thought of a moaning phone when they were having sex…

“But he does know you saved her?”

“Well, you gave that away in Sherrinford actually, when you suspected the bloody coffin was meant for her…”

“Oh. Damn… I totally forgot about that…”

“He wasn't exactly delighted but I convinced him very quickly that my interest in Irene was solely intellectual.”

“But you really seemed to like her.”

“She irritated me and fascinated me in a way, yes. And I admired her chutzpah. But I didn’t want any physical relationship with her. She's not my type.”

“Yeah, you like them tall, smug and well-hung.” John blushed when Sherlock grinned at him. “You know his trousers! They don't hide anything. He practically advertises it.”

“And you seem to like the goods,” Sherlock teased him. He wasn't entirely sure he wasn't dreaming this conversation.

“I want you to be my best man again,” John said out of the blue.

“What?” They were jumping so quickly from one subject to the other that he had a hard time following due to his surprise about John's reaction.

“We're getting married in May. Please say yes. And of course your brother must come, too. Not exactly as your plus one even though of course I would be fine with it but for the sake of secrecy...”

“Wow… You're really sure about that – marrying her.” And a tiny voice in Sherlock's brain told him maliciously, 'And you and your man can never get married'.

John nodded. “I'm very sure. And she'll adopt Rosie.”

“That's fast.”

“I know. But I want more kids and I want to be married before. I'm kind of old-fashioned in that regard.”

“So am I.” They both chuckled about that. “Yes, John. Of course I'm going to be your best man again. I do hope it's the last time though.” And this time his speech would certainly not contain fantasies about asphyxiating his brother (apart from with his cock and he'd better not say that out loud…).

“I'm absolutely sure it will be.”

“What do you know about her past?” Sherlock asked with innocent eyes.

“Everything, Sherlock! I've met her parents and her sister. I saw her photos from school. No assassin this time. No evil surprises. Sherlock… I often think I should have never forgiven her for shooting at you; I know you did, too but…”

“John, please. Let it rest. Let's just hope your next wife will keep from trying to kill me, huh?”

“You did so much for me, Sherlock,” John said in a serious tone. “You've killed for Mary and me. And I never thanked you for it.”

“Well, dealing with Magnussen wasn't my proudest hour…”

“Is Mycroft still pissed off about it?”

“Maybe. But he's forgiven me.”

“Of course he has. Will you ever truly forgive me, too?”

Sherlock smiled. “Considering the things you said in the past ten minutes, I'll forgive you for everything.”

“Thank you. And damn – of course you’re going to spend Christmas with him...”

“I definitely will. He likes it quite a bit...” Sherlock grinned.

“Thinking that I invited him over too because I thought it would help you getting along even better.” John grinned and shook his head over himself. “How is it?” he asked then, blushing slightly.

“What, you mean the…”

“Yes. The sex. How is having sex with the Iceman?”

“Very, very, very hot.”

They both laughed like maniacs for four minutes and Sherlock was just truly, deeply happy and he knew as soon as he met Mycroft later, he would be all over him and just kiss and touch and caress him and love him until they both melted.


Mycroft had planned to have them indulge in some roleplay but when he came home in the afternoon and was attacked by Sherlock before he could even store his umbrella he knew that it wouldn’t come to this because something had happened which had made Sherlock very horny and very happy. The deduction was easy to make.

“John found it out,” he said when he had freed himself from Sherlock after returning his wild kisses for a minute.

“Yes. His girlfriend saw me with the cake. She has no idea but John, damn, he made a deduction.”

“That's your bad influence.” Mycroft took his hand and proceeded to lead him to the living room after finally putting the umbrella away but Sherlock dragged him upstairs instead. “So I take it he doesn’t mind?” Was this even possible? John couldn’t stand him. And vice versa.

“No. He doesn’t. We're fine again, Mycroft. He was in tears about having been such a bad friend that I didn’t dare tell him.”

They were entering the bedroom and Mycroft finally took off his coat. “That's… unexpected.”

“Yeah. For me, too. He's getting married again, and this time he wants you to come, too.”

Mycroft nodded. Of course he would. They couldn’t exactly hold hands and both John and Mrs Hudson should better not make any hints but he would be there. “Sure, if there is no national crisis.”

Sherlock grinned. “Then you would certainly have a valid excuse. He didn’t tell Bobbie but… I didn’t say anything to him but I want her to know, too. I want us to be…” He broke off, smiling sheepishly.

Mycroft knew exactly what he wanted. He wanted them to be two couples who could spend an evening together once in a while. It was surprising on one hand since Sherlock didn’t like being among people, but on the other hand, especially now that John had proven to be his friend again and knew about them, Sherlock wouldn’t want to play a charade anymore towards the doctor's future wife and perhaps he wanted to show Bobbie that Mycroft was his and that he wasn’t the brat he had pretended to be the last time they had met. He had felt very bad about this evening and Mycroft understood very well that he wanted to set things straight. After all John had always been his one weakness after getting over the drugs, including his respective woman and of course his child.

“Sherlock, you know we can't risk anything but after meeting her, I assume she would accept it. Talk to John about it. He will know her a lot better.” He didn’t even like the fact that two people were already in the know about them. Nobody had been supposed to be. But since both Mrs Hudson and John were so supportive, he guessed it was fine. And he had thought before anyone had found out that it was very well possible that Sherlock's friends would all react like this, and he knew Bobbie liked him and he would be very surprised if she reacted with disgust. But… “Not Molly Hooper. And not Lestrade.” He was almost sure Lestrade wouldn’t give them away. But 'almost' was just not good enough.

Sherlock shook his head. “No. Of course not. Even though John said he's sure Greg would accept us, too. But he's the police and I'm not a fool. I'd never risk that. And Molly is out of the question.”

“I know you're not a fool. And I guess the two people who are most important do know it and accept it now.”

You are most important to me in case you forgot.”

Mycroft curled his arms around him. “I know, and I'm very glad about that.”

“Fuck me now, Mycroft. I want you hard and deep in me.” Sherlock's eyes were suddenly dazed with desire, and Mycroft's cock jumped to attention at this wanton statement and -expression at once.

“How could I deny you this?”

Not at all, obviously.


Sherlock would never get tired of this – his arms wrapped firmly around his brother's neck, their tongues dancing the dance of lust and love, Mycroft's massive cock thrusting into him deeper with every minute. His entire body seemed to be on fire, his mind floating, and the pressure that was building in his balls made him stammer incoherent nonsense.

Mycroft was panting above him, his forehead covered with tiny pearls of sweat, his pupils blown wide while he was fucking him relentlessly, just the way Sherlock had requested and desired it.

They were becoming one in a way almost everybody would describe as wrong, immoral and unspeakable and they could kiss Sherlock's arse. No, in fact they couldn’t. Only Mycroft could and he had done that thoroughly before slowly sliding into him – as slowly as Sherlock had allowed him before he had impatiently urged him to go faster, deeper and harder, stimulating Sherlock's prostate skilfully at every deep thrust.

The mattress was making exhausted noises under their frantic coupling now and Sherlock could feel his fingers were digging into Mycroft's back in a way that had to be painful for his brother but he was holding onto him for dear life, and when he came, erupting heftily between their connected bodies, he yowled and grabbed him even harder, and he moaned again when his insides were flooded with hot, thick fluid.

Tonight he wouldn’t go home. Mycroft wouldn’t have to get up early and so they could indulge in some fooling around in the morning and have lunch together. His brother would go to the office for a meeting in the late afternoon though but he wouldn’t stay away for too long, and Sherlock would use the time to go to Baker Street and gather some things and then he would return for more of this awesome, gorgeous lovemaking.

He urged Mycroft to lie down on him when he had pulled his softening cock out of him. Sherlock didn’t mind the come dribbling out of him; in fact he liked it. But his own stomach was sticky and messy, too, so Mycroft mumbled after kissing him again, “We need a shower.”

“Later. Don't let you go now.”

“I could carry you there.”

“No you couldn’t. Can't break your back.”

“I'm not breaking so easily, little brother.”

“I'm not literally little, Mycroft, and I'm heavy.”

“Okay, so you will have to walk.”


Mycroft chuckled and kissed his cheek. “Nuisance.”

“Big brother!”

“Oh, that was nasty.”

Sherlock grinned and pressed his lovely big brother as close against him as possible. This was bliss. He was filthy and sweaty and happy and he would have even accepted listening to 'White Christmas' right now.

Chapter Text

“I'd like to try something,” Mycroft said when they broke apart after some extended kissing. They had both hurried to the bathroom first to pee, brush their teeth and refresh themselves before they had snuggled up in bed again.

“I'm all ears. As long as you don't suggest going to church.”

Mycroft snorted. “Not quite. No, it was one of my original plans on my list.”

“Oh. Let's see… It can't be the watersports stuff as we just spoilt that…”

Mycroft blushed. “Well… I wasn't sure if you're up to it but I would have liked to…”

“Mycroft. I am - up to that. Maybe not right now but yes, I definitely want to try this.” They hadn't done something that kinky so far so Sherlock had been surprised and delighted to see it on the list.

“Oh… Good to know… The mood must be right for this though I guess.”

Sherlock had to agree. Their sex life had been rather harmless so far and he thought it would fit better if this not-so-harmless stuff happened spontaneously, perhaps out of some roleplay. But he was rather sure Mycroft wasn't about to suggest anything like this now. And then it hit him. “Oh, I know it… You want us to come untouched.”

“Yes. Would you like to try this?”

“Mycroft, I'm willing to try anything with you if it doesn't involve other persons, pain or humiliation.”

“You know I'd never suggest that. I'm not sharing you and I'm not hurting you.”

Sherlock had seen the list and even if he hadn't, he would have known this. He pinched Mycroft's nose. “I'm well aware, brother mine. So… What are the rules?”

Mycroft smiled. “Very easy. We'll keep lying next to each other and just say naughty things until we're both finished; no limits to what we say. It can be our deepest fantasies or just pure teasing. No touching, either one another or ourselves.”

Sounded easy enough – talking. He had lots of naughty fantasies. But also a tad difficult. Sherlock liked to touch Mycroft very much.

His brother gave him a knowing grin. “Let's see if you can manage that.”

“Piece of cake.” Which reminded him that they would indulge in certain cake-pleasures the next week. He couldn’t wait to lick it off his brother's delicious body; it would certainly be even more tasty and deliciously messy than playing with the biscuits. But now he had to focus. “Who's starting?”

“It will be a conversation, but I will begin if you don't mind.”

“Not at all.”

“All right. I love your cheekbones. Sometimes I think of rubbing my knob over them…”

“Damn… Why have you never done that?” Sherlock could literally feel the silky, moist head of Mycroft's large prick sliding over his face, leaving sticky, wet traces on his skin. His cock filled out at this image instantly.

Mycroft looked down on it and grinned. “Oh, you are easy to get started… I don't know. But now that I do know that you like it I will certainly use them. Slap my cock against them, too.”

It didn’t leave him untouched, either. His impressive penis was twitching against his groin most deliciously. Sherlock would have loved to take it into his mouth but that was off limits now. Ghastly play… But of course he would play along. “I would love that,” he rumbled. “I would poke out my tongue, lapping at your balls. I love to suck them into my mouth.”

“Despite all the hair you have to swallow?”

Sherlock chuckled. “I do prefer plucking them from my tongue. It's easier for you. My sack is all smooth and silky.” Mycroft swallowed next to him and Sherlock could see his cock had become slightly harder. He grinned. “You know what – let's make this even more interesting. Whoever comes first has lost, and the winner gets to decide what we'll do tomorrow. I mean - something special.”

“You've got something in mind?” Mycroft asked him curiously.

“I might,” Sherlock said, keeping his cards close to his chest.

“Fine. A little competition is never wrong. And it will keep your hands from your cock…”

“Great. Where were we? Oh, yes, you were licking my silky sack, teasing me with your tongue…” Damn… It turned him on as well to paint such a lovely picture…

“And I thought we were talking about my large cock, slapping against your cheek and your lips; you would smell my arousal and it would drive you crazy…”

“You always drive me crazy,” muttered Sherlock, and Mycroft laughed.

“Do I? When I push into your rosy little hole? You know how much I love to lick you inside?”

Fuck… His brother was bloody good at this. Dirty talking was Sherlock's new favourite thing to do. Well, there were plenty, though… “I can imagine. Probably as much as I love swallowing you down completely, letting your huge cock slide into my throat, close it around it, lick the underside of it; you taste so good and I would love to live on your come alone…” He could see Mycroft's left hand twitch and grinned. “Having a cramp in your fingers, brother?”

Mycroft mumbled something that didn’t sound overly flattering and balled his hand into a fist. “Not at all,” he said then. “I could roll you over anytime, sliding my prick between your cheeks. You have no idea how lovely your arse is; I could eat it up; I always have to refrain from biting into these gorgeous globes, mark you all over…”

At this description Sherlock's heartrate increased quite a lot, seeing Mycroft's red bite marks on his pale arse in his mind's eye. How embarrassing to get off on a description of his own behind… “I would love that,” he said honestly, “and I would mount you then, facing away from you, reverse cowboy style, and take your thick red cock in and bounce up and down on you and you would watch your prick sliding in and out and you would massage my bum, making me yelp, and then you would pull out and paint my pink arse with sticky white stripes.”

“Damn, Sherlock…” Mycroft's voice sounded a little pressed and Sherlock knew he would pick the next evening's adventure – to Mycroft's benefit as he was sure even though his brother would be very surprised about what he had in mind but would hopefully enjoy the execution.

“And you would lick your semen off my arse and lap at my swollen hole, soothing the red flesh and I would turn and feed you my cock and you would suck my come out of me and… Oh…” He laughed when Mycroft cursed next to him, his cock spurting a fountain of white fluid onto his hairy stomach.

The sight and the smell, knowing he could let go and hearing Mycroft's groans pushed Sherlock over the edge, too, and seconds later his deep moans filled the air.

“You've missed your calling, Sherlock,” Mycroft stammered when he was able to form words again. “Your voice is pure sex…”

“And you've only realised that now?” Sherlock teased him and reached for the tissues to wipe away the worst mess from both of their bodies.

“No… Gave you an unfair advantage.”

The detective grinned. “Stop complaining, Mycroft.” He straddled his man's thighs after throwing the soiled tissues into the bin, lying down on him with his upper body so he could claim Mycroft's sweet lips in a deep, possessive kiss that was returned eagerly, and now they could and did touch each other thoroughly.

He knew his voice was appealing (and so was Mycroft's, of course), and he grinned when he remembered the advert he had seen two days before. He hadn't paid attention to it when he had seen it but he remembered it very well.

Oh, Mycroft would love the next evening. He hoped so at least… He would have to go out of his comfort zone quite a lot to pull off what he planned. Anything for brilliant big brother…


Whistling to himself, Sherlock entered the house. He was about to go straight upstairs when he saw Mrs Hudson's door standing open a bit. Having some kind of premonition, he walked over to it and heard two voices from within – and the babbling of a child.

Uncertain what he should do, he decided to go into the flat. Looking at the three people in Mrs Hudson's living room, he knocked against the doorframe. “Hello.”

“Oh, hello Sherlock, look who's here.” Mrs Hudson smiled at him and he returned it before entering the room, accepting the hand that was offered to him.

“Hello Bobbie. Rosie.”

The attractive redhead who was holding the baby on her lap smiled at him. “Hi Sherlock. John's at work and I thought I'd drop by for a chat.” She was wearing casual clothes – a yellow blouse that contrasted beautifully with her hair, and tight blue jeans.

“With Mrs Hudson? Or me?” He didn’t have any doubt about why she was here. Not just for drinking tea with his landlady, so much was sure.

“Both of course.” Bobbie winked. She was wearing a minimum of makeup; a true English rose with a perfect porcelain tan.

“I won't stay here for long. I have some more things to do and just needed to get some stuff from my flat.”

“Oh, I won't bother you for long. Five minutes?”

“Sure.” Sherlock squeezed Mrs Hudson's arm and turned to leave.

“Can I leave Rosie with you?” Bobbie asked the old lady.

“Of course you can. Come here, my big girl.” Mrs Hudson took the child into her arms; Sherlock could see how happy she was to have her for a short while. Rosie gurgled and slapped her tiny hands on the old lady's cheeks.

When they had entered the flat, Sherlock gestured at John's chair and took place in his own one. He left it to her to start the conversation.

She nodded and tapped onto the armrest of the chair. “Well… This is a bit difficult.”

“You're here because you don't want me to be John's best man?” he asked in a dark voice, scrutinising her.

“No! Of course not!”

Sherlock smiled before his face turned into a frown. “You want to tell me that in fact you're a Russian spy?”

She snorted. “John's right. You really are a smartarse. And you're a bloody good actor.”

He had been right… “You know it.”

She nodded. “Not right away of course. But John showed a pretty strange reaction when I told him I had seen you. Changed the subject to something rather silly as soon as he could. I let him get away with it but I started thinking about this evening when you and your brother were with us and how… sad you looked when you left. But I still wasn’t sure until I just saw your face when you entered the flat.”

Damn… This woman was smart for sure. “I'm pretty certain my face was a mask of stone,” he said with a sigh.

She giggled. “You tried hard. Never underestimate a woman, Sherlock.”

“I'd better. You didn’t talk to John then.”

“No. But you did, huh? Wanted to keep it from me?”

“Actually I spoke with Mycroft and we agreed that I should talk to John, finding out how sure he is that you would accept it. So, now that I can ask you directly… What do you think about it?”

She gave him a stern look. “You mean as a lawyer whose job it is to defend the law?”

“Since when? You guys rather search for possibilities to get your guilty clients out of jail!”

They stared at each other before they both burst out laughing.

“You fooled me, you know? For a long time that day I thought you were a super-brat. But then at the end of the evening I realised that you were… jealous?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Not in the conventional way.”

“No, I bet. You are not the man for conventions…”

“No, I'm really not. I just thought… You and my brother… You were so much on the same wavelength and I felt a bit excluded.”

“I see. Yes, we were. He's great. Very interesting and amusing to be around. No wonder you fell in love with him.” Her smile was warm and understanding. “It took me a day or two to get used to the image. It's a taboo that's rooted so deeply in our society. But the longer I thought about it, the stupider it appeared to me, at least regarding you two. This is a pretty recent thing, isn’t it?”

“If you're asking if he was shagging me while I was a minor – no. It happened only last year and in many ways it is still very fresh.”

“I bet you don't see a lot of each other with your crazy working hours and your brother being a big shot in the government… Can't be easy. And then you can never go out together and have to deceive everybody. It's not the easy path you've chosen.”

“It hasn't been our choice.”

“No, of course not. Love never asks if it's welcome or convenient.”

“True. But I wouldn’t trade him for anyone else.”

“Of course you wouldn't. I wouldn’t say no to him either.” She smirked.

“Be careful that I don't tell John! Nice ring by the way…”

She looked at her long, elegant fingers, admiring the engagement ring with the medium sized diamond with a happy smile. “I love it. And I love John. And Rosie.”

“He made a very good choice,” Sherlock assured her, and she surprised him with reaching out for his hand and pressing it.

“I'm sorry, Sherlock, that I thought you're a petulant jerk.”

“Thanks very much!”

She giggled again and Sherlock grinned. “You're really not that bad at all. Does Mrs Hudson know?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. She found it out, clever woman that she is. And now you can talk to John about it… But please – not to anyone else.”

“Sherlock! You think I'm stupid?”

“Not in the least. But it's a juicy secret…”

“Oh I bet!”

They laughed some more and Sherlock realised he liked this woman very much. “You're the real deal, Bobbie, aren't you? No secret agendas, no false name, no bullets in my chest?”

She shook her head vehemently. “No surprises here, Sherlock. I'm in John's life because he's a very good man and I can't wait to be his wife and be a mother for Rosie, and no, we won't pretend I'm her biological mum. We'll tell her about Mary. Well, probably not everything…”

Sherlock nodded. “Better not. I'm glad and I hope you'll be very happy.”

“Likewise. Will we see you two more often then?”

“Once in a while…”

She laughed. “Oh, don't worry, I won't beg for your presence every day. But from time to time it will be nice to have some two-couples-time. And towards us, you don't have to pretend. You know… I'd really like to see you kiss…”

Now it was Sherlock's turn to laugh. “I'm not sure John will want to see that…”

“Ah, we'll just send him out. If you need anything, let us know, Sherlock. I know how much you mean to John and you'll be like a brother-in-law, and so will Mycroft.”

“Actually… There's something I'd like to hear your opinion about…”

“Oh, just shoot! Damn! Never thought I'd get to have a gay best friend, too! And actually two of them!”

Sherlock shook his head, grinning, and then he spoke to her about his weird plans for the next evening and she proved to be indeed very helpful.

When Sherlock had said goodbye to Mrs Hudson, Bobbie offered him to drive him over to Mycroft and when he got out after kissing Rosie's cheek and embracing the redhead, he knew he had found a new friend.

Chapter Text

Mycroft couldn’t believe his eyes when he stopped at the address he had been sent via text. This couldn’t be true. A pub, and definitely not any kind of posh one? Seriously?

The text had come in the late afternoon, saying he was supposed to be at this address at 7.30, casually dressed, no googling beforehand, and he had obeyed since Sherlock had asked so nicely.

And now he was standing in front of a plain building, the small windows covered with Christmas decoration, outside on the pavement a blackboard with the words 'Christmas Karaoke tonight'.

Mycroft winced when he got another text and hurried to read it.

Go inside, Mycroft. Nobody will bite you. Go to the table furthest on the left and order whatever you like. Trust me. SH

That clinched it for him. Mycroft entered the pub, a place where he wouldn’t have dreamt of being seen in, dead or alive. But of course nobody who knew would see him here… Nobody he dealt with would ever go into a place so sticky and greasy. The thought of posh Lady Smallwood in here made him chuckle to himself. She would be so appalled...

The decoration almost overwhelmed him. Full-sized Father Christmas figures were grinning at him, there were – artificial – Christmas trees full of flashing lights in every corner and all sorts of cheesy figures were placed on every possible surface. It was a Christmas lover's wet dream – and Sherlock's worst nightmare. Why the hell had Sherlock lured him here? The music – 'Jingle Bells' of all songs, coming from a player, not a wannabe-singer - was way too loud and Mycroft feared for his hearing. This was a truly ghastly place and he doubted they were offering drinks he fancied.

But… Sherlock the Christmas Despiser had asked him to come here. He had won their naughty competition the day before and had used his advantage to bring him here. So of course Mycroft would stay even if he could never hear anything again…

He sat down and decided to drink water. He didn’t like beer and he didn’t want any cheap wine. He was hungry as he had only had time to eat a banana before showering and getting dressed to come here after just having come home from work but he wasn’t sure he wanted to eat anything in here. Since Sherlock had required he'd dress down, he was wearing black jeans, which were so new and tight they were rather uncomfortable, and a light-grey shirt. No tie, no waistcoat. He was almost feeling naked…

And where was Sherlock? He looked around for the sixth time when he had received his frugal drink.

A loud voice almost made him turn over his glass.

“Ladies and gentlemen! For this year this is our first evening of indulging in what we love most – Christmas! Let's celebrate Christmas spirit with some great talents!”

There wasn't much of a response to the enthusiastic greeting of the scrawny man with the microphone. He was standing on the small, round stage and looked as if he was high.

The loud music had stopped abruptly, which was a pleasure for Mycroft's ears. But he feared for the worst now. This was a karaoke bar after all… He would probably crave for 'Jingle Bells' when the dilettantes showed up to perform.

Still no Sherlock anywhere to be seen. What… Mycroft swallowed. No. His brother wouldn’t! But yes, of course he would. Why else should he have told him to meet him here?

“Our first performer of this evening is Mandy here. She'll sing Mariah Carey's 'All I want for Christmas is you'.

Mycroft groaned. He didn’t like this song, this singer and he just knew it would be awful.

And it was. The chubby girl in the short red dress and with even redder cheeks did her best but the difficult song sounded like a car getting crushed by a bigger car. Some men were laughing, which made her get even more nervous. Mycroft was keeping his eyes closed through her pitiful performance and trying to cover his ears in a way it wasn't overly visible. The table was chosen well for this – it was in the darkest part of the room.

The few other guests – it was still early after all – clapped half-heartedly when Mandy finally stopped singing after croaking out the last words like a crow with a bad inflammation of the throat. She stumbled from the stage and would probably never return to it.

Mycroft wondered how many horrible singers he would have to endure before Sherlock showed up to… sing? It was a breathtaking thought. With his deep, melodic voice, the same voice that had made Mycroft come so embarrassingly quickly on Sunday morning, he was born to sing, and being a gifted violinist, nobody could deny he was a musical man.

“That was great, Mandy, thank you. A drink on the house! So… Our next guest singer is a young man named Will. He'll gift us with 'This Christmas' by Donny Hathaway, a true soul song.”

The first tones of the melody came from the speakers when a tall man entered the stage and sat down on the barstool that was placed on the right side, the microphone in his hand. He was dressed in a red suit and he had a mess of blond curls on his head and a moustache graced his long face, hiding a part of his upper lip, but Mycroft would have recognised these cheekbones anywhere.

“This is for someone very special,” Sherlock said and immediately started to sing and Mycroft could do nothing but gape at him, being drawn into the song from the first moment, floating on Sherlock's beautiful voice.

Hang all the mistletoe

I'm gonna get to know you better

This Christmas

And as we trim the tree

How much fun it's gonna be together

This Christmas

Fireside's blazing bright

We're caroling through the night

And this Christmas will be

A very special Christmas for me

Presents and cards are here

My world is filled with cheer, and you

Mycroft felt as if he was melting on his uncomfortable chair. He couldn’t believe his brother was doing this for him. He was singing with a strong, stable voice, not missing a note, and everybody was listening in stunned silence at the emotion he was transporting through his voice.

This Christmas

And as I look around

Your eyes outshine the town, they do

This Christmas

Fireside's blazing bright

We're caroling through the night

And this Christmas will be

A very special Christmas for me.”

Sherlock looked over to him for the first time after having started to sing and a slight smile was pulling at his lips.

Merry Christmas

Shake a hand, shake a hand now

Wish your brother Merry Christmas

All over the land now


Merry Christmas

Merry, Merry Christmas


He bowed and left the stage, returning to the other side of the pub. The applause was much louder this time, accompanying him on his way out. He didn’t pay any attention to it as he had not come out here to sing for strangers. Sherlock had only sung for him.

Mycroft hurried to finish his drink and go to the bar to pay for it, and then he left the pub that was starting to fill up now. He walked around the building to the back exit and had been pacing in front of it for a few minutes when Sherlock stepped outside. His hairpiece and the moustache were gone and he was also dressed in jeans now.

“My God, that was awesome,” Mycroft whispered when they embraced in the safety of the darkness.

“Yes? You liked it?”

“I adored it. I never thought you could sing like this.”

“You should have known, considering my 'pure sex' voice,” Sherlock teased him.

“I definitely should. Thank you, brother mine.”

“Bobbie helped me choosing the song.”

Mycroft grinned and pecked his cheek. “Very good choice.” He had not even been surprised when Sherlock had told him that John's fiancée had figured it out, too. He just hoped that was it now; three people they could trust knew their secret.

“You're hungry? I saw you didn’t order any food and probably for the better…”

“I am. Let's go get something to eat and then head home so I can thank you thoroughly for this special gift.”

“They recorded it by the way. I'll get the file tomorrow.”

“Great!” He would certainly listen to this song again and again. “I love you, Will.”

Sherlock smiled. “I love you too. And damn – you look tasty in those jeans…”

“Ditto, brother dear.”

Reluctantly breaking apart, they walked off to find a small restaurant where they could eat before indulging in some other pleasures of the flesh.


“Stop,” Sherlock said when Mycroft was about to open his trouser button; he had already taken off the shirt. “Leave those sexy jeans on for a while longer, please.” He had admired Mycroft in these clothes all evening. They had gone to a nice little restaurant and eaten some very good pasta, and it had been as lovely as possible under the circumstances – which included keeping a distance. But they didn’t have to do that now and Sherlock wanted to take advantage of Mycroft looking so casual and sexy. He was very sexy in his three-piece-suits as well but this outfit was something Sherlock could get used to.

Mycroft smiled. “I surely will.” He came over to him – Sherlock had also got rid of his shirt but kept his trousers on – and embraced him. “You sang for me.”

“I did.” It had been a very weird feeling, going up that stage and singing a Christmas love song for his brother. But his masquerade had helped. It hadn't been Sherlock Holmes who had performed on this ridiculous little stage but a blond man named Will who was just madly in love with the one he was singing for. And he had to admit he had liked it. He had always played classical music on his violin; no songs to be sung there, but he had some talent for singing, so much was sure. And only Mycroft had known who he really was.

And he had never known his brother looked so great in tight jeans, well, it was no wonder considering his long legs and his cute little bum.

He urged Mycroft to lie down flat on his back and placed himself over him, his legs resting in the space between Mycroft's. His brother's arms were wrapped around his neck when he kissed him, rubbing his clothed groin against his. They both moaned and Sherlock searched more friction; his cock was rock hard already, desperately straining against his flies.

Mycroft's breath had sped up and he slung his legs around Sherlock's waist, urging him to rub against him some more.

“I feel like a horny teenager,” Mycroft brought out, a smirk on his lips that cried for being kissed away.

“Have you ever done something like this when you were a teenager?” Sherlock asked when this was done.

Mycroft looked taken aback before he smiled. “No, I have to say I didn’t. I wasn't exactly good-looking and there was nobody who would have wanted to do this with me. And nobody I would have wanted anywhere near me…”

“And now you're insanely handsome and in love with another gorgeous specimen,” Sherlock said, grinning.

“The last part is certainly true.”

“Ah, nonsense. You're handsome as hell and you make me fucking horny.” With this wanton statement, Sherlock resumed his actions until Mycroft was a panting mess.

“You want me to come into my pants, right?” he breathed and Sherlock's eyes brightened up.

“Yes! Great idea!” He increased his efforts at once.

Mycroft groaned. “Woe is me. What have I done?”

Sherlock grinned smugly. “Giving me great ideas. And now you'll make a big mess.”

He swiftly scrambled backwards and bent his head, lapping over the large bulge in Mycroft's jeans. The fabric was rough under his tongue; a new and exciting feeling. He bit into the clearly outlined cock, tickling Mycroft's balls with his right hand in the go.

“God, Sherlock, free me…”

“No way. I want to see you coming undone like this.” With this Sherlock licked and lapped and groped until Mycroft cursed and a large wet spot became visible on the black fabric.

“Oooh, lovely. Now let's see…” Sherlock opened trouser button and zip and grinned when he saw the sticky fluid that covered his brother's groin and had soiled his pants. He lapped at the red head of Mycroft's cock. “Tasty…”

“You're incorrigible…”

“I am.” Sherlock pulled back and freed his own genitals. His cock was hard and heavy in his hand. “Come on, lend me a hand.”

Mycroft tried to look stern and failed miserably. He sighed and wrapped his hand around Sherlock's member, grabbing it hard.

“Oh, that's nice. Make me come, brother.”

The noises he made when his semen splattered onto Mycroft where a lot less melodic than his singing had been but he knew it was music to Mycroft's ears nonetheless. Resting on arms and knees for a moment, he shuddered through the aftermaths of his orgasm before getting some wet wipes to clean his brother up.

When Mycroft was decidedly less sticky, he lay down half over him. “That was great.”

“It was. Thanks for showing me what I have missed when I was a boy.”

“You haven't missed anything then, Mycroft. I'm the only one who may make you do things like this.”

“That's right. And… after this and your breathtaking performance, singing a Christmas song – do you concede that Christmas is a very nice time and must be cherished?”

“Nah. Still hate it. You must go on convincing me and I need to go on making it even nicer for you.” Sherlock's eyes were twinkling and Mycroft chuckled.

“Okay. Let's go on with our task. You're hard work.”

“That, brother dear, I have heard many times before.”

“Yes, I wonder why…”

“Because nobody understands my genius.”

“Yes, that's it. I do though.”

“You do. Love you.”

“Love you more.”

“Not possible.”

Mycroft pulled him into a tight embrace, and with a smile, Sherlock allowed himself to drift to sleep.

Chapter Text

“Hi, Molly.”

“Sherlock! Haven’t seen you in ages!”

Sherlock nodded. “I know. Have been pretty busy. How are you, Molly?” He had not had time for doing experiments lately and since Rosie was not living in Baker Street, the pathologist didn't have to come there to see her. They had lost contact over the past months.

“Fine, really.” She looked pretty relaxed, Sherlock thought. Good.

“Nice ring...”

“Oh. Yes, thank you.” She looked at her engagement ring with pride and still a bit of disbelief. “Will have to take it off for the next autopsy. Do you need anything?” She looked at him with these impossibly big eyes. Her hair was confined in a ponytail and she had even used lipstick. It didn’t do much for her thin lips but she was doing her best.

“No, just wanted to check on you.”


Sherlock smiled wryly. “I guess I deserve that.”

The woman blushed. “Oh, no, I didn't mean it like that. It’s just you never do that. Are you all right?”

“Course I'm all right.” Sherlock cursed himself. He had never ‘just dropped by’. And he needed to find an explanation for something he didn't really have one for. Damn Christmas sappiness – it had to be infectious…

“You were bored,” she stated and he shrugged.

This explanation was good enough and yeah, he had been. He had taken care of Lestrade’s cold cases in the morning and no client had shown up and it wasn’t nearly time to go to Mycroft. “Maybe. Any nice corpses?”

Molly grinned. “Define nice. Come, sit down, and I’ll make us tea.”

Tea was always a good solution. But Molly stared at him inquiringly when they had sat down together. “It’s Christmas, huh?”


“This time of year makes us all a bit… silly.”

“Thanks,” he said dryly and sipped at the strong tea.

“No, I didn't mean you’re silly, you could never be...”

Sherlock felt a bit uncomfortable all at once. Was she really ‘over him’? Or would she in fact be ‘all over him’ if he just said the word? “How’s… um...” Damn, he had no idea how the man she wanted to marry was called. He vaguely recalled a bland, blond man, not much taller than Molly. Certainly no Moriarty. And no Sherlock…

“Oh, Peter. He’s fine. Great, I mean. We’re really happy.”

She smiled at him and Sherlock wondered if she wanted to convince him or herself…

“Fine. He’s good to you then?”

Now she nodded seriously. “Very. He’s lovely.”

“Well, then you should hold onto him by any chance.”

“I will.” A hint of sadness had appeared in her eyes. “What about you? Is there anybody?”

Sherlock was caught off guard. “Um. No. I’m fine as I am.” Which was true. But he realised he shouldn’t pretend nothing had happened now that John and Bobbie knew and they would probably spend some more time with them. “I just get along better with my brother.” That would do. It was the truth and she wouldn’t think anything by it. But she did know they had been estranged for a long time.

“Oh. That’s nice.”

At least someone who had no idea… Well, she never saw them together. She had basically met them together only once – when he had identified the body that was not Irene. “Yes. Well, I shan’t keep you from working any longer and I’ve got things to do as well. Thanks for the tea.”

“You think I’m a total idiot, don’t you?” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

Sherlock froze. “No. Of course not. Why...”

“I’m still pining for you, isn’t it ridiculous?” she said with more than a hint of self-loathing.

Sherlock relaxed at once. “No. It isn’t. We can’t control our feelings.”

“Oh, you can...”

Not really… “Don’t you love him? Peter? Because if you don’t, marrying him probably wouldn’t be the wisest thing to do.” Apart from his rather unusual relationship with his brother, he wasn't an expert at such things but even he knew that this was the shortest way to unhappiness for both Molly and her future husband.

She sighed. “I do know that. And… I think I love him. I like him a lot and I know I can trust him. That’s a lot, isn’t it?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.” He could say the same about Mycroft. But in addition to this, he loved him like mad, desired him to no end and would kill everybody who tried to steal him away from him.

“And what choice do I have? Marrying a really good man who will never hurt me or living alone forever because the man I’ve been wanting for years and years will never want me?”

Sherlock could have said a lot to this. That it wasn’t a necessity to get married, especially not for a woman with a well-paid, interesting job who could very well maintain herself and didn’t need anyone to pay or decide for her. After all she should know that; she had been living on her own for long enough and he was sure she would call herself a feminist if asked. “I just hope you will be happier than you are now,” he said, realising at once it hadn’t sounded very sensitive.

But of course Molly knew whom she was talking to and didn’t expect any sensitivity from him. “I’m sure I will be. And I want at least one child.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Don’t you want that?”

The thought had crossed his mind before, when he had been in that store with all the ill-behaved children, and for a moment Sherlock saw a little boy and a second later even a little girl with black curls, a long nose and a dimpled chin, intelligent eyes and long limbs – a perfect mixture of him and Mycroft, looking very special and unique, in all probability being the nosiest, most annoying smart arse kid anyone had ever seen. But of course this would never happen, for more than one reason, and apart from the physical impossibility one reason was that Sherlock wouldn’t want anyone who was depending on him and he didn’t want to share his brother. “No,” he said. “Children are not my area.”

“But you love Rosie.”

“She’s cute. And I only ever see her for a couple of minutes. I don’t see myself changing nappies and singing lullabies, Molly. This is not me.” And it certainly also wasn’t Mycroft, as great a big brother as he had been for him. Now he was a middle-aged man with loads of responsibilities who liked his peace and quiet, fine meals and a decent glass of whiskey when he was finally free of his duties. And unlimited sex…

“I see. I still hope you’ll find someone, too.”

He didn't even consider telling her. She wouldn’t understand. She was a very good person, decent and loyal and a better friend for him than he had deserved most of the times, even though he had been a bit surprised she had taken John’s side after Mary’s death. That was past of course. But she didn’t have the fantasy and the personality to accept an incestuous love. He knew that without testing her.

He got up after emptying his cup. “Thanks for the tea. Talk soon.”

“What will you do for Christmas?” She sounded as if she was reluctant to let him go.

“Oh, nothing special. Will keep my brother company I guess.”

She nodded. “I hope you’ll have a good time.”

Sherlock didn't doubt that in the least. “We will. I’ll make punch so he’s not quite as stiff.” He grinned at this unwanted pun and Molly smiled at him, totally missing the point, and then he left to go back to Baker Street, and later he would meet his brother and hopefully a part of him would be very stiff.


They kissed all the way to the living room, where they would eat the dinner Sherlock had cooked – simple pasta with a sauce Angelo had given him the recipe for.

Mycroft had looked tired when he had entered the house but with every kiss his eyes became brighter and his cheeks got more colour. His lips were thoroughly swollen when he sat down. “How nice of you to cook, little brother. I appreciate that a lot.”

“It was about time I do this for you. For us, actually. You're not getting to eat it all alone.” Sherlock put pasta and the deliciously smelling sauce onto the plates and placed the parmesan next to Mycroft's plate.

Mycroft grinned and shook his head. “That was almost the old Sherlock.”

“Ah, not in the least. If I was the old Sherlock, I would have said you'd only need one more noodle to explode out of your suit. God, what an arsehole I was all this time…”

“Sherlock. It's okay. It was your way to tell me I should mind my own business.”

“But I never really wanted that,” Sherlock mumbled. “Not even before my feelings for you changed.” And this realisation had just come out of nowhere and nonetheless he knew it was true.

Mycroft's smile was sweet and full of affection. “I know that, little brother. That's why it never hurt as much as it would have if I’d had to think you really mean it.”

“Do you think…” Sherlock shook his head about himself but Mycroft had understood.

“…that you'd been in love with me long before Serbia? Perhaps. Hidden deep in your heart.”

Sherlock thought he was probably right. But it had taken this long time of not seeing each other for him to realise that his brother did mean a lot to him. He had not understood how much and in which way for a long time to come but he had known he had missed him.

“Bon appetite, love,” Mycroft said and raised the glass of wine Sherlock had provided him with. “On the beautiful chef.”

Sherlock smiled. “And the lovely British Government.”

They clinked glasses and then attacked their food, and Sherlock was proud of how good it tasted. Angelo had cursed and grumbled as he never gave his secrets away, but he had lost a bet and so he hadn't had a chance as he might have been a burglar once but he was also a man of honour. Of course he thought Sherlock was about to cook for John as he still believed they were a secret couple and Sherlock had only protested half-heartedly as he really didn’t mind this suspicion.

“I want to spoil you later,” Mycroft said after praising his cooking.

Sherlock smirked. “That's good because I have a little surprise for you that might appeal to you. I hope so at least.” He involuntarily crossed his legs.

“Whatever you've planned, I know I will love it.”


“What the...” Mycroft's eyes were so wide that Sherlock feared they would gobble out of their holes any moment.

“It’s just some cheesy underwear, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, feeling a little insecure. He had ordered it along with the Father Christmas costume and some other items he still planned to use, if not before Christmas then in the next year. He had quickly undressed in the bathroom and he had certainly given his brother a surprise.

“Yes, but… My God, I’ve always known your legs are gorgeous but...”

“It’s not very comfortable though,” Sherlock admitted. The dark-red silk panties were fine (even though it felt as if he wasn’t wearing any pants at all, which wasn’t a problem of course) but the black hold-up stockings were cutting into the flesh of his thighs; perhaps they were a tad too tight for his muscular legs. It had been rather difficult to walk like he always did but since Mycroft hadn’t seen this coming, he had managed it obviously.

“I’m going to kiss your poor skin better soon,” Mycroft promised, absent-mindedly opening his shirt while he was still ogling Sherlock's bottom half intensely.

Sherlock smiled and threw himself backwards onto the bed. “Come on, brother. Show me you like your girly Sherly.” It was just a joke of course. He wasn’t wearing any makeup and didn’t want to appear like a woman. It was just the different feeling of these unusual clothes that made him feel a bit like another person and he wanted Mycroft to explore this version of his lover even if it was just for the softness of the silky fabric combined with his big cock and his hard muscles.

Mycroft chuckled and followed him, naked and deliciously aroused just by looking at him, and when he lowered his body on Sherlock's to capture his mouth in a passionate kiss, his hard member pushing against Sherlock’s through the silky fabric of his knickers, the detective hummed happily, looking forward to some nice and juicy action.


No, this was no 'girly Sherly', this was still his manly (albeit androgynously looking) little brother with the perfect abs over the luxurious panties he was wearing, his plump dick straining against the thin fabric, his pre-come leaving a wet spot he just had to lick at. The stockings were only stressing his deliciously shaped thighs and calves. It looked very unusual but this was still Sherlock. Mycroft was glad he hadn't tried to look like a woman in more ways. This outfit only added to his male attraction and he adored it. He thought his original plans for the advent calendar had been way too unoriginal... Thank God Sherlock had more fantasy.

He licked over the inside of Sherlock's right thigh which felt and tasted excitingly strange. He covered both of Sherlock's legs in kisses, listening to his panting and ignoring the growing bulge in the knickers for now.

Carefully he pulled at the seam of the right stocking and saw that Sherlock's skin was reddened and sore. “Hm, we need to get you some bigger ones I guess.” What a nice Christmas-present-idea this was. He would order a pile of luscious underwear for his man.

Sherlock sensed his thoughts and grinned. “Don't spend a fortune on this stuff, Mycroft. I love to be naked, too.”

“No fortune but I definitely like you like this. I love you naked, too, don't get me wrong.” He freed Sherlock's right leg first, kissing the deep marks. “Poor boy…” He hurried to make Sherlock's other leg naked, too and treated it in the same way. “Nothing wrong with these, hm?” He lapped over Sherlock's cock in its confinements.

“No. They are quite comfortable.”

“Good. Let's leave them on a little longer,” Mycroft purred and started to suck Sherlock's covered cock in earnest. If the panties were destroyed by their play, he would get him new ones quickly. This felt really good.

“Damn, that's nice.” Sherlock played with his ear while he was lapping and kissing, wetting the soft fabric from the outside and the inside. “Your tongue will get all fuzzy,” Sherlock teased him and he smirked.

“No problem. I've got water, you know.” He continued his treatment until Sherlock was writhing on the bed. Then he slipped the pants down and took his hot, leaking cock into his mouth. It didn’t take Sherlock longer than a minute to pulse down his throat and slump into the pillows, looking completely debauched and tousled.

He didn’t take any time to recover though and was up again a second later, throwing himself onto him and starting to suck him relentlessly. As aroused as Mycroft had become by giving head to him, he orgasmed in no time and not a drop was wasted as Sherlock sucked his semen out of him as if he was about to starve.

They settled on the bed together, Sherlock's head on his chest. “That was great.”

“It really was. What a lovely maiden you are.”

Sherlock snorted. “You know – you would look great in such stuff, too.”

It was Mycroft's turn to snort. “Yes, right, with my soft belly and all the hair. It would look ghastly on me.”

“I beg to differ. Would you try them on when they are washed?” Surprisingly enough, the panties had survived Mycroft's treatment.

“If you insist.”

“I do. And I know you'll look gorgeous in them.”

“Love makes blind,” Mycroft said with a smile.

“No, Mycroft,” Sherlock said seriously. “It makes you see.”

Mycroft almost gasped at this romantic statement and tousled his hair a bit more. “Well said, little brother.”

“It's the girls’ clothes,” Sherlock explained. “They made me all sensitive.”

“You should wear them more often. Try a skirt next time.”

“Shut up.”

Mycroft laughed and urged him to roll off his body. “I need some water.”


Mycroft got up and wiggled his hips when he left the room, making Sherlock whistle, and he wondered how it was possible to love this amazing man more with every passing day.

Chapter Text

“Hello Nancy, I’m Sherlock. Can I come in?” He tried not to inhale too deeply as he had a very sensitive nose and this place smelled ghastly.

Wide blue eyes gazed at him. “What do you want?”

Sherlock smiled. “Bringing you home.”

“Oh… I can’t believe someone found me here. Who the fuck are you?”

Sherlock grinned at the profanity which sounded a tad weird from the mouth of a fourteen-year-old girl with the looks of an angel – apart from the black clothes that gave her a flair of goth. “I’m a detective. Your parents asked me for help. They miss you.”

Nancy snorted. “I bet. They miss bossing me around. ‘Nancy, you must go to school!’ ‘Nancy, don’t throw your life away!’ ‘Nancy...’

“I’m getting the picture, believe me.” With a wry grin Sherlock sat down on the only chair in the shabby room. He was still looking down on her as she was sitting on the nasty mattress but he didn’t want to be too intrusive and sit next to her. And anyway – she was a very petite girl and he would have been looking down on her nevertheless. “I’ve heard all this, too, many, many times, from my parents and my older brother when I was your age – and actually still when I was a lot older...”

“So you didn’t listen to them,” the girl with the slightly greasy blonde hair concluded.

“No. No, I didn't. I loved to rebel and I loved all sorts of… chemical excitement.” He looked at her closely. No, she hadn’t taken anything. Not yet.

“And then you found Jesus and now you don’t do such stuff anymore,” she added in a bitter tone.

Sherlock laughed. “No, I wouldn’t say that. But I did realise they might not be completely wrong about a few things. You still have time. You’re young. You will make mistakes – plenty of them. And that’s okay. But if I'm allowed to give you some advice – don’t do this to punish your parents. Do it for the curiosity and the adventure but never forget there are people who care about you and who would be devastated if they lost you.”

Usually he didn't take such cases. It was a bit beneath him to search for runaway teenagers. But Mr and Mrs Ledger, a banker and an accountant in her forties, had been desperate. It wasn’t the first time their only child had run off but she had never stayed away for three days. The police was informed but they hadn’t found a trace of her. Well, they didn’t have a homeless network and they weren’t very, well, smart…

Nancy shrugged. “Yeah. I know… But they are so boring.”

Sherlock suppressed a grin. She almost sounded like him… “But apart from being old and humourless and boring – they treat you well, don’t they?”

“Yeah, they don't beat me or… They’re okay. How the hell did you find me?!”

“Ah, you’ve got Facebook and Instagram. Piece of cake.” He had known where to look out for her and his network had proven to be very useful once more. “Ready to go?”

“They’ll yell at me until mid-March...”

Sherlock chuckled. “Nah. It's Christmas very soon. Nasty kids are being forgiven when it’s Christmas.”


He winked at her. “Come. Let’s get you back home.”

“Damn, I’ve seen you before! You’re the guy who lives with this doctor who writes that blog, right?”

“Well, he has moved out a while ago, and there is no blog anymore. And we were not what you’re implying...”

“I don’t mind, you know. Gay men are cool!”

Sherlock smiled. “Well, I am gay but the doctor is not.” He gestured at the door and she sighed and put the pad and the ball pen that had been lying next to her on the mattress into her black bag with the two dozen stickers, showing everything from skulls to skunks. Then she grabbed her jacket from the floor and got up.

“So… You have someone then?”

“A tad nosy, aren’t you?”

“You sound like my mother...”

“Oh, that smarts.” Sherlock led the way to the waiting cab.

“So do you?”

“Not telling you.”

“So yes. What’s the matter? Why is it a secret?”

“You know, you can stay here if you prefer.” She laughed and Sherlock grinned. “Into the cab with you and no more impertinent questions.”

“All right. You’re every bit as boring as my parents.”

“Everybody says that,” Sherlock confirmed and gave the Ledger’s address to the driver after making sure her seatbelt was fastened. Another case solved. A good deed done. And on his way to Mycroft he would stop to buy some cake to do very messy things with it.


“Hello stranger...”

Mycroft gaped at his lover, naked as he’d been on the day he was born but a lot more attractive, presenting him a cake, apparently filled with chocolate cream, a generous topping of more dark cream and cherries making it look even more delicious. “Cake for dinner? How very decadent.”

“Oh, it’s not the fact that we will eat it instead of having a proper dinner that will make it decadent, Mycroft,” Sherlock rumbled with this irresistible, extra deep voice.

Mycroft had taken off his coat in the meantime. “I need a shower first.”

“Be quick. The cake is cool and I’m hot.”

“You most definitely are… I’ll be ready in no time. Or… do you want me to shave my body hair?”

Sherlock snorted. “Then we wouldn’t get to eat this cake until Christmas, brother, probably not until Easter actually. And I’ll lick it out of your fur, don’t worry. And out of everything else, too...”

“Naughty boy.” He bent over to kiss Sherlock, very carefully so he wouldn’t drop the cake. It would have been a pity. Then he led the way upstairs, ready to get clean and then messier than ever before in his life.

Fifteen minutes later he was marinated in cold cream of a different sort. He had showered and shaved and his hair was still damp, and Sherlock was licking cake from his nipples. His lovely brother had only applied a little bit of sweet, tasty cream on them and suckled it off noisily.

“S' very good, Mycroft.” He took a bite from the cake (which he had cut into neat pieces) and kissed the sinful dessert into his mouth, and Mycroft eagerly licked it from his tongue and his lips, smiling at the sticky face Sherlock had already managed to get.

“It is.” Mycroft took a cherry from the cake and put it between his lips.

Sherlock took it and chewed it happily. “The healthy part of this stuff.”

“Yes, I'll need a diet until Christmas to get rid of these extra calories.”

Sherlock gave him a warning look. “Mycroft!”

“But it's true. Or – we'll have to have even more sex to make up for this.”

“That's better.” Sherlock took a full piece of the cake and more or less smashed it onto his own smooth chest. “Feast on me, brother.”

Mycroft shook his head but licked a stripe through the mess with a grin. They had covered the bed with two large towels so the damage should be limited. He licked and lapped until Sherlock's body was squeaky clean again, and then he was pushed onto his back and Sherlock rubbed the next slice into his hairy chest just to attack it at once. His nose was brown by now and Mycroft was about to tease him about that when Sherlock used the next load of creamy crumbs to stroke his cock with it. “Oh… That feels nice…”

Sherlock scrambled down on the bed and took his cake-covered cock into his mouth to lick the stuff off thoroughly. “And tastes even nicer,” he mumbled rather incoherently. “Get on your front now.”

“What… Oh…” Mycroft did as he was told and he yelped when something small and hard and cold was being pressed against his entrance. “No, you can't…”

“Oh but of course I can. There – in it is.” And with this Sherlock proceeded to lick the cherry out of Mycroft's rear end.

Mycroft insisted on returning this favour and he had to admit he had never eaten a tastier piece of fruit before. While Sherlock was lying on his stomach, he put some more cake onto his silky back to lick it off. The poor cake looked thoroughly deranged by now and Mycroft wondered what the baker would think if he knew what was done to his delicious creation.

In the end they coated each other's stiff pricks with cocoa cream and sucked the other one off in a frantic, messy 69, and after Mycroft had swallowed his brother's semen – and vice versa – he wouldn’t have been able to eat anything if he had been paid for it.

When they were able to move again, both feeling rather queasy, Mycroft took the soiled towels from the bed and reached out for Sherlock's hand. “We need a shower, little brother, and this needs to be put into water or they're ruined.”

They stumbled into the bathroom where Mycroft took care of the towels before stepping under the shower for the second time on this evening. He had crumbs in places where they had never been supposed to be and he helped Sherlock getting rid of his share as well while the hot spray was pouring down on them.

“Shall I cook you dinner now?” Sherlock teased him when they slipped under the blanket together.

“Oh please, no word about food…” He would have to bin the rest of the cake as it looked ghastly now.

“Don't even think of it,” Sherlock said. “I'll eat it.”

“I bet.”

“Later, I mean.” Sherlock snuggled against his neck. “Mycroft…” He sounded serious all at once.

Mycroft put his arm tightly around his shoulders. “Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“What for?” Probably he wasn’t talking about this whole advent calendar thing that didn’t even resemble what he had planned for in the beginning anymore. Sherlock had totally taken over and was spoiling him. He had to do something very nice for him as well.

“For never giving up on me. Back then, during the dark times.”

There had been many times in his life that qualified for being called 'dark' but Mycroft knew at once what he was talking about. The decidedly dark days of the drugs. “You know I'd never have.”

“You didn’t understand it, hell, I didn’t understand why I was doing that. I was bored and unhappy but it was a stupid thing to do.”

“We all do stupid things from time to time.” Mycroft squeezed his shoulder. He hadn't been that tolerant back then of course. He had been terrified of Sherlock's unreasonable, risky behaviour. He had almost overdosed more than once. Rehab had only made him getting more aggressive towards him and had widened the rift between them so much that Mycroft had thought they could never overcome it again. Well, they had and now they were as close as they could get, but these times had been, in fact, very dark.

“I saw myself in someone today. Not nearly as fucked up as I'd been back then.” He told Mycroft about his case with the nosy Nancy. “Her parents both cried when I handed her over to them.”

Mycroft recalled the desperation of their own parents whenever Sherlock had succumbed to the alluring calling of the drugs. “I'm sure that was very touching.”

“Yeah. Got all sentimental. That's your fault…”

Mycroft smiled. “You've become horribly sentimental even before we got together. I liked that. Well, actually I didn’t really because…”

Sherlock nodded against his chin. “…because I wasted all these emotions on unworthy people.”

“Well, kind of. That wasn't very nice of me.”

“You were never known to be very nice.” Mycroft pinched his side and Sherlock yelped. “Don't! I'm ticklish!”

“Oh really?” Mycroft let his fingertips dance over silky skin.

Sherlock wriggled and rammed his elbow into Mycroft's stomach involuntarily. “Damn, sorry!”

Mycroft rubbed his belly, trying not to grimace. “Totally my fault, dear. I'm fine. And this girl was very lucky that you found her.” She had been away from home for days. Anyone could have come and taken advantage of her. “See, this is what your job should be about. Helping people like these, especially before Christmas.”

“Who are you and what have you done with the Iceman?” Sherlock asked with wide eyes before he grinned. “Yes. It was a pretty good feeling.”

“And you are a very good man.” Mycroft kissed his forehead.

“So are you, big brother. I'm glad you were there to save me even though I didn’t really thank you for it back then.”

“You did now. And for me everything that counted was that you were still alive and kicking. Pretty literally…”

“I was ghastly.” Sherlock stroked over his back with his large hands. “I love you.”

They kissed for real this time. “I love you, too, Sherlock.”

They cuddled and kissed for twenty minutes before they both fell asleep even though it was still early, and before he drifted to sleep Mycroft breathed in his brother's sweet scent and thought he would never be more grateful for anything than he was for having never lost his brother and for having found him in a whole new way.

Chapter Text

He must have become completely crazy. What was he doing here? With horror Sherlock looked around on the Christmas market. It was almost dark already and there were artificial candles everywhere. The whole place was cramped with booths, fully decorated Christmas trees and of course ghastly people who were drinking too much punch, laughing too loud, eating too much and threatening to soil his coat which would make it necessary to kill them.

He sighed and walked deeper into the crowd, his eyes darting from one seller to the other. He wanted something nice and personal for his brother as a Christmas present – so far he had nothing but the funny gag he had bought online and the self-made socks his grateful client had brought him a few days ago; they looked great and he couldn’t wait for Mycroft's face when he opened the package but they were rather meant as a joke, and yes, also to keep his lovely feet warm. He would also buy him another pair of very tight jeans as he loved seeing him in those but he also needed something that appealed to his sentimental side. Sherlock assumed he would appreciate a Father-Christmas-tattoo on his arse but there was only so far he could go.

And then he stopped, drawing the attention of the middle-aged man with the messy red hair in this particular stall. “Oh, let me draw you, sir. Your face is most fascinating!”

Sherlock had heard this before more than once so he guessed the artist wasn’t even lying. A picture of him? Wasn’t that a bit too narcissistic a present? But then he had an idea. “Can you draw me together with someone I can show you a picture of?”

“Sure. Your sweetheart?”

Sherlock blushed and he was glad the man would most definitely not see that in this light. But his expression must have given him away anyway because the man grinned. He had very white teeth and exceptionally large ears and appeared to be an easy-going guy.

“Come inside and I’ll make more light to do you and your darling justice.”

“How long will it take?” He had glanced over the drawings that were presented and this man had talent for sure. He could frame the picture for his brother and he knew Mycroft would love it and hang it up. He could have just taken a photograph of the two of them and done it but a drawing would be something special.

“Just about fifteen minutes. Thirty pounds.” He gave Sherlock a questioning look.

“Fine.” Sherlock took out his phone and walked around the booth and stepped in and sat down on the chair the man offered to him.

“I’m Randy by the way.”

“Scott.” He was sure the man hadn’t recognised him. He was keeping a much lower profile since Sherrinford and he didn’t appear in the newspapers anymore. He was still stunned young Nancy had remembered him.

“So, Scott, do you have a picture of the two of you then? That would make it even easier.”

“Um. No. I don’t.” Why had they never done this? Their phones were secure. All at once he wanted such a picture. Nothing naughty, just their two smiling faces. He had taken a few (very un-naughty) pictures of Mycroft and on some of them he was smiling but somehow Sherlock had never dared ask him for a picture of them together. How idiotic… “I could do one and come back,” he suggested but the man shook his head.

“No, just show me what you have and I’ll work you into a picture together, no problem.”

Sherlock handed him his phone after picking a picture. Mycroft was smiling affectionately into the camera, his eyes glistening.

“Wow, another interesting face. That will be fun. Off we go.” He took a large pad and some pens in different sizes and started to draw. “I’ll start with him.”

Sherlock nodded, watching in awe how his brother’s handsome face appeared on the paper. The man was really a gifted drawer, instinctively capturing Mycroft's personality. He was very glad they didn't look like brothers…

“He loves you very much,” Randy remarked casually while his hand was flying over the paper.

Sherlock gulped. “Sorry?”

“I can see it. Everybody could see it in his eyes. He doesn’t smile very often, does he?”

“Not particularly, no. You can deduce this from a photo?” Sherlock bit his lip. Why had he mentioned deductions for God’s sake.

The man didn't ask what he meant. “Sure. I know people. And really – strong love is the easiest thing to, how did you call it, deduce, in someone’s face. He loves you like mad.”

“I think so.”

“So do you. Him, I mean. I’m better with the pen than with words.”

“I think you’re fine with both. It’s true.” He is, in fact, my one and only.

The man had finished most of Mycroft now and turned his attention to Sherlock. He didn't ask why Sherlock didn't have any pictures of the two of them then. Probably he thought their relationship was, well, a secret. Hopefully he didn't suspect for which reason…

“Those cheekbones are awesome.” Randy pointed at his own rather round face. “You must hear a lot of compliments about them.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Usually people are too busy complaining about my behaviour to pay much attention to my looks...” That was a bit too modest. He knew many people found his strange face appealing. He just didn't care about it; there was only one person whose opinion not only about his looks but about him as a person mattered to him. Well, John did matter, too. Perhaps even Lestrade. Molly, to some extent. His parents, sure. And Mrs Hudson! He was obviously not quite the lone wolf he liked to see himself as. But Mycroft definitely mattered so much more than anyone else.

The artist laughed. “I think nothing’s wrong with your behaviour. Damn, you look good together.”

“How did you know he’s taller than me?” Sherlock asked. “There is no way to see it in this picture.”

“Ah, just guessing. And guessing right, it appears.”

“But...” Sherlock broke off and shook his head. It was amazing but probably Randy wouldn’t even be able to explain it. He sat still while he and Mycroft were coming to life on this picture together, their love for each other visible in their faces, and he knew Mycroft would adore this present. He would get it framed nicely and keep it in Baker Street until Christmas.

When the picture was finished, he insisted on paying fifty pounds to this incredibly talented man. “You deserve it. It’s stunning.”

“Ah, if I get to work with such awesome subjects, that’s very easy.” He rolled up the picture carefully and stored it in a bag.

They shook hands and Sherlock left the booth. “Merry Christmas, Randy.”

“Merry Christmas, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock froze but the man winked. “I never forget a face, especially not one that is so interesting. You’ve been all over the tabloids years ago.”

“I was. Keeping a lower profile now.”

“Very understandable. All the best to you and whoever this gorgeous man is.”

At least he hadn’t figured that out, too… And if he had (and Sherlock wasn’t totally sure he hadn’t) he had chosen to not mention it. Sherlock thanked him and was about to leave when he saw something in a booth opposite of Randy’s. “He loves angels, can you imagine?”

Randy chuckled. “Sure. He loves you after all.”

Sherlock grinned for a moment before he recalled a conversation with someone who had died years ago about him being an angel or not but shook this thought off at once and waved the kind artist goodbye, and when he left for Baker Street to store his drawing before heading over to Mycroft, he had another, much smaller package with something Mycroft would certainly like, and he would give this treat to him right away.


“My God… You bought me an angel?” Mycroft gaped at him with wide eyes, looking at the unexpected present as if he feared it would explode any moment.

Sherlock grinned. He had waited with his little surprise until they’d had dinner. “I sang a Christmas song for you in front of other people. This is harmless. And look – it has a battery so it glows or even changes the colour, just as you want.” He actuated the little switch on the underside of the figure and it showed a warm white light and then, after he had put the switch into the other direction, it got pink and then red, blue, green and purple and all over again.

“Amazing!” Mycroft seemed seriously touched. “And this from you, the man who couldn’t bear even speaking of angel figures.”

“What shall I say – you manipulated me. I can tolerate them now.”

Mycroft grinned. “Ah, I’ll still have a long way to go with you if you only ‘tolerate’ them.”

“I guess so. So… More sex tonight? Or is your cock too chafed already?”

“You know – if anyone had told me that in my middle-age I’d start having sex every day, I would have called him insane. But now? My libido runs on full capacity.” Mycroft seemed very surprised about this fact but definitely happy and more than a bit proud.

Sherlock chuckled. “I’m very glad to hear that. So does mine, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I have, little brother, believe me. But… I’d like to do something special tonight if you don’t mind. We did talk about it before.”

Sherlock’s face lightened up. “If you are referring to what I think you are...”

“I guess. But since I’m a very neat person, I’d like to do it in the bathroom, followed by a hot bath for both of us.”

“Oh, soaking together again. I love that! And before doing something really kinky? I'm in.” He had expected it to happen out of a roleplay but he was totally fine with this solution as well.

“I thought you’d say that, little brother. Off to the tub and then we’ll see how we like this.”

Sherlock nodded vehemently. “I know I’ll love it.”

“But… I’d prefer if you’d be the one giving it.”

Sherlock tilted his head. Of course he did. “For now I will. But someday I’d like to turn the tables.”

Mycroft nodded a little hesitantly. “Let’s try it this way first and if the mood strikes some other day, we can do that if I feel comfortable with it.”

“Mycroft – I’d never talk you into doing something you don’t like.”

The older man cupped his cheek. “I know that. We’ll find out how adventurous we are, hm?”

“Sure. Oh, but he’s coming with us and will be watching.” Sherlock raised the hand that was holding the angel. He remembered a time when a tiny angel on a shelf in Mycroft's bedroom had drove him mental. He really had come a long way since then.

Mycroft laughed. “He will be horrified!”

“Too bad. Come, little fellow. Let’s show you into whose household you’ve come.”

And they went off to the bathroom, all three of them.


“Well, I thought you could place yourself on the edge of the tub while I'm sitting in it like this…” Mycroft scrambled into the empty tub, wincing when the sensitive skin of his bottom made contact with the cold material. The tub was shaped like a huge shell and perfectly sufficient for two grown men. They had taken baths together before and Sherlock had loved it and he knew he would love what was about to follow as well.

He sat down where Mycroft had suggested. “A golden shower for big brother. Never thought you’d be so naughty before this month.”

“I can’t be too predictable or I’ll bore you.”

“You could never bore me, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, glaring at him. “And even if we never did anything kinky and have just normal sex, it would be totally fine with me. Don’t think you had to humour me like this!”

“I know and I agree. But I did fantasise about this for quite a while.”

“Well, no objections in this case, brother. And if you have any other fantasies, just spit it out. I’m very willing to do a lot with you as long as I don’t have to share you or drink your blood or something like that.”

Mycroft shuddered. “I told you before – I’d never let anyone near you and none of us is a vampire so no blood.”

“But some piss.”

“Well said,” Mycroft remarked dryly. “Just make sure you really hit me and not the floor.”

Sherlock grinned. “I’ll do my best.” He stroked his cock casually. “Where you do want it exactly? Except for not on the floor?”

“On my dick,” Mycroft said, his voice suddenly hoarse. “And my chest and belly. The face would probably be a little too much for the first try.”

Sherlock couldn't imagine peeing into his brother's face or make him drink it. There were limits, even for Sherlock ‘Fuck Conventions’ Holmes. Fine, they might test those limits someday but now wasn’t a good time for doing too much. And Mycroft's hairy body was a very nice target. “All right, ready?”

“Yes.” Mycroft sounded a little breathless.

Sherlock looked at the angel he had placed on a shelf so its face was aimed at the tub. “You’re ready too, Howard?”

Mycroft laughed. “Howard? Why Howard?”

The detective shrugged. “He looks like a Howard. Okay… Here it comes. And Mycroft – if you don’t like this, tell me and I’ll stop at once!” He wasn’t sure he could actually stop the stream once it had started to flow but he could at least direct it away from Mycroft then.

“Sure. But I know I will enjoy it.”

Sherlock took a deep breathe, took his cock between two fingers and let the pee come.

He wouldn't have been able to describe the feelings he had when he directed the stream onto Mycroft's belly, over his nipples and the hand that was eagerly beating off the long, thick, red dick. Mycroft's widely-blown pupils and his expression told him that he was indeed enjoying it and not feeling humiliated in any way; he even rubbed the clear fluid into his hairy skin with his free hand. The view turned Sherlock on so much that his own dick thickened rapidly under the hand that was holding it. When no more drop of piss was leaking out of his cock, he stroked himself to full hardness in mere seconds, and it didn't take long until he started to moan and then he showered his lover again, this time with thick, white come, and Mycroft added his own release to the mess within seconds. With trembling hands Sherlock took the shower head, switched on the water, directed the spray at Mycroft and then the tub beneath him, washing away the naughty stains, and then he proceeded to fill the tub and add lots of bubbles and placed himself so Mycroft was spooning him.

“That was amazing,” Mycroft mumbled, nuzzling his face against his neck. “Thank you for doing it for me.”

“You thank me? I should thank you, and in fact I do.” Sherlock would have loved to have Mycroft doing it to him, too, but he didn’t say it. He was almost sure Mycroft would never want this and it was fine.

Mycroft took the bath sponge and started washing him, and Sherlock closed his eyes and let big brother spoil him some more. They stayed in the tub, eventually changing positions and washing each other, until the water had gone cold and there was no more room for more hot water, and they dried each other off gently after gingerly climbing out of the tub.

“How did you like the show, Howie?” Sherlock asked the angel. Didn’t it really look a bit shocked? Probably just his imagination.

“If you had switched it on, he would only show the red light now,” Mycroft said, making Sherlock chuckle.

“Ah, I bet he loved it. Will we do it again?” He put his arms around his naked brother’s neck, feeling his still damp hair.

“We will for sure. Not sure if I’ll want...”

“It’s okay,” Sherlock interrupted him. “I understand. Just stick to what you’re feeling comfortable with. Can we go to bed and cuddle now?”

Mycroft kissed him on the lips. “Oh yes. That sounds lovely.”

And it was.

Chapter Text

Mycroft's pulse was racing. His right hand was balled into a fist. If this man just said another word, he would punch him right in the stupid face. But when he of course started to talk again, he had no choice but to contain himself, as infuriating as it was.

“Really, Holmes, I’ve had everything under control. No need to crinkle your nose at me. And what a long nose it is!” The menace of a PM giggled and Mycroft had a strong fantasy about grabbing a handful of his hair – which resembled in both colour and texture the straw he had instead of a brain – and drag him through the floors of the Cabinet Office to eventually kick him through the preferably closed door out on the street where he belonged.

Instead he had to watch this poor excuse for a politician slouching on the visitor’s chair, crumpling his suit even more. This man had – despite his Eton- and Oxford education – no brain, no manners and should have been anywhere but in he halls of power, preferably in the gutter or on the ground of the ocean even though he would have made all sharks flee in horror. “This situation could have escalated,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Ah, nonsense. They ate out of the palm of my hand.”

Mycroft would have loved to make him feel the palm of his hand – right across his smug face… “You could have threatened...”

The PM got up from his chair. “No way. Why are you always so uptight? You should get pissed with me tonight.”

Mycroft would have rather nailed his toes to the floor. Or the PM’s throat against the wall. “Sorry, sir. I won’t be available. And I’ll have a meeting in half an hour which I have to prepare so...”

The head of the British government grinned. “Only you dare throw me out of your office.”

I’d rather throw you off a cliff… Mycroft tried to smile but he knew he could only produce a grimace. “I will try to erase the damage you did.” He would have to call people and apologise and make promises and all of this because this incompetent arse was not able to think. If he, Mycroft, just really was the British Government like Sherlock believed. But then he would have to show his face to the public and he avoided this at all costs.

“My ideas were good.” The PM pouted and it looked horribly unattractive (which said something as he didn’t look in any way appealing even on his best of days).

Mycroft knew whatever he would say to this would only cause a row. “Have a nice day, sir,” he settled for, dismissing the man with a stern glance, and he sighed in half relief, half exasperation when this joke of a politician finally left his office, clearly still thinking he was right. He always thought that but he was always wrong.


Sherlock saw at once that this was not about to become the cosiest evening they had ever spent together. His brother looked so furious that Sherlock wouldn’t have been surprised if he had been leaving smoking footsteps. “Damn, Mycroft.” He took the umbrella out of his brother’s hand and the fingers were cramped around it so tightly that he had to gently pull a few times before they released it. “Bad day, huh?” And he had thought his brother’s work days would get easier before Christmas… In fact he was as busy as ever and obviously someone had made his blood boil today.

“People!” Mycroft spat out, and it was amazing how much contempt could be put into a single harmless word.

“Oh yes. I know what you mean.” Sherlock hung up his brother’s coat.

“They get worse with every day!”

Mycroft needed a drink. Asap. “Come, lover mine. Let’s go into the living room.”

“I was so close to killing him… And then Lady Smallwood invited me to a Christmas party. Just she and me...”

Sherlock laughed out loud. “Dear God. What did you say?”

“Nothing. I just gaped at her until she turned red and left.”

“Good. Tell her if she tries to seduce my man again, she’ll be in big trouble. So… The PM?”

Mycroft’s jaws tightened once more. “This bloody imbecile! He’s not worth cleaning the floors of Whitehall, let alone leading the fucking country!”

Sherlock was stunned. Mycroft using such words outside of the bedroom! He was definitely very upset. They had reached Mycroft's elegant living room and Sherlock steered his fuming brother into his armchair and hastily provided him with a stiff drink while Mycroft was telling him how the PM had upset some very important people with his stupid, insensitive talking and his grotesque suggestions, forcing him to kowtow to other morons for the rest of the day to try and keep the damage under control.

“You should scream maybe.”

“Sorry?” Mycroft looked a bit better after gulping down the drink at least. Only a bit though.

“Yeah. Scream the house down. It may help.”

“Do you do that when people annoy you?”

Sherlock grinned. “No. I tell them how useless and stupid they are.”

Mycroft sighed. “But I can’t. I was already impolite to him but if I told him what I really think about him – and he is too moronic and narcissistic to figure that out by himself – he will fire me.”

“Can he even?”

Mycroft sighed. “Yes. He’s my boss, love.”

“Damn… But then our country will be doomed.”

That brought him a smile, probably the first one his brother had produced today. “You’re sweet, Sherlock. Come here. I didn’t even kiss you when I arrived.”

Sherlock was sitting on his lap a second later and they kissed thoroughly. “Do you want to eat something?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Not now. I need to get rid of my frustrations before.”

Sherlock beamed at him. “I have just the idea!”

“Oh yes? Does it include sex?”

“Later. But first – a little roleplay.”

“Tell me more.”

“It’s very easy. I’m the PM and you tell me what you think of me. Tear me to shreds.”

Mycroft looked aghast. “I could never do that!”

Sherlock smiled and kissed his nose. “But you won’t mean me. Just try it out and perhaps it will lead to some rougher play.”

“You seriously suggest I should imagine having sex with this viper?!”

“Ah, don’t fret, frater. Let’s just see what happens. I promise I won’t cry if you’re mean to me.”

“You know – my aim was to make you love Christmas. I wanted to spoil you and bring you into the right mood. But now you have to do all the work.”

“We’re spoiling each other,” Sherlock corrected him. “And… How do they say? ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive’.”

“What a wise man you are.” Mycroft urged him to bend down so they could kiss again.

“No, Mycroft,” Sherlock mumbled then. “I’m the PM and I’m horribly annoying and hopelessly stupid and now do your worst!” He slid from his lap and got up, looking at him expectantly.

After a moment of hesitation, Mycroft stood up, too. He took a deep breath. “All right. Let’s see if that’s as cathartic as you think it is.”

“That’s my man!”

“You’re amazing, little brother, do you know that? Never thought you could be so selfless and...”

Sherlock threw himself into an armchair again, shutting him up with an impatient gesture. They had time for the niceties when Mycroft had got rid of his anger. “Holmes, I’m the one in charge here. I only work for the common good and you just don’t understand my brilliance.”

Mycroft stared down at him for about twenty seconds, speechless. Then he narrowed his eyes. “You, sir, are the stupidest, sleaziest, most unworthy creature to have ever occupied this once honourable position! Compared to you Thatcher was a gem!”

Sherlock smirked. Not bad but Mycroft was still way too polite and not nearly loud enough. Sherlock very rarely raised his voice but he had heard that some people were absolutely convinced shouting and screeching were perfect ways to find relief for full-blooded frustration.

He made a condescending gesture with his right hand. “Ah, you’re exaggerating. I know what I’m doing.” He tried to imitate the PM’s annoying way of speaking.

“No you don’t!” screeched Mycroft, his ear tips turning bright red. “You are behaving completely irresponsibly and you threaten the safety of this country! You are shaming us all! I hate you and I hope you get killed by a sniper next time you show your nasty face to the public!!!” He blushed and shut his mouth with an audible noise before falling back into his armchair.

Sherlock’s ears were ringing but he was very satisfied with this outburst. “Good! I mean… Can I make it up to you?” His brother needed stress relief in more than one way. He could see the screaming had taken at least some of the tension but a blowjob was never wrong.

“No. You can’t,” Mycroft said. “But Sherlock, my beautiful, wise little brother, is very welcome to do with me whatever he likes.”

Sherlock felt warmth spreading in his chest. “Be careful what you say,” he joked nonetheless. “You are speaking with someone who loves to make experiments.” In fact he had never hurt any animal in an experiment, and fine, he had done one with John during the Baskerville case but he hadn’t exactly mutilated him.

“I’m all yours, love.” Mycroft sounded pretty exhausted now and Sherlock hurried to place himself between his thighs and free his cock from its confinements.

He couldn’t just kill the bloody PM or do much else to solve this problem but he could make his brother feel good and make him forget his chores for a while. In the end despite all they had done over the past weeks, Mycroft was about to lose any hint of a Christmas mood and that couldn’t happen after all their efforts. So he kissed the pink head of his cock and went to town to do what he could to brighten up the day.


With every moment that Sherlock was spoiling and devouring him, Mycroft's tension vanished a bit more. He was well aware sex couldn’t solve his problems with this horrible man or the intrusive Lady Smallwood and he would have to face them again the next day and the day after but he promised himself to not let them destroy his enthusiasm for spending a wonderful Christmas time with his brother, who had made such progress at not hating this festival anymore.

And he knew it was a waste of time anyway. He could tell the PM how to deal with sensitive people of influence and turn down Elizabeth's unwelcome advances until the sun imploded and still it wouldn’t change anything. He would have to stick to keeping this moron from starting wars and having patience with the lovesick lady as he had to work with them if he wanted or not. He could always hope for the next election, a bullet that found its aim or an admirer for the woman and otherwise he had to accept the facts and his fate.

He felt relieved after the yelling but also ashamed that he had used Sherlock as a target, no matter that his brother had offered it.

Gently he stroked over his hair, showing his gratitude for not only a mind-blowing blowjob and his advice but for simply being so understanding and kind.

Sherlock looked up and winked at him, letting his cock go with a wet plop. “Come on, slap your tasty cock into my face!”

Mycroft complied with pleasure, giving his beloved brother a tender beating with his long boner which left wet traces on Sherlock's pretty face, and he rubbed the elastic tip over those sharp cheekbones for a delightful minute before he directed it back into Sherlock's mouth. The younger man immediately suckled at it greedily while looking up to him through his long lashes, and Mycroft's heart was overflown with love, and soon enough he flooded Sherlock's eagerly sucking mouth with his hot come, his body convulsing heftily, and the rest of his frustration was shaken out of him.

And then it happened – Sherlock rather impatiently stood up, certainly eager to feed him his own so far neglected cock, and stumbled over Mycroft's foot. He fell and landed on the little round table next to Mycroft's chair – with his face.

“God, Sherlock, are you okay?” Mycroft was horrified.

Sherlock let him pull him up. “Yeah, fine.” He reached up to his eye. “Didn’t land very gracefully, did I…”

“Sit down, love; I'll get you some ice.” He cursed himself for causing his brother to get hurt even though he knew it was nobody's fault. When he came back, the tender skin under Sherlock's right eye was swollen and he would develop a spectacular shiner without a doubt. “Damn…”

“Ah, don't worry. I'll say it happened during a case.” Sherlock pressed the compression onto his poor eye.

“I'm more worried about you being in pain, Sherlock.”

The detective smiled. “You're too sweet, brother mine. That's nothing.”

Compared to what he had gone through for more than half of his life, that might be true but Mycroft hated that he had got hurt again and above all in his house during having sex with him. “You could have a concussion.”

“No, I absolutely don't and I also see clearly. Not even a real headache.”

That could still happen though. “Come, let's get you in bed.”

“That's a good idea.” Sherlock got up and Mycroft wrapped his arm around his waist to stabilise him even though he probably didn’t need it.

“Not for sex, Sherlock.”

“But I didn’t come!”

“You are…”

“I know.” Sherlock winked at him. “Get me in bed and lend me your mouth or I'll ask Howard to do it.”

Mycroft shook his head, grinning. “Don't make me jealous!”

“You're feeling better,” Sherlock said, sounding content. They had reached the stairs and climbed them, still entangled.

“Yes, but now you are suffering.”

“I'm a big boy. Just take care of this big thing here,” Sherlock pointed at his crotch, “and I'll be as good as new.”

Mycroft watched him sitting on the bed. “I will. Thanks for being such a support.”

Sherlock smiled and took off his socks. “Be honest – wouldn’t you have wanted to talk to me like this for real many, many times?”

Mycroft shook his head and helped him with his trousers. “Not once, little brother.”

“No? Not in the drug days, not when I insulted you and did horrible things to you?”

“Never. I only wanted you to be safe and I've always loved you.”

“Love you too.” Sherlock smiled at him in a way that made his heart melt and he bent down to return the favour and make the hotness in Sherlock's groin disappear while his poor little brother was cooling his bruise.

Chapter Text

“Ah, no, the murderer must have taken this way.” Sherlock paced around the corpse, pointing down the shabby street. “You will have to ask the people who live here if… Are you listening to me at all?”

“Sherlock...” Lestrade’s voice was quiet and pressed. “Who did that?” He dark eyes were glued to Sherlock's face.

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t know. I’m not a magician, but I can tell you...”

“I’m not talking about this murder. Who did this to you?”

The detective stood frozen on the spot, keeping himself from reaching up to his eye. “Nobody,” he said. Mycroft, who had had to leave early to go to his blasted office had cursed when he had seen it this morning; it had to look pretty ugly indeed.

“Don’t tell me it happened during a case,” Greg said sternly. “You didn’t have any for the police because that would have been me, and I doubt your private clients give you black eyes. This was something personal.”

Sherlock bit his lip. “Doing deductions, Greg? Can we focus on...”

“No.” Lestrade shook his head. “No, we can’t. Was it John?”

“Please. Of course not.”

“You know how bad I felt about looking the other way back then? I should have arrested him for what he did to you. I have no idea why I didn’t...” Greg looked very old and tired all at once. He reached up to scratch his head, leaving his short grey hair tousled. “I turned a blind eye to his violence because he's my friend, too, and now…”

“Lestrade. It was not John. Nobody hit me.” He had texted John on the way to the crime scene to find out if he was up to joining him (which he hadn’t been due to work) and had even mentioned the black eye and how he had received it when John had asked about Mycroft and how things were going and had got some laughing smilies in response but then his mind had been occupied otherwise and he had not thought about it anymore. He had never paid too much attention to aching body parts, especially not when he’d had a case. But he should have known Lestrade would jump to this conclusion at once.

Surprisingly, Lestrade seemed to believe him regarding John at once. “You are seeing someone, right? That’s why you were so pissed off at the Yard party about the things I said.”

“For God’s sake...”

“Does your brother know?”

Sherlock felt his cheeks flush and cursed himself. Why was he blushing like a schoolgirl?

Lestrade stepped very close to him. “I will tell him.”

And Sherlock did something way more unforgivable than blushing. For a split second he grinned at this, imagining how the policeman would inform his brother that he had been abused by a secret lover, and Lestrade stepped back with wide eyes.

No, he couldn’t have got it! That was impossible! Sherlock shook his head vehemently. “I fell on a table if you must know. I know it sounds like ‘I walked against a door’ but it’s the truth. Nobody hurt me.”

Lestrade nodded slowly. “I believe you. He never would.”

Mycroft would kill him. It hadn’t been Sherlock’s fault with Mrs Hudson, John and Bobbie, but this was his responsibility. He had stumbled over Mycroft's foot and managed to hurt himself. And he had come to a crime scene without any plan how to explain the black eye. His pulse was racing. Lestrade didn’t seem to be appalled. But could they really be so lucky that even he, the thoroughly decent inspector, accepted their forbidden relationship? Because one thing was clear – it wasn’t only taboo, disfavoured and immoral in the eyes of every normal citizen. It was against British law, as stupid as said law might be as far as they were concerned – two consenting adults of the same sex.

The DI looked at him for a long time before he asked, “You’re sure the murderer took this route?”

He knew he wasn’t off the hook. “Yes.” He told Lestrade about his deductions and watched him getting his minions to search for the killer Sherlock had described to him. Sherlock would have loved to chase him himself but he knew he would not do this, not right now.

“Come. Let’s sit down over there for a moment.” Lestrade gestured at a low wall when they were alone again apart from the coroner and the photographer who were scurrying around the corpse, far enough away to not hear a word they would say.

Sherlock really didn’t want to but he knew he had no choice. He stalked over to the wall and sat down next to the DI on the rather cold bricks. His tongue seemed to have got very heavy now.

“So…” Lestrade stopped and shook his head. “I have no idea how to start this conversation...”

“There doesn’t have to be one. Just forget whatever you thought you figured out. You know you’re wrong anyway...” Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to mock the inspector right now but he couldn’t help it. What would Lestrade do?

The cop gave him a wry grin. “Nice try. Are you happy?”

Sherlock was taken aback by this question. “Yes,” he answered simply. He knew he wouldn’t get out of this so easily; it made no sense to tell Greg he was wrong with his suspicions. Lestrade might be a goldfish but he wasn’t an idiot, and he simply knew Sherlock too well.

“You didn’t seem happy when...”

“Yes, but that had nothing to do with… Listen… It’s not an exactly easy situation. We had to hide it from everybody and that’s what frustrated me. But now… A few people know and they are all very supportive. He’s just awesome, Greg. He loves me like mad and I totally return that. He would never raise a hand against me or do anything I don’t want. And seriously… do you think I would let him?”

“I wouldn’t have thought you would ever take anything from anybody until John was so brutal against you and you didn’t erase him from your life.”

He had a point, Sherlock knew that. But comparing his rather troubled friendship with John to his loving, committed relationship with Mycroft was almost a blasphemy. “It’s very different. Things between me and John were so hard at this time and… I really don’t want to talk about this anymore. But what Mycroft and I have…”

Greg smiled, finally relaxing. “You should have seen your eyes when you just said this. Man, you really never do anything everybody else does, do you?”

“How boring would that be! It was him or nobody, Greg. And I’ll never let anyone destroy this.” Better to be very clear about this.

The policeman shook his head. “Do I look as if I planned anything like this? How would I even? He would bury me six feet under.”

Sherlock chuckled. “And I thought you liked my brother...”

“I do… But he is intimidating.” Greg scratched his nose. “I only ever met him when you were in danger, Sherlock. Disappeared, found under the heavy influence of drugs, injured, more dead than alive – you name it. And he was always worried, devastated and helpless in the eyes of your recklessness and unreasonable behaviour. Don’t look at me like this – I was there!”

Sherlock shrugged. “I never said I was easy to get along with. But he never gave me up.”

“No, he really didn’t. I should have seen the signs back then...”

“We’ve only got together after my sister’s nasty games, Lestrade.” And the inspector had never met Mycroft after Sherlock had sent him to check on his brother – another thing he regretted now but back then he had not known how to face Mycroft too raw and strong and confusing had his feelings for him been.

“Still… He had loved you more than a brother usually does long before.”

“That’s true. And I did since I came back from the dead. Didn’t really understand my own feelings though. But when I did, I made the first step.” He always seemed to be keen on hammering this home. As if Mycroft would have ever been in the position to coerce him.

“I’m glad.”

“You are?” Sherlock stared at him. He had hoped for acceptance and tolerance but he hadn’t expected this.

“Sure. He’ll take good care of you and rein you in so you’ll be safe and my blood pressure won’t go through the roof anymore because I have to fear for your life.”

“He’ll try at least. Thank you, Greg.” Lestrade had never given up on him either, he realised. He had also always been there for him. He had always been a true, loyal friend.

“It’s fine. And my lips are sealed.”

“They better be or they will be sewn up...”

Lestrade laughed out loud and got up from the uncomfortable seat. “Come, let’s go to the Yard. We can have some ghastly coffee and a dry sandwich together.”

“That sounds very tempting...”

“I know. But you need to eat so you have enough energy...”

“Nothing’s wrong with my energy. Or his...” Was he really talking to a policeman about his incestuous relationship? But it was fine. It was not just any policeman after all.

Greg chuckled and led the way to his car, and Sherlock followed him, happy and grateful for the true friends he had found. It was really Christmas this year...

Greg turned to him before he opened the door. “And your black eye?”

“Oh… Well…” Sherlock looked around to make sure nobody was close enough to hear him speak. “I was totally honest to you before. I had just given him a blowjob and was so keen on having it returned that I fell over his feet and landed on a table face first.”

Lestrade was still laughing when they drove off.


Hey, little brother. How’s your day? MH

Splendid. Was about to text you too. Guess who figured it out and reacted like the others? SH

Oh no. MH

Oh yes. Do I have great friends or what? SH

You do, obviously… Amazing… Guess who just called to tell me they want to see us for lunch tomorrow? MH

No! 😈 SH

Yes! I’ve taken care of the reservation in a nice, discreet restaurant, just you, me, Mummy and Father. MH

Couldn’t you say I’m in quarantine because of a deadly disease? SH

Wouldn’t have helped anyway… MH

No, probably not. We’ll really have to be convincing… SH

I agree. Well, just doing some urgent stuff and then I’ll be home. Coming over? MH

On my way already. Want to have you up my you-know-what. SH

No objections whatsoever. But you’ll be on top and do all the work. MH

Fine with me. Hurry up. SH

I will, my impatient little lover. MH

Nothing is little about me. SH

Apologies. MH

Accepted. I’ll get some sweets and a bottle of wine for them on my way to you. SH

Good idea, thank you. MH

I am the grown-up after all… What a nonsense this was. SH

Don’t mention it when we meet them, okay? MH

Okay. Not if they are nice to you. SH

I guess they will be. See you soon, brother mine. MH

I’m going to get prepared as soon as I’m in your house… SH

Oh, so urgent? MH

Very. So HURRY! SH

I do! And out. MH


Mycroft watched his lover moving above him, a piece of him buried deep inside him. And what a sight he was with his muscles of steel, his skin of silk, his cock bobbing up and down while he was bouncing on him and his seductive mouth standing open in arousal.

Mycroft's hands were placed firmly on Sherlock's slim hips, holding him in place while he was moving up and down, setting Mycroft's groin on fire more and more. It wouldn’t do to have him crash again; one black eye was enough. Mycroft winced whenever he looked at it; it looked painful and somehow threatening.

He should have seen it coming – Greg Lestrade demanding to know who was responsible for it. Sherlock had explained how he had slipped but Mycroft didn’t blame him at all. And they were very lucky that Lestrade had reacted like Sherlock's landlady and John and his fiancée. Honestly Mycroft was less surprised about him being supportive than he had been about John. Lestrade had always been the man he had counted on if it came to the safety of his brother. He had always been patient and tolerant with Sherlock's shenanigans. He had given him access to every crime scene Sherlock had wanted to see, occupied him with cases when his brain had been running wild out of boredom. He had always listened to what Sherlock had told him. Lestrade was and had always been a better friend that John had ever been. But of course Sherlock would prefer the adrenaline junkie Watson with his limitless admiration for him – at least that had been the way things had been in the beginning and Sherlock had fallen for the doctor thoroughly and infinitely.

“Stop thinking, Mycroft. I could come to the conclusion that I'm boring you!” Sherlock moved his arse extra wantonly and Mycroft grinned.

“Sorry, brother dear. And you're not boring me at all.” He let his hands slide up and down Sherlock's sensitive sides, and his brother hissed.

“Mycroft! I'm ticklish!”

“And you're a brat!” Mycroft straightened up, curled his right arm around Sherlock's waist and managed to manoeuvre him onto his back while still being inside of him.

“Oh,” Sherlock made, sounding and looking stunned about his strength.

Mycroft gave him a smug smile and started to thrust into him deep and hard. “Nasty little brother, complaining about my caresses.”

“Not complaining at all,” Sherlock protested and Mycroft shut him up with a passionate kiss.

He wished the next day was already over. Wasn't it horrible to be afraid of meeting one's own parents? Probably not if one had to hide having a sexual relationship with one's sibling… It wouldn’t be easy. But they had survived seeing them the year before and they would survive it again. But things had been a little different back then. They had been together and in love already but they had not been quite as close and especially Sherlock had not been quite as vulnerable. But they were big boys and could handle this. And with the support of nearly all of Sherlock's friends, they had found a basis of happiness and safety they hadn't even dared dream of so everything was fine.

And then Mycroft shook off these thoughts and concentrated on his task of fucking his brother into the stratosphere, increasing his thrusts, intensifying his kissing and nibbling and whispering dirty words, and when Sherlock climaxed with a cry that made his ears ring a few minutes later, he thought that he had obviously done this job quite well.

Chapter Text

“Sherlock… We need to get ready...”

Sherlock mumbled something incoherently and continued to nibble at his neck and it felt awfully good.

Mycroft stroked over his naked back. He would never get over how silky Sherlock's skin felt – and how deep the scars he had brought back from Serbia still were, the skin a bit darker but not paddy but sleeker than the uninjured parts. Touching them was a throwback at these dark time every time. How helpless he had been feeling when he’d been forced to watch Sherlock being beaten up. And Sherlock had even accused him of enjoying it… He really had not. But he had not dared end the manhandling because he had feared for Sherlock's life. It had been a desperate situation and he remembered how he had been trying to hide how deeply it affected him. Obviously he had hidden it quite well as Sherlock had never suspected anything.

But this was not the time to think back at times that would hopefully never come back but it was time to get dressed because in not even an hour, they would be having lunch with their parents. One Sunday he didn't have to go to the office if nothing unexpected and urgent happened and they had to see Mummy and Father… It really wasn’t fair and he did understand that Sherlock had cornered him as soon as he had come out of the bathroom and seemed to be very unwilling to let him go.

“We already fooled around before the shower,” he reminded his brother, trying to not get tempted to grab his impossibly alluring arse.

“Ancient history,” Sherlock mumbled. “Want more.”

“And you will get more – as soon as we’re back from lunch.”

Finally Sherlock pulled back and sighed. “Spoilsport. You could still call them and...”

“No. We’re not going to back out. An hour or two is all we have to endure.”

“But it will be a loooong hour...”

He was right of course. The relationship between the brothers and their parents had always been… difficult. Probably because they both had been rather difficult children, albeit in very different ways. Sherlock had been so curious and cheeky and endued with boundless energy – too much energy for the already rather old parents. And Mycroft? He had been extremely shy towards strangers, focused on himself and his brother, thinking all the time – and eating most of the time. And he wouldn’t even mention Eurus… Their parents had been burdened with three exceptionally challenging children and they had not done their job very well. They had concentrated on their own interests and left it to Mycroft to take care of his siblings and then, after Eurus had been brought away, of the depressed, increasingly closed up Sherlock who had changed so much after losing Victor. It had been Mycroft who had more or less forced his brother to do his homework, as boring as it might be. He had, mostly at night after long days at work, gone to drug dens to get his brother out and arrange rehab for him. It had been Mycroft who had tried to get his brother to eat and behave as normally as possible. It still had all been Mycroft's responsibility. He had willingly taken care of his brother of course as he had loved him but perhaps Sherlock would have needed seriously caring parents as well, at least when he had been very young and especially after Victor’s death and certainly when he had succumbed to hard drugs with only fifteen years.

They had tried to make it up to them when they had both been living in London, far away from them. All at once they had demanded them to have time when they visited. They had been kind and almost intrusive, demanding grandchildren from him for God’s sake. They had not even got that their sons were both gay. No matter that they had tried to be ‘real’ parents all at once – they didn’t know them at all. They were too smart to not know that themselves so they had tried to cover their estrangement from their sons with extra attention that had never found favour with either of the Holmes brothers but Mycroft had done his best to make them feel welcome if he couldn’t avoid meeting them. He hadn’t resented them for the mistakes they had made during his childhood but he had never found any genuine affection for them in himself, and neither had Sherlock, who had probably never even tried. They had found some sort of truce with their parents though.

And then he’d had to tell them about Eurus and their fragile, superficial bond had crashed down. Harsh words had been said and he had been hurt. But Sherlock had taken his side and that had meant more to him than he had been able to say at this point. And eventually Mummy had reached out to him, quite literally, when they had all visited Eurus, and they had tried their best to forgive him for the lies that had not even been his choice.

But Eurus had stayed unapproachable; Sherlock had stopped visiting her, and Mycroft had never gone there again after this first time, and Violet and Siger Holmes had had to realise that their youngest child remained a lost cause. They had gone to Sherrinford alone and tried to get through to their daughter but Eurus hadn’t shown the slightest interest in them. Mycroft had watched them from his office via live feed and it had been painful to see how Mummy especially despaired at her daughter’s indifferent coldness.

And so the Holmes family had given up on Eurus altogether and the resentments towards him had crept up on them again. It was completely unfair as Mycroft might have been responsible for Eurus' plans with Sherlock as he had allowed her the conversation with Moriarty, but it had not been his fault that she was so thoroughly messed up. She had been born that way and nothing would have changed the fact that she was dangerous and had to be locked away. Not even the Holmes parents could expect her to be free again so Mycroft wasn’t quite sure why they blamed him so much. Even if he hadn't lied to them about her fate – they would have never had anything with her that resembled a normal parents-child-relationship. And they knew that and still they had not truly forgiven him.

He and Sherlock had visited them last Christmas and Mummy had done her best to bring lightness and joy to the festival but not even Mycroft had felt like it was really Christmas and Sherlock had been his brattish best as he hadn’t wanted to drive up to their childhood home in the first place. It was no wonder the elder Holmeses refrained from spending Christmas with them again this year.

He had closed the rift that had opened up between his beloved brother and him long ago but he guessed the one between them and their parents would never close. And he felt bad about not even feeling very troubled by this… He would have loved to stay at home with Sherlock and spend the rare free day with making out with him and just doing what they both loved but they would only have to endure this lunch before they could be on their own again. He felt he owed his parents at least this much. He didn’t want them to feel bad and guilty about going away and having a good time without their children over Christmas, no matter how they were thinking about him. Perhaps he was just getting weak…

Now he grabbed Sherlock's shoulders and sternly shoved him away. “This feels very nice and you can eat me up this afternoon, I promise, but now we’ll have to get dressed and then we’ll behave perfectly well with our parents, all right?”

Sherlock pouted. “As if you were keen on meeting them!”

“I am not, I admit it, but we are adults and adults have to do things they don’t want to do sometimes.” He sounded condescending to his own ears and wasn’t surprised to get a well-deserved eye-roll he wasn’t seeing from Sherlock that often these days.

“Do tell...”


“Okay, okay. You can spank me later for being a brat...”

But Mycroft knew he wouldn’t do that. He understood his brother too well for blaming him… He kissed his cheek. “No. We’ll try to survive this lunch and then we’ll just be very nice to each other, what do you think?”

“I think that’s a good idea. Love you, Mycroft.”

Mycroft smiled and grabbed for his shirt. “Love you, too, little brother, and that will help us getting through this inconvenience, hm?”

Sherlock nodded, not looking totally convinced. “Yeah. I guess so. I’ll do my best.”

“I can’t demand anything else. And the food is very good in this restaurant.”

“Sounds good. Can I get pissed?”

Mycroft smiled again. “No.”

“Knew you would say this...” Sherlock had put on his shirt as well and closed the buttons with deft fingers. “Off to battle then.”

“Don’t forget your trousers, brother dear.” He grinned when Sherlock laughed and just had to kiss him again, his incorrigible, irresistible little brother.

When they were ready, he retrieved the bag with the presents Sherlock had got for their parents and they left, and they were discreetly holding hands in the cab and Mycroft knew this wouldn’t be easy.


“This is a nice place. You've chosen well, Myc.”

Sherlock could see his brother wince at the nickname despite the kind tone. Strange… He had often enough complained about being called by a short form of his weird name and Mummy had never paid any attention to it. But was that so strange? Had their parents really ever paid attention to the true personalities of either of them? Fine, it might not be entirely fair as they were certainly not the most open persons. But even when Mycroft voiced his feelings, she didn't listen…

They looked old, Sherlock realised. Ancient. In the pale light of the French restaurant – Mycroft had asked for a very quiet table – Mummy's skin looked loose and sick, and there were deep lines around Father's mouth that he had never noticed before, and his shoulders seemed to have become smaller. They were old of course but all at once every year showed in their faces and postures.

Mummy had asked about his black eye of course but had been content with a vague story about a case that had made him struggle while chasing a criminal.

“Order whatever you like,” Mycroft said. “Would you like some wine?”

Mummy shook her head. “No, dear. We have so many plans for this afternoon; we need a clear head.”

Father looked as if he had preferred a few glasses of wine over running from one museum to the other one but he didn’t say anything. He had always done what his wife wanted. And if she wanted to yell at Mycroft for something that had not even been his choice but Uncle Rudy's, he all at once got all snarky, too, Sherlock thought grimly.

He felt a foot nudging against his ankle and looked to the side, seeing Mycroft giving him an encouraging little smile. “Water for all of us then,” he rumbled. “I bet Mycroft still has to work this afternoon.” He didn’t, thank God, but if they had been as estranged as they wanted their parents to believe, he wouldn't have known that.

“Oh, really?” Mummy turned to her elder son. “On Sundays?”

“Well, sometimes it is inevitable.”

“You should really start doing something else than working all the time. You don't get younger. You'll never find someone to love if you just work all the time.”

Sherlock winced and he could feel the muscles in his cheek twitch. This time the nudging was almost a kick. He ripped his phone out of his pocket just to have something to do. He wasn’t a fool. They had been very lucky with the people who had got to know about their relationship, even a lawyer and a policeman accepted them, but this would not happen with their old parents. Mummy would suffer a stroke if she knew they had sex with each other and Father would follow her at once. Not that he would have terribly minded right now… But Mycroft wouldn’t approve of that so he had to restrain himself and not shout into their faces that Mycroft very well had someone to love!

“And you, can't you put this thing away for an hour? What is so important that you always have to hack on this nasty phone?”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “I'm a detective, Mummy. People give me cases. And some of them call or text me if they need my help.”

“And your sister? She also needed your help but you never see her anymore!”

Sherlock gasped. “Well, when have you visited her the last time?” Where had this come from all at once? They really wanted to discuss their murderous sister/daughter at a table in a posh restaurant a few days before sodding Christmas?

Mummy's cheeks reddened. “That's not quite the same. She was always obsessed with you. You could change her for the better…”

“No, I really couldn't. She killed a bunch of people because she wanted to play with me but she lost and now she's like a robot without energy.”

“She's still your sister!”

“Yes, and Mycroft is still your son and you still haven't forgiven him that Uncle Rudy told you she died! Does that make any sense to you? Because it sure as hell makes none to me.” He bit his lip but there had been no way to not throw this truth into her face.

Silence dragged out for a long minute. Sherlock had shot his brother a glance and seen that he was looking onto his hands on his lap, his face a mask of self-control that couldn’t fool him. But Mycroft wasn’t mad at him for saying this. He was hurt that he had still not been forgiven and it was so hard to not reach out and touch him.

The waiter came to take their order and everybody just took something small and relatively cheap (and Sherlock hoped he would not find any frog pieces in his food, otherwise he would certainly barf onto the table…). Mycroft had managed to get his shields in place again and Sherlock died for kissing the tension out of him.

Father cleared his throat when they were on their own again. “We know Rudy started with these lies and Mycroft only did what he thought he had to.” He managed to make this sound condescending – as if Mycroft had thought that but had been stupid to do so.

Sherlock felt his pulse increasing a little more.

Mummy nodded and if that was possible, she was now looking even older than in the beginning. “Yes. Sorry if we made you feel like this, Myc.”

“His name is Mycroft. You chose our horrible names and he hates it if you cut it off! Don't you know him at all?!” Sherlock couldn’t help but bursting out. Dammit. If this went on, he would say something he really would regret...

And then Mummy started to sob and Father gave Sherlock a stern look before patting her shoulder rather clumsily. Sherlock thought that he couldn’t imagine for the life of him how they had ever had sex with each other, but obviously they had done it at least three times and the thought almost made him barf anyway, frogs or not…

“It's fine, Mummy, it's no big deal,” Mycroft tried to soothe her but he reached for Sherlock's hand under the table and pressed it.

And Sherlock returned the pressure, very happy that Mycroft didn’t resent him for his interference, but he thought that if he never had to sit at the same table as his parents again, he would call himself lucky. He didn’t know these people and they didn’t know him, let alone Mycroft. And Mycroft was still caught in his role of the reasonable and forgiving older son (and what a bad joke it really had been when Mummy had called him, Sherlock, the grown-up!).

Mummy got up and excused herself, almost running to the bathroom, and Father turned to Sherlock. “You were really rude to her, son. I know you have no patience with people but she's still your mother.”

And in his mind's eye Sherlock saw his childhood flying by and he saw who had always been there when he had fallen and hurt himself, when he had been bullied and mocked, when he had been in trouble, saw who had taught him to ride a bicycle and had simply always been there – and it had neither been his mother nor his father but the brother whose love he had rejected for a long time and cherished all the more now.

But he knew it made no sense to speak it out. Father wasn't senile – he knew it, and so did Mummy. They knew they hadn’t been there for either of them. Saying this wouldn’t change a thing. So when his mother came back, he said in a completely flat tone, “I'm sorry, Mummy.”

And the old woman shook her head. “No, dear. You were right. Sorry, Mycroft. Sorry for a lot of things…”

And Mycroft smiled and Sherlock knew it meant a lot to him. “It's fine, Mummy. Everything’s fine.”

No more word was said about it, no basis for a better understanding was set as it was way too late for that and none of them would have known how, but they ate together and talked about relatives and line-dancing – well, Mummy talked, Sherlock put her on half-mute and made a noise here and there and Mycroft answered her – and presents were exchanged before they left the restaurant (chocolates for Mummy and wine for Father and envelopes with Christmas cards that certainly contained money for the brothers) and Sherlock allowed his mother to embrace him and watched her hugging Mycroft, too, and then they put them into a cab and watched it driving off.

“Let's go home, brother mine,” Sherlock said then, his hand briefly touching Mycroft's. “I need you now.”

Mycroft gave him a look that was heavy with gratitude and affection. “Likewise, darling.”

And he had never said this to him and Sherlock suddenly had to blink away tears that did not come from the cold wind.


They had hardly closed the door behind them when their mouths met in a crashing kiss. They had been quiet during the cab-ride home – home meaning Mycroft's house. Sherlock could feel that his brother was shaken by the meeting, no matter that it had ended in a conciliatory way. They both knew their parents had still not understood and would never understand them or Mycroft's reasons for withholding the truth about Eurus from them. They would always think they were strange and alone and they would never ever accept that they had found together as lovers. It shouldn’t matter but of course it did, to Mycroft a lot more than to him. Mycroft had spent seven years of his life alone with them; they hadn’t neglected him, not in any criminal way, but they had never got what a special boy they had. Sherlock had been born into Mycroft's caring and affection so it had not affected him nearly as much. But he suffered because his brother was hurt and he knew he couldn’t erase these feelings but he had to try to make him feel better. Much better.

If he had been an even stronger man, he would have carried Mycroft upstairs. But since Mycroft was taller and still a bit heavier than him, he stuck to guiding him up the stairs while they were still kissing. They kissed their way up to Mycroft's bedroom and Sherlock started undressing him at once before he took care of his own clothes. He didn’t bother with folding them, instead letting them lie where they fell.

Still plundering Mycroft's mouth, he reached out for the lube and opened his brother up with two long fingers while their lips remained locked. He just pulled away long enough to arrange his brother on the bed, his long legs draped over his shoulders, and entered him slowly but steadily until he was fully seated. Being content that Mycroft was not in any physical pain, he claimed his mouth once more and kissed him in the rhythm of his deep strokes, folding him almost in two. It was a highly intimate position, not looking comfortable for Mycroft but Sherlock knew how flexible he was, and he knew his reactions – he could see he was all right. Mycroft's large hands were rubbing his back frantically, urging him to go deeper, to thrust harder, and Sherlock obeyed, knowing it wouldn’t last long but being content with it. He was hammering home, quite literally, what he wanted his brother to never forget – Sherlock was his, he loved him and nothing else counted. Their parents would be gone in a few years and Mycroft would mourn them but Sherlock would still be there. He would always be there. It didn’t matter what the old people were thinking of his decisions or even him as a person – Sherlock knew him, knew him well, and accepted him in every way. Mycroft was great as he was and anybody who didn’t get that could kiss Sherlock's arse.

He was reassuring Mycroft of his love with his passionate love-making but it also opened his own soul. He had known he loved his brother like mad but it was as if only now he was realising the true depths of his feelings for him. The past weeks had brought them closer together and this day had made him see how close exactly.

And when he came, flooding Mycroft's clenching passage with his seed, he mumbled “I love you” over and over again and Mycroft's eyes were wet when he climaxed between their bodies, his hands holding Sherlock's face, and he whispered the words like an echo, and when Sherlock collapsed on him, he held him so close Sherlock could barely breathe and Sherlock knew he had got the message – it was them against the rest of the world, now and forever. They could rely on the acceptance of their friends but most of all they could rely on each other, and nothing would change this.

Chapter Text

“Who have we got here? Sherlock bloody Holmes.”

Very slowly Sherlock turned around, trying to not just run off. He was confronted with huge dark eyes and a wide smile. “Hello… Long time no see...”

“You can say that again. What happened to your eye? Having lied to another poor girl?”

Sherlock grimaced but he didn’t answer because something had caught his attention.

That brought him a grin. “Noticing anything?” The dark-haired woman winked at him. It was impossible to miss. Sherlock blushed and Janine laughed. “I see you did notice. Sixth month. A girl, they say. Shame… If it had been a boy, I would have named him Sherlock.”

A memory that felt as it was a hundred years old wafted through Sherlock's mind. ‘Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.’ He shook it off. “Congratulations, I guess.” Was he really standing in the middle of London, talking to the woman to whom he had pretended to propose to get to an enemy, talking about her unborn child?

“You guess?” Janine laughed again. “Come. Let’s have a cup of coffee and a huge piece of cake. We are hungry.”

“Um, I need to...”

“No way. I'm here for only a day, doing Christmas shopping, and this is fate.” She winked at him and grabbed his arm. “This café at the corner looks great, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock gave in. He didn't really have to be anywhere right now. Mycroft was at work and wouldn’t be home for another two hours, and he had already in his pocket what he would need to entertain his brother this evening. And he would flee as soon as possible anyway. “Okay.”

“Ah, don’t look so anxious! Do I look as if I was still pissed off about your lies?”

“No. Not really.” She had never really done, had she? But still – he felt very uncomfortable in her presence, certainly more than the last time he had seen her; when he had been in hospital and she had confronted him with the truth – that he had done nothing but using her. He had been half asleep then but he was fully awake now.

“Because I’m not. And now come before I get so hungry that I bite in your tasty throat. Ah, no running off!”


“Our wedding picture. Isn’t he gorgeous?”

It might not have been exactly the word Sherlock would have used to describe Janine’s husband. He was a scrawny blond guy with thin hair and a completely boring face. “Stunning,” he said, and she slapped his arm, laughing.

“Oh, you! Look at this!” She showed him her hand with a ring Sherlock had already noticed. A huge diamond, no glass.

“Being rich tops being sexy, huh?”

She laughed even louder. “Oh God. I told you,” she said then, serious, “we could have been friends.” She scratched the rest of her cake from her plate and licked off the fork. Sherlock had stuck to tea, which had been served with a small biscuit he had nibbled at.

Sherlock shrugged. “If I hadn’t been a back-stabbing, heartless, manipulative bastard.”

She grinned. “Should I feel flattered that you remember?”

“Not really. I just don’t forget anything.”

She poked her tongue out at him. “I have to thank you. Would have never met him without you. His cottage was right next to mine.”

“So it’s all good. Rich husband, child on the way, got much money out of me with all those stories you sold...” They had all been lies of course but he could live with that. For a moment he shuddered when he thought how much she would have got with the real story of him and Mycroft…

“Wouldn’t do that again today,” she said, playing with her fork absent-mindedly. “I was so… I felt like shit.”

Sherlock swallowed. “I… I didn’t mean to...”

Janine patted his hand. “I know. You don’t feel or think like we people with hearts do.” She shook her head. “I still can’t believe how stupid I was to not get it. You never even kissed me! You only endured me kissing you!”

Sherlock did recall these kisses. He had hated them. But at this point, he had been obsessed with saving Mary from Magnussen. It seemed like so long ago, so unreal. Like a bad dream… “It had nothing to do with you,” he mumbled and blushed when she laughed.

“Ah, you don’t even know how clichéd this sentence is, do you? No. I know it didn’t. And I was an idiot. You’re gay, right?”

He saw no sense in denying this. “I am.”

“Damn… You should have just told me! We were so good. It would have been even nicer if I had known that, but yeah, I was too crazy for you to see what was right before my eyes. Of course you’re gay.” She shook her head. “I told you everything about me. About my brother and my childhood. And you just told me lies...”

Sherlock had just said he remembered everything but he had deleted every bit of information she had given him. His face must have given that away as she stared at him, her eyes sparkling.

“You never really listened, did you?”

“Well, I did but I… I'm sorry,” he settled for. “It was a mistake to use you like this.”

“It was. And then you killed my former boss, didn’t you?”

Sherlock froze. This was not exactly common knowledge.

She shook her head. “I didn’t really know that until right now.”

Damn… He should really be able to control his reactions better than that. “I can’t talk about that.”

“Well, I don’t miss him. He was an arsehole. You did the world a favour. Hello, can I have another piece of this awesome cake? Thank you!” Her large eyes focused on him again. “You’ve changed. You have someone.” Sherlock pressed his lips together and she shook her head about him again. “It can’t be John because I talked to him a few weeks ago and he will get married again. Damn… Mary… What a way to die… But she used me like you did...” That was probably true. Mary had tried to get to Magnussen through Janine, just like Sherlock had. “I could have got hung up about that, you know? Everybody just uses me.” She smiled when she said it but he knew it had a true core.

“And still you complained that I didn’t have sex with you,” Sherlock mumbled. “That would have been really using you.”

“I was joking, Sherlock. Then and now. You’re right. That would have been a lot worse. Of course you’d have never done that anyway – wrong anatomy! But now you do have sex. I can see that.”

Sherlock reached up to his neck, stupidly thinking Mycroft could have left a mark he had miraculously missed so far.

Janine grinned. “No, he didn’t leave any bite marks on you but women can see it nonetheless. Is he nice? It wasn’t him who gave you the black eye, was it?”

Sherlock would never tell her about Mycroft. But there was no harm in answering, “No, he didn’t. Was an accident. And he’s very nice.” To me at least…

“You got a picture as well?”

Of course he did. He still hadn’t made one of the two of them, he realised. He would do that on Christmas Day, Sherlock decided. “No.”

“Liar. But that’s what you are, right?”

“You know – perhaps you should just slap me in the face or punch me on the other eye, or hell, on the black one. Maybe that will cure you from resenting me for something I did years ago.” He knew it wasn’t entirely fair but she’d had her revenge already, hadn’t she? And she had made a big profit from the whole affair without a doubt...

Janine pointed her forefinger at him. “Oho, you are cheeky! No. I’m not hitting you. And you don’t have to tell me. You’re a man full of secrets. Guess that was why I was so drawn to you. And your great cheekbones. Your eyes. And your arse I was never allowed to touch. Damn… I was so silly!”

Sherlock had been surprised back then that she really believed he was in love with her, even believed his proposal was real even though he had never done anything physical with her but allowing her to kiss him, his lips pressed together every single time. “You saw what you wanted to see.”

“Yeah. But now you do kiss, right? Not me, obviously, but him?”

Sherlock involuntarily licked his lips. “Yes.”

“Oh, I wish I was a man...”

“If that’s any comfort – you wouldn’t have stood a chance then either.”

She laughed out loud. “Oh, you always say the sweetest things, Sherlock Holmes! But it was nice to see you. And it’s great to know you’re happy, too. I am. It’s not just for the money, you know?”

Sherlock nodded. “I’m glad to hear that. And I hope you and your family will be forever happy.”

“Aw, that was cute!” She beamed at him. “I wish you the same, man of my dreams. Whoever he is, he is very lucky.”

“I like to believe so.” And Sherlock got up to pay the bill so he would be at home and ready when the man of his dreams returned from work.

Before they parted, she kissed his cheek and said, “Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes.”

And he clumsily patted her back and replied, “Merry Christmas, Janine. May it be as peaceful and pleasant as you deserve.”

Neither of them suggested to stay in touch and they parted as the friends they had never been and would never be.

Sherlock walked down the street on this rather cold winter day, snuggling into his coat, soon raising his hand to stop a cab that would bring him to his Mycroft.


“So you had tea with an old flame?” Mycroft saw his brother wince.

“She was not. It was just for a case.”

Mycroft had successfully repressed the memory of this particular episode of the whole Magnussen debacle. There had been enough to cope with anyway – being pushed against the wall by his drugged brother, getting sedated by him for the sake of betraying the country with the help of his own laptop and last but certainly not least watching Sherlock cold-bloodedly killing the man for John and his wife. A small detail like Sherlock pretending to be in love with Magnussen’s PA could easily be forgotten in the go. Only that of course it was eating on him now that he had been reminded of it. He had been horrified when he had read her stories about Sherlock in the newspapers back then, seeing the pictures of this attractive, voluptuous woman. Ironically enough, it had been John Watson who had told him, without any idea about his feelings for Sherlock, that Sherlock had just used her to get access to the media man’s office, which had soothed him quite a bit. But now that he and Sherlock were an item, the thought of his brother making out with this woman left a very bitter taste in his mouth, despite the tasty sandwiches Sherlock had prepared for them.

Sherlock was watching him with unhappy eyes, clearly thinking he shouldn’t have told Mycroft about having met her.

Mycroft gave him a smile that he hoped looked genuine. “I’m glad you told me. And she doesn’t mean anything to you after all.” As silly as it was – he couldn’t quite keep a questioning tone out of his voice.

“Of course she doesn’t! She was nothing but a means to an end. And she insisted on having tea with me.”

Women and Sherlock… Mycroft would never understand these dynamics. If it was Molly Hooper, Mary Watson, Irene Adler, Eurus or this Janine – Sherlock could never really escape their various needs. He always thought he owed them something. The only one Mycroft didn’t mind was Mrs Hudson, naturally. She had probably always been more of a mother to him than their actual mother… He could accept another mother for Sherlock easily. But he couldn’t accept a rival. Only that none of them was or ever had been. But they’d all had some sort of impact on his brother and it made him feel stupidly jealous.

Mycroft took Sherlock's hand. “It’s no problem, little brother.” Sherlock nodded but he didn’t look exactly happy. And he didn’t seem to sit overly comfortably, Mycroft just realised. “Is everything all right?” Sherlock gave him a questioning look. “You’re not in pain?”

“Oh, that.” Sherlock smiled and his mood seemed to lighten up, causing Mycroft's to do the same. “No, I’m not. But maybe you will like to find out what it is about.”

This cryptical sentence left Mycroft rather clueless but he figured at once it was something nice. Something sexual. “I do think I will, darling,” he said, using the endearment to tell Sherlock that he didn’t resent him for meeting up with someone from a rather nasty past and to see this beautiful smile again – and perhaps to assure him and himself that this was what Sherlock was: his darling. His darling.

Sherlock bent forward to peck him on the lips. “Then let’s eat up so you can have a look.”

“I think I will have much more than a look...” Yesterday he had been eager to be possessed by Sherlock. Today he was eager to possess him. And he was sure Sherlock would approve.


“Dear God, Sherlock! Where did you even get this from?!”

Sherlock was very happy to see Mycroft's delight and to have been able to surprise him in a pleasant way – after hurting him before by telling him about his unplanned meeting with someone his brother certainly would have preferred to never hear about again. But not telling him had not been an option either. Sherlock didn’t want to keep such secrets from his man and after Bobbie had seen him with the cake, he wouldn’t have been surprised if he had been recognised and a picture of him and Janine would appear online. He had not noticed anyone taking pictures of him; since John’s blog had ceased to be updated and the media had stopped being interested in him solving cases, he hardly ever noticed being recognised anymore, which was very much to his liking. He had never done it for the fame in the first place.

But still… It could have happened and he had not wanted to risk it. And what made him feel bad now more than anything was that he had not even expected his brother being hurt by the thought that Sherlock had spent about half an hour with someone who meant nothing to him. He should have known it. He should have been more sensitive. But he was making up for it now. He would love the doubt out of his brother, a doubt so unjustified that it was laughable really, but he had not felt like laughing and neither had Mycroft. But to see the delighted twinkle in Mycroft's eyes now felt like balm on his soul, and he hoped very much it was the same for his brother.

“I didn’t get him at all,” he said now. “I must have swallowed him down and now he’s trying to crawl out.”

Mycroft chuckled and poked at Father Christmas. “I can see that. The poor sod.”

“I don’t know what you mean – living in my arse is a privilege!”

“Of course it is. I’d move in anytime.”

“Oh, I’d love that. You’d always have it warm and cosy. And you could lick my prostate from within or pound against it with your tiny fists.”

“You are crazy, you know that?” Mycroft sounded decidedly fond.

And Sherlock was very happy he had ordered this plug weeks ago and had already stored it in his coat pocket in the morning – a red piece of silicone with a very special base: a small Father Christmas figure from the waist up, with big black eyes, tiny arms and, of course, a white beard, indeed looking as if he wanted to escape out of Sherlock's hole.

Sherlock groaned when Mycroft gently rocked the plug, making his insides tingle. “Do that again?”

Mycroft did him the favour and then kissed his shoulder. “How did you even manage to sit with this?”

Sherlock grinned. “You saw I wasn’t sitting very comfortably. But it was for a greater purpose.” He urged Mycroft to come closer so he could pull him in for a tight hug. “I love you, big brother. Only you. Now. Tomorrow. In thirty years.”

Mycroft kissed his nose. “You’re so sure about that?”

Sherlock swallowed. “You’re not?”

“Of course I am. There has never been anyone else but you.”

“Good. And I'm not going to let you go again. And now fuck me, brother.”

“Language, Sherlock.”

“Dear brother, please take out Father Christmas and replace him with your delicious cock.”

“Better, love. Much better.”

And very soon he was thrusting into Sherlock, shallowly at first and then deeper and harder and more demanding, and Sherlock's legs were slung around his waist and he was clinging to him, holding on to him and he really hoped Mycroft would never for a second doubt again that for him nobody else counted and that this was forever because Sherlock would never let him go.

Chapter Text

Sherlock was trying to listen to the tirade of the female client with the impeccable dressing and the strict hairdo in front of him, a tirade about an allegedly dangerous neighbour who had something to hide and probably was a terrorist, her rant accentuated by hectic gesturing. The husband, a grey little man, was sitting next to her, smiling sheepishly. The poor man – probably he was used to being talked into oblivion… Sherlock could tell the neighbour in question was cooking meth in his house – certainly a criminal activity but none he wished to interfere in. And he was very sure she had accused people of being criminals before – people who had done nothing wrong. If she was not entirely wrong in this case or not – Sherlock didn't exactly like denouncers.

He grabbed for his phone when it signalised a text, grateful for the distraction. She had not even allowed him to say a single word so far and he had felt too bored to shout her down.

A meeting was cancelled and I have two hours to pass. I could head over to BS if you like? MH

Sherlock grinned at the display, his mood lightening up big time at the prospect of seeing his man during the day (which of course didn’t mean they wouldn’t also be together in the evening). Surely his brother would have been easily able to fill these hours with some other work then but instead he wanted to spend them with him.

Yes! Please do come! I'm free like a bird. SH

Excellent. I did have fantasies about your bed. MH

Then today is the day to fulfil them. SH

“Excuse me!”

Sherlock looked up and sighed. Apparently he was allowed and even expected to speak now. He would do her the favour. “You know, this is not a case for me. You need someone who likes to sniff around and rummage through your neighbour's rubbish.” He would inform Lestrade, who could pass on the information to the drugs department. But he wouldn’t waste a single minute longer with this non-case. Instead he would have a thorough shower so he would be squeaky clean for his lover.

The client got up, her face a mask of self-righteous embarrassment. “Come Carl. If we are not good enough for this so-called detective...”

The man gave him an apologetic look but Sherlock just grinned. He didn’t care about what people thought of him. He’d never had. He did care about the opinion of the few people who counted, and number one was Mycroft, obviously. And he didn’t need money so desperately that he had to take every boring case. And frankly he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of being not entirely wrong for a change even though the man wasn’t exactly a terrorist but a miscreant of another sort.

When he had finally got rid of them, he hurried to prepare himself for some brotherly action.


Mycroft had just entered the house and was about to climb the stairs to 221B when Mrs Hudson’s door opened up and the old lady stepped out with a tray, containing a teapot, two cups and a package with biscuits.

“Oh, Mr Holmes,” she said. “I didn’t know Sherlock was awaiting you. Perhaps you could take this upstairs then? I’m sure you could do with a cup of tea.” She stepped forward and offered him the tray.

Mycroft had come to fool around with Sherlock in his own flat for a change but he smiled when he took it from her. “Why don’t you bring another cup and join us, Mrs Hudson?”

“Oh, I don’t want to disturb.”

Thinking of their mother, he shook his head. “You’re not disturbing us at all.” He wasn’t sure if Sherlock would agree right now but she had apparently searched for some company and she knew about them after all so they wouldn’t have to play a charade in front of her. In fact she would be the first person to see them together, knowing they were lovers.

“If you’re sure. But if Sherlock minds, I’ll leave you alone at once and I won’t stay for long anyway. I’m sure you have… plans.” She winked at him and Mycroft blushed furiously. She giggled before chirping, “I’ll be right back with my cup” and disappearing back into her flat.

Mycroft wondered if it was really such a good idea but he thought they would cope and went upstairs.

Sherlock was standing in the door, staring at the tray. “She’ll join us,” he said, his tone containing amusement and disappointment in equal measures. At least he had dressed after his shower; his hair was still damp and so was his purple shirt.

“Just for a short time,” Mycroft soothed him. “I’m sure she doesn’t see a lot of you anyway.”

Sherlock smiled. “Never thought you’d be so soft towards her.”

“Well, since she accepts us, I can hardly be mean to her.” Mycroft put the tray onto the living room table and turned to kiss Sherlock.

His brother kissed him back eagerly and they both winced and broke apart when they heard a happy sigh from the door. Mycroft was sure Sherlock had forgotten about Mrs Hudson every bit as much as he had as soon as their lips had met. Was it even healthy to love and desire someone so much? Well, he didn’t care.

“Look at you. So cute and happy!”

“I will inform you that we are not cute!” Sherlock hissed but his eyes were sparkling.

“I’m most certainly not but you are, Mr Curls-And-Cheekbones-And-Pouty-Lips,” Mycroft teased him and received an unconvincing glare.

“You are a wonderful couple,” Mrs Hudson stated and proceeded to provide everybody with tea. “Do sit down and don’t sulk, Sherlock. I will leave you alone after this one cup.”

“You could as well watch,” Sherlock mumbled and Mycroft gasped while Mrs Hudson almost died laughing.

“Don’t give her such ideas!” the older man admonished the detective, but he was grinning. It was just nice – not having to hide it from her and being allowed to be so open about their feelings and desires. And what a difference to dealing with their own parents… He had been glad before he and Sherlock had become a couple that the old lady was taking care of his brother so well. But now he realised he seriously liked her, and when she looked at him while handing over a plate with biscuits, he could see that the days of ‘Get out of my house, you reptile’ were over for good.


“It’s still strange to be in this room,” Mycroft said pensively when he sat down on Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock, finished with locking the door, just in case, turned to him. “Why ever? I just sleep in here. There are no mysteries.”

“Yes. Still… It’s like a symbol for a part of your life I’ve never had a part in.” Mycroft gave him a wry smile. “I don’t make much sense, do I?”

But of course Sherlock knew what he meant. Sherlock the detective, Sherlock the man who had shared a flat with someone who had loved to provoke Mycroft even more than he had, Sherlock being on his own, doing stuff which importance had never become accessible to Mycroft – of course he had to feel excluded here. It was Sherlock’s most private realm that he had hardly ever entered and it was finally time to change that. Mycroft had opened his house for him and Sherlock felt at home there at least as much as in 221B and he wanted Mycroft to feel equally at home and welcome here.

It was safe to get tactile here now. Mrs Hudson knew his brother was here and wouldn’t let anyone go upstairs, and if John, who had a key, decided to come, well, he knew about them, too, and they wouldn’t leave the locked and safe bedroom anyway. And perhaps everything Mycroft was searching for now was some cuddling, which would be fine with Sherlock, too.

“Come, brother mine,” he said softly. “Nothing to fear in this room. It’s just me and you and it doesn’t matter where we are. This is your home as well as mine if you want to, just as I feel at home in your house.”

Mycroft smiled at him. “I wish you could move in with me.”

Sherlock wished that, too. And perhaps he could even do that. Why ever not? Apart from Molly and of course their parents, everybody he was more or less close to knew about them. They could find a logical explanation for it and Mycroft's house was huge after all. And Sherlock was spending every evening there anyway. “That can be arranged. I could still keep the flat to meet clients here, or I could rent an office somewhere.”

“You would really do that? Move in with me and give up your own realm?”

Sherlock shook his head. “You’re really surprised about that? I should ask if you are really willing to share your house with someone as messy as I am, doing experiments and shedding my stuff everywhere. What will you do if you find a human head in your fridge?”

“Not cook it for dinner,” Mycroft said dryly and Sherlock laughed. “I don’t mind, really. I’d like that.”

“Well, then we’ll do it. Not before Christmas though.” They were busy with spoiling each other now after all.

“Just so?”

Sherlock closed the distance between them and slung his arms around his neck, wondering why he had never suggested this. He had even more or less got used to getting up early these days. He would love to wake up next to his brother every morning, not having to go somewhere unless it was necessary for a case. “Not just so. Because I love you and want to be with you.” And fuck everybody who would shake his head about it. He would just occupy a part of Mycroft's house, pretending to sleep in an extra room, not that anybody ever came there anyway.

“I love you, little brother.”

Sherlock kissed his dimpled chin. “I should hope so. We still have an hour. Care to undress?”

“Very much so.”


When Mycroft's arms closed around his now gloriously naked little brother, he wondered why he had been so stunned that Sherlock had agreed on moving into his house without any visible hesitation. He already spent most nights with him there and during the day, they were both occupied otherwise. But still he was surprised that Sherlock was so easily willing to give up his… independency? As if he would ever depend on him, not in any economical way. His freedom? They already were in an exclusive, committed relationship. It was no big deal, actually, and still it felt so special and had to feel special to Sherlock, too. Still he needed a space where he could meet clients even though he didn’t have so many private clients anymore since the tabloids had mostly forgotten about him and John's blog was not getting updated anymore. Perhaps they could come to an agreement with Mrs Hudson, who lived all alone in a rather big flat. Perhaps they could rent one room from her for this purpose; it wouldn’t be needed very often anyway. For his work for the Yard Sherlock didn’t need any kind of office. And Mycroft would gladly allow him to do his experiments in his house, as long as he didn’t blow it up. But he assumed Sherlock wasn't that keen on doing any dangerous stuff anymore anyway. He had got older and calmer. He didn’t appear to get bored so quickly these days. Their sex life was powering him out quite a bit, too. Probably they wouldn't go on having sex every day after Christmas for much longer; it was very nice but they might need some rest eventually before they would really be all chafed up and sore. But there was so much Sherlock could do. And when they would sleep next to each other and wake up in each other's arms every night and day, Mycroft would consider himself the luckiest man in the world.

Sherlock's gorgeous eyes met his ones. “I can't wait to live with you. You didn’t ask before because you thought I'd decline?”

Mycroft smiled and kissed his temple. “It didn’t even occur to me that you could want it, actually. You are still Sherlock Holmes who doesn’t need anyone.”

“I definitely need you, Mycroft! And I did make you some scenes lately…”

“No, you didn’t. It was just coping with reality. Which has changed quite a bit.” There had been so many unexpected developments lately. So many people had figured out the truth about them and all of them had been so supportive. Still it seemed like a brave step to move in with each other. But they would just say Sherlock and he had grown closer and Mycroft had so much space in his house that it would be stupid to go on living there all alone while Sherlock, who had less clients now, was struggling to pay the rent alone now that John would certainly never move back in with him. It would be fine. And Magnussen had shown that despite them having been estranged for so long, an enemy could find out that Sherlock was his weak spot anyway. And of course they would not make a big deal about moving in with each other. It would appear to be out of necessity and brotherly support. He mentioned his suggestion to Sherlock, who did not in least look appalled that it might appear that he moved in with his older brother because he couldn’t entertain himself.

Instead he smiled and nodded. “Yes, I just thought the same. And I'll say that you're the perfect housewife and I have to do even less than before.”

Mycroft laughed. “We will have to discuss this, little brother.”

Sherlock pinched his nose. “There is nothing to discuss. I will keep my mess under control and do what has to be done while you're at work, doing the laundry and stuff. It's not as if we would have made much of a mess in the last couple of weeks. Apart from the kind of mess that can easily be licked up.”

“You're ghastly,” Mycroft said, fondly.

“I am. And now let me show you how much.” And with this Sherlock was all over him, his hands seemingly everywhere, and Mycroft knew they would make very good use of the time the cancelled meeting had given them.


“Will I see you tonight?” Mycroft asked him in a low, hoarse voice when they were standing at the closed front door, Sherlock's arms around his brother’s neck.

“You definitely will.” Sherlock knew his brother had to return to the office but he was unwilling to let him go, capturing his mouth in yet another possessive kiss. He could still feel Mycroft's tongue sliding over the tender insides of his thighs, lapping at his swollen balls, teasing his fraenulum. They had worshipped each other in one of these breath-taking 69s, making Sherlock's whole body tingle with want and desire. Making out on his nearly virgin bed had something especially endearing. But then, having sex with his brother was always special and Sherlock was very sure it would never lose its appeal.

“I need to go now,” Mycroft said, reluctantly pulling away.

“I know. Can I come with you? I could sit at your feet, pawing and licking you through your trousers, making you relax when you have to yell at ghastly people.”

Mycroft's smile made his heart jump. “As tempting as this sounds, it would be a rather impossible distraction. But tonight I’ll be all yours again.”

“And tomorrow? And in thirty years from now?”

“In thirty years from now, I will still be your devoted lover, little brother, albeit with not a single hair left on my head, instead having them grow out of nearly every orifice.”

Sherlock chuckled. “That sounds alluring.” He kissed Mycroft again. “I’m very happy, brother mine.”

“So am I, Sherlock, so am I.” And then he finally opened the door and stepped outside, leaving Sherlock with a fond smile and longing in his heart, missing his lover already.

When he turned to go back upstairs, Mrs Hudson came out of her flat. “You will move out,” she said, sounding sad and happy at the same time.

“How…” Sherlock shrugged. “Yes. I guess so. But this is the address I’m still rather famous for so...”

“You can use my dining room then; I never use it anyway. And no, I don’t want anything for it but seeing you every now and then, even if you don’t have clients.”

Touched, Sherlock hurried to her and hugged her. “I won’t just disappear, I swear. And that is a very generous offer; not sure if I can accept that.”

She gave him a smile full of love. “Of course you can. As long as none of your clients robs me...”

“If anyone tries, I’ll tear them apart,” Sherlock assured her, gently patting her back. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson. For everything and especially for your support for my brother and me.” He would have never expected this – being showered with nothing but support from everybody who had learned about it, as unplanned as it had been in each and every case.

“You can always rely on me, Sherlock. Would you like some self-made Christmas biccies?”

“Oh, marry me, Mrs Hudson!”

And she giggled and blushed and Sherlock kissed her cheek, feeling happy and, yes, blessed.

Chapter Text

His pulse being still way too fast but his brain feeling strangely numb, Sherlock stood frozen on the spot, watching the doors of the ambulance getting closed and Lestrade stepping back. He followed the inspector with his eyes when he walked over to the waiting police car and spoke to the sergeant, certainly giving him orders on how to deal with the handcuffed killer on the back seat.

The cold wind was tousling his hair and he had lost his scarf but he hardly registered that he was shivering.

When Greg came over to him, he was carrying two mugs. “Here, Sherlock. Take this and drink.”

The long-fingered hand that took the mug was trembling. “I should have known it.”


“Should have deduced he’s still in the house...” Sherlock couldn’t believe his own stupidity. There he had been standing, throwing deductions through the air – having no idea the killer was just around the corner. Literally.

“Donovan will be fine. It's not much more than a scratch.” Greg looked a bit shaken himself but he was clearly trying to ooze calmness and security.

The detective was not so easy to soothe though. “She could have been killed...” And it would have been his fault…

Greg put his hand on his shoulder. “But she wasn’t. You warned her, just in time.”

“I should have...”

“Sherlock! We are cops! We should have thought about this possibility as well! Not everything is your responsibility. She’s a big girl, a good cop for nearly ten years. And I’m her boss and I didn’t consider it either. Not your fault. She’ll be fine in no time, the killer is on his way to the prison. It’s all good.”

“When she’s out of hospital, she’ll rip my head off and eat it...”

Greg laughed. “Nah. You know, you never got that she’s, in fact, pretty fond of you.”

Sherlock snorted. “Right!”

“Really! I guess she never apologised for suspecting you to be a murderer after you came back from the dead, hm?”

“Not that I remember, no.” Anderson had thrown himself to his feet but there hadn't been a single word from Sally about it.

Greg nodded. “She’s the type who has a hard time saying sorry. But in fact she’s always been jealous of your abilities. And when you came back and Anderson had turned into your biggest fan, she never said a word against you anymore. She just behaves like she always has towards you because she has no idea how to tell you that she actually admires you.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Even if that was true – and then she really has to be a very good actress – now she’ll hate me again.”

“Why would she? You didn’t try to slit her up, in fact you saved her. You’re not a magician, Sherlock. None of us would have thought he’s still hiding in the victim’s house, and dammit, my people searched it! I will have to get to the bottom of this; a six-foot-man with a huge knife should be hard to overlook when you search a house! It was not your fault. And now drink your tea. If you catch a cold and get pneumonia, your brother will have me deported to Siberia even before Christmas…”

Sherlock grimaced but sipped at the strong, good tea. Lestrade might have some points but he still felt shaken and troubled. No matter what the DI said – he should have figured out the danger. He had almost caused the death of another woman because he had been careless and too fond of his own cleverness, deducing from the victim’s wounds and position for whom they would have to look. And he had been right about that but he had missed a rather important point…

“She’ll be in St. Bart’s,” Greg said. “Guess she’ll have to stay overnight and can go home sometime tomorrow. Pay her a visit if you still feel bad about it. She’ll be delighted.”

Probably Sherlock could be happy if she didn’t shoot him right away when he tried to enter her room… But he knew he would do it. He owed her to check on her. “You don’t think she has to stay in the hospital over Christmas?” Before this year, he wouldn’t have wasted a thought on this. But somehow he had finally understood that this time of year was special and it was certainly not very nice to spend the holidays in a hospital bed.

“No. She’d had it worse. And Anderson will be there for her. He is finally going to have a divorce.”

“Oh.” He had missed that, too. “Good for her, bad for his wife.”

Greg stared at him. “Who are you and what have you done with our beloved sociopathic Sherlock? Being in a relationship has worked wonders with you.” He sounded decidedly fond. And he had made sure nobody could overhear their conversation; not that he had even mentioned Mycroft and the part about him getting all British Government if Sherlock got ill could very well be just because of their brotherly relation. Mycroft had always looked after him after all if he had appreciated it or not.

“Yes, got all sentimental and weak.” Sherlock smirked but then he turned serious again. “Perhaps I’m not meant for this job anymore.” In his mind's eye he saw Mary jumping in front of the bullet that had been supposed to kill him. And now he had failed again with almost fatal consequences.

The grey-haired head was shaken vehemently. “Oh, no. Don’t doubt your abilities. I’m sure we’re going to find out that all your deductions were correct. And again: you couldn’t have known that he’s crazy enough to be still there and my people are blind enough to not find him. I wouldn’t want to lose your help, Sherlock. I know you don’t have too many private clients anymore but please don’t let me down. You even solved a case for the drugs squad just by listening to someone complaining about their neighbour for God’s sake. Nothing’s wrong with your deduction abilities.”

He sounded completely genuine and Sherlock felt a strange knot in his chest. He stepped forward and before he could even think about it, he hugged the inspector with his free arm and he grinned when Lestrade chuckled and squeezed his waist. “If you beg me, Graham, I will continue to save your behind.”

“You’re too good to me,” Greg mumbled, his breath warm against Sherlock half-frozen face.

Anyone who was watching them would probably think they had become a little closer than what was decent, and the thought made Sherlock grin. His grin died when he considered that Mycroft could be watching them now as he had his eyes or rather cameras everywhere after all, and he made a step back. Lestrade looked a bit surprised but then he got what Sherlock was thinking and swallowed. “Let’s hope he doesn’t have eyes on us now or I guess I will soon meet some new Russian friends.”

Sherlock laughed. “Nah. He knows he can trust me and he’s the only one for me.” Still he wouldn’t want his brother to even get jealous for a second. And he felt he had to see him now. And later he would visit Donovan and he hoped he wouldn’t be welcomed by a bullet. “Thank you,” he said to the inspector. “Oh, and I have something for you.” He had put the small package into his coat pocket before heading to the crime scene from Baker Street and in opposite to his scarf, it was still there. Perhaps he wouldn’t meet Lestrade again before Christmas after all.

“What’s that? A present?” The policeman looked seriously touched.

Sherlock would have loved to see his face when he wrapped the woollen socks out of the paper – Mrs Hudson had helped him with that. “Yes. But open it under the Christmas tree, if you have one.” He wondered if he and Mycroft would have one again; so far his brother hadn’t mentioned getting one. But if his brother decided to set one up, it would certainly be one with roots so it could be planted somewhere afterwards again. His brother was such a softie and he loved that.

“You really didn’t have to,” Greg said, and for a moment Sherlock feared he would actually shed a tear.

And he realised he had never given Greg anything and he didn’t even know when his birthday was. Hell, until Sherrinford he had not even been able to remember the man’s first name. He really was a great friend… And he felt a bit ashamed about the content of the package. “It’s just a little something,” he mumbled. And winced when cold lips were pressed onto his cheek.

“Thank you, Sherlock. You really are a very good man.”

Sherlock swallowed. “So are you, Lestrade. And now let me go before we stand here, weeping like children about how great the other one is.”

He could still hear Lestrade’s laughter when he left, determined to spend some time with his brother. Despite the cosy conversation and the hug, he still felt very much in need of some brotherly (or lover-ly) support and he was sure Mycroft would love to provide it.


“Hello Anthea. Is he there?”

Mycroft's ever-present PA looked at him and Sherlock was surprised about her friendly look at him. She glanced at his black eye curiously but didn’t say anything to it. “He is and he’ll be more or less free for about half an hour apart from his usual chores. What are you bringing there? It smells like...”

Sherlock grinned. “ and chips. He pretends to hate such stuff but in fact he’s loved it since he was a boy.”

“Good to know.” She smiled brightly at him and Sherlock just so realised that she knew about them.

Probably not even Mycroft was aware of that as he had never mentioned it but it was hard to miss. She had never been very nice to him, knowing he had been giving his brother a very hard time. But now she even seemed pleased to see him and certainly not just because he was coming with food for big brother. She knew Mycroft would want to see him and that there would be no row and nobody would have to scratch the fish from the walls afterwards. She knew it and she supported it, what a surprise… Sherlock began to wonder if they shouldn’t just walk hand in hand in public, displaying their relationship, as everybody seemed to accept it without any hesitation anyway… But he did know this was just true for a few trusted people. And of course Anthea would support everything that made her boss happy, not only because he certainly was a lot easier to bear if he was in a good mood. She liked him. She was unconditionally loyal to him. And in opposite to John, who had always tried to get her to date him, Sherlock was aware that she wasn’t interested in men so she wasn’t a rival.

He gave her a long look and she returned it calmly, the last remaining doubt vanishing and a deep understanding passing between them, and then they both smiled before he tilted his head and walked over to his brother’s office, knocking without even having been announced. He could have called him beforehand but he had decided to surprise him. If it really was a surprise. Usually his brother knew very well what he was up to.

And he could see that Mycroft was informed about the attack at the crime scene. “I was about to call you,” he said, getting up. “A cop was injured.”

“Yes.” Sherlock swallowed. “She could have been killed.”

“But she wasn’t. And you were not hurt either.”

Of course Mycroft had to know this, otherwise he would have hurried there at once. “No. But it wasn’t my proudest hour.”

Mycroft gave him a smile full of affection and it was like balm on Sherlock's heart. “These things happen, little brother. Is that for me?”

“I thought we could share.” Sherlock presented the food and handed it over to take off his coat.

Mycroft put the package onto his desk and curled his arms around his waist. “That was very nice of you.” He kissed Sherlock's lips and Sherlock all but melted in his arms.

The door was shut, Anthea would be guarding it and nobody would come in. Perhaps they would even get tactile in here one day; Sherlock would have certainly liked this; in fact it had always been a fantasy of his. But now was not the time for shenanigans; he wasn’t in the right mood and he could tell that his brother was busy. But they could have lunch together and exchange some innocent niceties.

“Sit down, love. Do we need forks?”

Sherlock snorted. “It’s fish and chips. Nobody eats them with a fork.” Of course he knew his brother wasn’t fond of getting his fingers greasy and sticky. But he would just lick them clean. Or… “I will feed you.”

Mycroft smiled. “What a lovely idea.”

In the end they fed each other and fingertips were kissed and licked at, and with every moment, Sherlock felt more at ease. He even told Mycroft about the hug with Lestrade and of course Mycroft had been aware of it because as soon as he had been informed about the stabbing, he’d looked at the cameras to make sure that Sherlock had not suffered a scratch.

“He may hug you as long as his fingers don’t get below your waist,” he said, sternly, only half-joking, and Sherlock kissed him fiercely, just to make sure he knew that he was the only one who would ever be allowed to do this.

When they were finished and Sherlock had to go so Mycroft could return to his work, he casually said while embracing him, “Anthea knows about us.”

Mycroft gaped at him. “No.”

Sherlock grinned. “Oh yes. She didn’t say anything and I’m sure she never will but believe me – she didn't miss it. She’s smart after all or she wouldn’t be your PA.”

“Damn… I never saw the signs.”

“You should pay more attention, Mycroft.” His face darkened at once after what had been meant as a tease. In fact he should have done the same today…

Mycroft rubbed his back. “Even the smartest men can miss a clue, little brother. I don’t like to admit it but we are still humans.”

“Not you. You’re a Mycroft. My Mycroft.”

And his brother chuckled and kissed him, and Sherlock kissed him back heartily before putting on his coat, feeling all light and loved. His brother just did this to him.

When he was about to leave, Mycroft held him back. “I almost forgot,” he said, and Sherlock deduced that he had done nothing like this.

He watched Mycroft walking back to his desk and opening a drawer, presenting a scarf. It was not his one; it was brand new but exactly the same brand and colour. “I figured yours would be all messy now so I got you a new one.”

Sherlock didn’t ask him how the hell he had got it so quickly. He just thanked him and pressed him so close that Mycroft had trouble breathing. This was his big brother. His Mycroft.


Sherlock stared at Sally Donovan when he had entered the hospital room after knocking at the half-open door. Relief washed over him. Her hair might be looking a bit tousled and she was wearing a bandage but she certainly wasn't anything like close to death.

“You,” she said, putting the phone she had been looking at aside. “Why are you looking at me like this? Expected to find me all weeping and pale?”

Sherlock grinned, feeling even lighter at once at her mocking tone as he could tell there was no malice in it. “Got me. Here… I brought you some… comfort.” He walked over to the bed and offered her a huge box of chocolates. He had bought some for Mrs Hudson, Molly and Bobbie as well. On his way to the hospital, John had called and asked if he and Mycroft would be open to have dinner with them on Friday evening, one day before they would go on holiday, and Mycroft had immediately texted back that he was fine with it. Actually Sherlock was looking forward to this a lot. Something that was so normal for other couples – go to a restaurant with friends. They would meet at Angelo’s so Sherlock would get a bottle of wine for him. He had realised that he kind of liked buying nice stuff for Christmas.

Donovan stared at the chocolates with her big eyes. “They won’t explode when I open the package, will they?”

Sherlock couldn’t remember having heard such a friendly-teasing tone from her before. Apparently she appreciated him coming along and bringing high-calorie treats. “Only one way to find out. Mind if I have a seat?”

“Put your tasty arse on the chair.”

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed. “Pardon me?”

“Oh, come on, you’re still a freak but I’m not blind.”

Had the killer hit her on the head, too? The thought brought him back to the matter at hand and he sat down with his shoulders slumped again. “I’m sorry, you know. I should have deduced he...”

She interrupted him with an impatient gesture, using her good arm. “Ah, please. Eggerton and Smith searched the bloody house and managed to overlook him and neither I nor Lestrade were exceptionally smart. Not your fault. And without you...” She shuddered and it hurt as she grimaced and looked at the bandage covering her shoulder.

“Still… I really hope you can go home before Christmas and the pain won’t be too bad.”

Sally tilted her head. “Damn… How nice you can be!”

“I was always nice,” Sherlock claimed very untruthfully. “You just never gave me a chance.”

Sally snorted but then she nodded. “I guess. Want an apology?”

“Nah. Ancient history.” Sherlock had planned for people to believe he was a fraud after all, letting Moriarty allegedly win to beat him. It had irked him though that someone who had watched him working for the police for years could seriously believe that but he really didn’t resent her for it.

The policewoman smiled. “Good. And the doctor had magic hands with the stitches. No scar, he said. Well, even if… Phil’s not that pretty either.”

Sherlock laughed out loud. “No, really not. Always wondered why a woman as attractive as you would waste her time with him. Don’t tell him...”

“Ha, of course I will!” They chuckled together and Sherlock was rather sure he would never be called ‘Freak’ again, at least not in earnest.

“You saved my life, Detective,” she said then, serious. “Thank you.”

“If I just had...”

“Shut up. You’re really damn good at what you’re doing and nobody would have thought this arsehole was still there. You were right with everything else. As always. If you just hadn’t had this ‘You are all idiots’ attitude, I would have been nice to you from the start.” But she smiled when she was saying it and Sherlock smiled back.

“I’ll never think that again. Or maybe I will but I won’t show you.”

“Deal,” she said dryly.

Sherlock got up. “I better go before Phil shows up and thinks you’ve fallen for my charms.”

Sally grinned. “I doubt that would be in your interest. Guess I have the wrong anatomy for that.”

Sherlock almost groaned. Did everybody know he was gay? Was it that obvious? Well, for everybody except for Molly then… Thank God Donovan had never met Mycroft. But probably she wouldn’t even bat an eyelid at his incestuous relationship. He didn’t think she was the conservative type. But he really didn’t want to test her… “So… Christmas with Anderson?”

Her look got softer than he had ever seen before. “Yeah. The first. His wife found out that she likes women better than men.”

“Considering to whom she’s married, I can't say that surprises me all that much...”

Sally glowered at him before they both burst into laughter. “God, we must do that more often.”

“Not really.”

“No.” She grinned. “Thanks for bringing me this. That was very nice. I’ll eat them all alone.”

“As you should. Goodbye and I hope you’ll get better soon. And… Merry Christmas.”

“You too, Sherlock.” She winked at him and Sherlock blew her a kiss before he left, accompanied by her laughter.

Before he left the hospital, he dropped by in the morgue and gave Molly her box of chocolates and wished her a nice Christmas time, embracing her lightly, before he walked out of the hospital and stopped a cab to go back to Baker Street, and after having tea with Mrs Hudson, he headed over to his brother’s house and had a nap until soft lips woke him up again and he was spoilt rotten once more by the man he loved.

Chapter Text

“Got you.”

“Sherlock… I have to get ready for work.”

The younger man pulled him back to bed by the arm he had grabbed. “Nonsense. Only today and tomorrow and then you won’t go to the office until the 27th. You won’t, will you?” Even the British Government deserved some time off over the sodding Christmas holidays, didn’t he?

“Not if there isn’t an emergency.”

Sherlock sighed. “What is considered an emergency? The stupid PM jamming his tiny cock in his zip?”

Mycroft laughed. “He won’t be in the office either if no national emergency occurs. Most likely he will go skiing and I do hope he manages to break his neck... You know what I mean. A terroristic attack for example.”

“Well, let’s hope they’ll all stay at home and sing Christmas songs.”

“Like we will...”

Sherlock groaned just to please him, and Mycroft laughed. “Okay, little brother. I can stay for another few minutes but not longer. I need to clear my desk before the holidays.”

“Your desk is always empty.”

“Metaphorically spoken.”

“You know – in the time you wasted to tell me all this, you could have sucked my cock already.”

Mycroft smirked. “That’s what you want? I only did that last night!”

“And? That’s been hours ago.” Sherlock ripped the blanket from his body, pointing at his already half-filled member. “This demands your attention, not your boring work.”

“I guess when you live here with me, you’re going to be all over me all the time, aren’t you?”

“Most certainly, yes. Problem?”

Mycroft ruffled his already messy hair. “Not one.” And with this he went to work.


“Oh, what a huge box! And such fine chocolates! You must share it with me!” Mrs Hudson was all smiles and Sherlock nodded. He hadn’t wrapped Mrs Hudson’s present as he, well, sucked at it...

“If you insist on it. You could take it with you though and share it with your sister.”

“Nah, she won’t get any!”

Sherlock laughed. “You hate her and want to spend Christmas with her?” He sipped at the tea he had been provided with, stretching his long legs under Mrs Hudson’s kitchen table. The old lady would leave the next morning to visit her sister in Sussex.

Mrs Hudson sighed. “Her husband died a few months ago and some would say he's happier now than he'd ever been with her.” She smiled when Sherlock snorted into his tea. “But as ghastly as she'd always been to him, and to everybody else by the way, she misses him now and I don't like the idea of leaving her all alone at Christmas, and she invited me after all. Siblings… We can never untie the bond we share with them.”

Sherlock had to agree on that. Well, partly… He didn’t have any problem with abandoning his sister after all. But no matter how difficult his relationship with his brother had been for so long, he had always felt that bond. He wondered if he felt it stronger than before now that they were bonded in a completely different way or if their romantic love overpowered the sibling feelings completely. But of course it was impossible to distinguish between Mycroft the brother and Mycroft the partner/lover. He was everything and Sherlock's love for him was all-encompassing. “So basically you'll be at each other's throats but she'll still be glad you're there even though she won't say a nice word to you.”

“Quite so. Our childhood wasn't exactly easy as our parents were very poor people, and well, you might not believe that but I was the pretty one, the one everybody spoilt rotten while they were mostly ignoring her.”

“You still are the pretty one, especially between the two of us,” Sherlock assured her and she giggled and slapped his hand.

“You just flatter me because you want more biscuits!”

Sherlock smiled. “I wouldn’t mind having a ton of them. Mycroft brother loves them, too.”

“Well, you stay seated and I'll give you your present.” She hurried out of the room and Sherlock finished his tea, feeling relaxed and content.

He would definitely still be here often even if there wasn't a case to solve. Mycroft would be at work all day anyway and he couldn’t abandon his Mrs Hudson after all. “Oh,” he said when she returned with a huge bag full of all kinds of self-made biscuits and a neatly wrapped package, decorated with a bunch of candy canes.

“It's a shirt, I can tell you as much and I'm sure the colour will suit you splendidly. But wait with opening it until Christmas Day! And you will have to share the rest with your brother.”

Sherlock's look was glued to the colourful sweets tied to his present and he licked his lips unconsciously. “Thank you so much, Mrs Hudson. I will most certainly do that.”


“Sorry for being late. Lestrade begged me to glance at some crime scene photos and in the end I caught his killer. And nobody was hurt...”

Mycroft smiled. “No worries in the least. And of course it went all fine.”

They walked over to the living room side by side. Sherlock stopped dead when they entered the room. “My God.”

“I hope you don’t mind that I’ve started already. It has something so soothing to decorate a Christmas tree.”

Like everything his brother did, the decoration was very tasteful, kept entirely in gold and white, not too much but still cheesy enough for the purpose. Sherlock pressed his arm. “It looks great. What did you do with the last tree?”

Mycroft blushed a little. “I planted it in the garden.”

“I knew it! This one has roots, too.”

“Yeah. I know it’s kind of silly but I don’t like them to be cut off and...”

This was way too cute to apologise for it. “You’re my soft big brother. If your enemies knew...”

“...I would be doomed,” Mycroft finished his sentence dryly. “These pieces all have a story. Most of them are from our grandmother from Mummy’s side.”

Sherlock nodded. The ornaments and baubles all looked antique. Flashes of memories of long gone Christmas celebrations crossed his mind. Yeah. He had liked it back then. But what counted was only the here and now and the future. “There is no topper yet,” he stated.

“No, I’ve got three of them and you can choose which one you like best.”

Probably a star, a diamond and a grinning angel… Not this year though. “Um, actually, you have four now and the new one would just complement your awesome decoration. Give me a second.” Sherlock hastened out of the room, feeling his brother’s surprised gaze at his back.

Mycroft had poured them both a glass of whiskey when he returned with a small package he had got from the wardrobe where he had stored all his presents for his brother.

“My first Christmas present for you,” Sherlock smirked and he giggled to himself when Mycroft opened it up with a rather suspicious expression.

“Dear Lord!” His brother had actually paled.

“Nah, it’s the Queen, see!”

“I can never un-see that!”

Sherlock laughed and took the figure from his brother’s slightly shaky hand to place it on the top of the tree. “Right through her arse. Or cunt, who can really tell.”

“I’m sure there’s a law against such blasphemy.”

“Mycroft, there are more important laws we simply ignore.” Sherlock casually stroked over his lover’s crotch.

The older man grinned. “That’s true. But this...” He shook his head. “It’s monstrous!”

“I know, isn’t it awesome!” Not everybody could claim to have the (apart from a bit of jewellery) naked Queen as a tree topper, her crown consisting of little red LED candles that were blinking quite impressively.

“It is. Thank you, little brother. This starts a whole new tradition of naughtiness...”

Sherlock winked at him. “Let’s have a quick dinner and then we’ll add a bit to this…”

“What do you have in mind?” Mycroft sounded both scared and hopeful.

“That’s not the question. The question is what you will soon have up your arse...” And for a change, he wasn’t speaking about his cock even though that might come later as well. Sod it – it would definitely go up there later but before, they would play with food again.


“Another present?” Mycroft took off his socks, sitting on his bed.

Sherlock smirked. “Well, it’s for me, actually. It’s rather rude of Mrs Hudson to not give you something as well...”

“Ah, she accepting me as your lover is the best present she could have given me.”

That cried for a kiss and Sherlock hurried to provide it. A few breathless minutes and many open buttons and zips later, he pulled away. “So… I’m not allowed to open it but she said it’s a shirt and I kind of deduced that anyway.”

Mycroft smiled and nodded – completely missing the point.

“Well, brother, so I won’t open it as I’m a good boy and do what people tell me to do – don’t smirk! - but this is of course not about the content of this so accurately wrapped present.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, still not understanding – and then he opened them wide and gasped.

Sherlock grinned. “Ah, finally. Now get naked brother – you did such a splendid job decorating the Christmas tree and now I’m going to decorate you.” He ripped one of the candy canes from the package and took the plastic off. “This will look so gorgeous in your arse!” He beamed at the still surprisingly shocked-looking Mycroft. “It will be sweeter than ever!”


Was this really happening? Was his breathtaking baby brother really picking at his arse with a red-and-white candy cane with a gleeful expression? Was he using cinnamon-flavoured lube on or rather in him while doing so? And was he, God forbid, taking the midget walking cane out of him to… lick it off before putting it back in?

“I love your arse,” Sherlock purred, bent over him and heartily bit into his soft flesh. “I could eat it up.”

Mycroft was a man who definitely knew who he was. He knew he had reached a lot in the forty-five years of his life. He had climbed the ladder of power at a very young age and his influence was remarkable. While he wasn’t really the British Government as Sherlock had told Doctor Watson so many years ago, he did occupy a rank that was a little bit higher than the ‘minor position in the British Government’ as he had claimed back then. He knew he was a very smart man with a brain that was almost unique (apart from Sherlock and their sister). He had accomplished a lot and he was quite proud of it. But he had never found himself exactly handsome, attractive or in any way physically remarkable.

So Sherlock's obsession with his body got to him on more than one level. And the worshipping of his still rather firm backside was pleasing him immensely, even more than Sherlock's admiration for his considerable package. His brother had probably the lushest, plushest and most divine bottom in history and it had been the fact that he had noticed that decades ago that had made clear to him that his feelings for his baby brother weren’t entirely brotherly… It had meant struggles of a kind that had been prone to tear him apart, for years to come. Guilt, pining, suffering and the desperate understanding that his desires for his brother would not go away anytime soon, or ever, had shaken him to the core. These times were over, the guilt was gone, there was no reason for pining anymore but he was as attracted to Sherlock's incredible behind than he had been when his brother had been a very young man, actually even a lot more than back then now that he was finally allowed to touch and even to enter.

And now it was Sherlock who was caressing and licking and petting his bottom, doing unspeakable things with innocent sweets for children, and Mycroft wondered if his heart would burst anytime now with love for his brother and gratitude to be the object of his insatiable desires. And speaking of them… He wanted him so badly now.

Sherlock pulled the little cane out of his arse once more after moving it rhythmically in him, which felt bloody nice. He held it out for Mycroft, who was lying on his front. “Wanna taste?”

And Mycroft was all over him and pulled him in for a fierce kiss that took his smart little brother by surprise, but it was clearly a good one.


Sherlock couldn’t remember having been kissed by his lover with such force and passion before. Was it the sugar? Had it wandered into his blood through his arse? Not very probable. But whatever it was that had made Mycroft react with so much fierceness, Sherlock was certainly not complaining. He was clinging to the taller man while they were kissing like mad, his arms slung around his brother’s neck, their naked bodies frantically rubbing against each other. And even though Sherlock had prepared Mycroft with the candy cane and lots of lube, he wasn’t at all surprised or appalled when Mycroft just let him go to grab the bottle himself to give him the treatment while exchanging more kisses with him before he sank into him. Sherlock loved to bottom for him and Mycroft knew all the dirty tricks to make him pant and wiggle under his deft strokes.

“So you like my arse?” Mycroft breathed into his mouth.

What a question was this! “I love it. I could knead and bite and lick it all day and night.” And then Sherlock yelped when his own globes were grabbed very firmly.

“I love yours, too, always, for too long.”

Sherlock knew at once what his brother meant; his last words had come out very quiet and reluctant, and he cupped his cheeks – the ones of his face… “I don’t mind.” Probably Mycroft had felt very guilty about desiring him in the beginning. Sherlock had never asked when it had started as it really didn’t matter. He had been thirty-seven when they had got together and frankly, even if he had only been thirteen when Mycroft had started wanting him, it didn’t matter to him. His brother would have never done anything bad to him. “I love you, Mycroft.”

“I love you, little brother,” Mycroft whispered and then he focused on his deep strokes and on hitting Sherlock's prostate with each and every one of them and Sherlock stopped having any sensible thoughts and was clinging to his lover for dear life until he was released by an orgasm that nearly tore him in two, followed by Mycroft who flooded his passage with streams of seed.

When they were lying next to each other on the bed after cleaning themselves up as well as possible with a couple of wet wipes, Sherlock nuzzled his face against Mycroft's chest. “That was nice...”

“To the extreme.”

Sherlock reached out for the candy cane, and with a grin he placed the handle around Mycroft's left nipple. “It fits perfectly. Your nipples are so hot; I’d love to nibble them off.” His own ones were flat and small but Mycroft's were generously developed and simply objects of worship.

“Please don’t. They might be useless and hardly visible in my hair otherwise but I still want to keep them.”


“Always.” Mycroft pressed him close. “Thanks for this naughty evening.”

“Anytime, brother mine.”

And they dozed off together and Sherlock knew he would keep the other candy canes for future use. His own arse would certainly look good with one, too, and who knew what else could be done with them. And whatever he would like to try with them or any other sufficient equipment, he knew his lovely big brother would indulge him.

Chapter Text

Mycroft sighed and shut down his computer. What could be done had been done. He would check his reports daily from home as there was no way to just forget about work for days on end but he hoped everything that occurred would just be routine and no emergency would call him back to the office. Not just because it would upset baby brother. He would hate it, too. Three days just he and Sherlock and lots of food and tenderness and sex and Christmas sentiment. It sounded like heaven.

He bent down and opened the bottom drawer of his desk to take out Anthea’s present. Usually he gave her an envelope with a generous amount of money and he did it this year as well, but he had attached it to a box of chocolates like Sherlock had got for his female friends and he had added a little porcelain figure to the gift ribbon. He wasn’t sure Anthea would appreciate it as he had no idea how she would be spending Christmas. Did it mean anything to her? She never had any decoration in her office but then, neither had he. It was a private matter after all and it wouldn’t have looked exactly professional if he had covered his desk with singing Father Christmas figures…

Taking his coat, his umbrella and the present, he left his office, locking the door behind him. Anthea was still sitting at her desk, looking at her phone. She met his gaze and smiled.

“Ready to leave, sir?”

“Yes. They’ll know how to find me should there be an emergency...”

“Without a doubt. Let’s hope you’ll be undisturbed.”

Mycroft smiled and nodded, and then he handed her the package. “You will find your usual contribution but I thought it would be nice...” His voice trailed off and he felt a bit silly. Who even explained a present?

But Anthea beamed at him. “Thank you, sir. That’s lovely.” She bent down and presented a bag with a bottle of whiskey and he recognised the brand – a very good one.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that. That’s too expensive.” 

“It’s my pleasure. A special drink for my special boss. And… You might want to share it.”

She definitely not mean with her – he knew she didn’t drink alcohol, due to bad experiences with her father, he had deduced long ago when a business partner had urged her to drink a glass of champagne. She had at first declined with a friendly smile but when the man hadn’t ceased pestering her with taking ‘just a little sip, just for him’, she had ‘accidentally’ kicked him in the shin, which had silenced him quite effectively.

He had not asked her if she really know about him and Sherlock because how should he have raised this subject? But he had seen the signs that he had overlooked beforehand, and there was no doubt whom she was referring to now. “I will do that. Thank you, Anthea.” He didn’t mean just the whiskey and she was well aware.

“Not a problem. I wish you a very nice time.”

“I wish you the same, thank you. Do you have any nice plans?”

She smiled. “My girlfriend and I will visit her parents. They are lovely.”

In opposite to her own… And Mycroft didn’t even want to think of his and Sherlock's parents… They had not parted from them as enemies of course but things would never be ‘normal’ between them. And nobody could describe anything about their relationship as ‘lovely’. “I’m glad to hear that. We will see each other on the 27th.” Even if he had to go into the office during the holidays, he would definitely not call her in as well. She deserved her Christmas break for all her hard work.

“Yes, sir. My regards to your brother.”

That had been very clear. He smiled. “Thank you. He is not that fond of Christmas but maybe he has learned to appreciate it a bit more this year.”

“I’m certain he has. He looked very happy when he left the other day.”

He had not been happy when he had arrived but Mycroft had been able to make it better. “He is. Will you come outside with me?” He knew she lived around the corner so she didn’t need a lift home. He had offered this to her a couple of times but she had always said she preferred walking.

“Yes, sir. I'm ready.”

So was Mycroft. Ready for dinner with John and Bobbie and then a few lovely days, just Sherlock and he. He couldn’t wait for it.


Somehow they managed to arrive in front of Angelo’s almost at the same time, the two couples. John and Bobbie had headed over there together but Sherlock had come from Baker Street and Mycroft from home, where he had changed clothes and taken a shower. Sherlock could still smell the body wash on him when they greeted each other with a quick, one-arm-hug after his brother had stepped out of his cab, observed by the smiling John Watson and his beautiful girlfriend, who looked as if she wanted to call them ‘cute’ the next moment. Sherlock glowered playfully at her and she giggled instead, and Mycroft embraced her too and shook John’s hand, and then they walked inside quickly as rain had set in.

Sherlock led the way and was greeted enthusiastically by the big man.

“Sherlock, it’s been way too long!”

Yes, the times of coming along at least twice a week with John were long over. “True but I brought you a little Christmas treat.” The detective presented the fine bottle of wine he had got for the ex-burglar. The bag also contained the packages for John and Bobbie – socks and chocolates.

“Wow, a present? For me?” Angelo looked and sounded seriously touched. “Thank you.” He embraced Sherlock and even pecked him on the cheek before letting him go. “John, hello! Thought you’d left our planet!”

The doctor grinned wryly. “Yeah, sorry. Have been very busy. Meet my girlfriend, Bobbie.”

Angelo must have noticed her already but still he gaped at her. “Girlfriend...”

John rolled his eyes. “I was married, you know?”

The Italian shrugged, grinning sheepishly. “Yeah, I know, but still I thought… Anyway… Welcome, Miss Bobbie. You’ve got yourself a fine man!”

She beamed at him. “I know, Mr Angelo! He’s the best.”

“And this is...” Sherlock began but Angelo raised a hand.

“I never forget a face! The older but no less handsome Mr Holmes!”

Mycroft swallowed visibly and Sherlock stared at him. Mycroft had been here before? Oh… Of course… Certainly when he and John had moved into 221B. He had been spying on them… Because he had thought he and John would end up being a couple or because he wanted to make sure John wouldn’t endanger him? Both, in all probability.

“Ah, I see,” he mumbled and Mycroft looked rather guilty when he shook hands with the bearded restaurateur, murmuring, “Nice to see you.”

“Well, you’ve got the best table,” Angelo announced when he had stopped patting Mycroft's shoulder vigorously. “Everything is on the house!”

“No way,” they all protested in unison but Angelo shook his head.

“That’s my last word. It’s Christmas and you’re my friends.”

Bobbie looked as if she was about to cry, the tough lawyer. “He means that, right?” she whispered when they followed the man to their table.

“He surely does,” answered John. “Wonder how he can afford running this place at all...”

Sherlock had his suspicions but kept them to himself. “So,” he said when they had sat down – he and Mycroft next to each other, vis-à-vis of John and Bobbie – “you were here before? Testing the food?”

John grinned and shook his head. “Let him, Sherlock. You know he wanted to make sure I won’t...” He broke off, blushing.

“Harm him, yes,” Mycroft finished his sentence, and an uncomfortable silence followed.

“Well, he did not so long ago and he is tremendously sorry for it,” Bobbie said resolutely. “If I was Mycroft, I would have taught him a lesson he wouldn’t have forgotten.”

Everybody gasped but then Mycroft smiled. “I was tempted. Very tempted.” The smile didn’t look entirely friendly, Sherlock realised.

“I’m aware,” John said, nodding. “I would have understood.”

“Would you now?” Mycroft’s voice sounded ice-cold all at once and Sherlock held his breath.

This was certainly not what he had expected from this evening but why ever not? He knew what Mycroft thought about John’s violence against him. But they had not even ordered their food, not even opened the menus Angelo had handed them, before they had got to this touchy subject. It had not come up the last time they had met. But one day it had to; it was inevitable for moving on.

“Yeah, I would.” John put his menu onto the table. “I was an arsehole. I was quarrelling with having lost my wife and with having been unfaithful to her to some extent. And I didn’t want to see that she had made this choice to sacrifice herself for Sherlock, probably making up for having almost killed him. It was a crazy time and everything was disturbing, Sherlock being high again and… There is no excuse, really. I was wrong. I’m a doctor and I shouldn’t have hurt him.”

“You did more than this. You injured him and he was almost killed by Smith in the process.” Mycroft's didn’t show any mercy and neither Sherlock nor Bobbie intervened. This was something between Sherlock's best friend and his brother and lover.

“Yes. And I would have never forgiven myself if Smith had killed him. But thank God, Sherlock had planned all this, because he had followed Mary’s advice. He knew exactly what I would do and that I would arrive in time to save him.”

“But you wouldn’t have had to save him if you hadn’t put him in this position in the first place.” Mycroft wasn’t letting him off the hook.

“True. But he wasn’t fighting back against Smith because Mary had told him that he had to make me save him in order to save me and our friendship, not mainly because he was… injured.”

“So basically everything that happened was your late wife’s fault,” Mycroft concluded mercilessly.

John’s left eye twitched but then he nodded and sighed. “In a way... But it was my choice to hurt him. And believe it or not – I still hate myself for doing that, even though he has long forgiven me. I hope one day you can forgive me, too.”

Mycroft looked at him, observed by both Sherlock and John’s girlfriend with bated breath for a long minute. Then he nodded. “Let’s say I let you get away with it. This time. But next time...”

“I’d rather cut off my arm than letting a ‘next time’ happen,” John said full of conviction.

“I will cut off more than your arm if you do.” Mycroft's voice wasn’t even hostile but surprisingly bright. He was stating facts rather than launching threats but he was deadly serious, and somehow Sherlock was dying for kissing the living daylights out of him and impaling himself on his cock – which was entirely out of the question right now. But protective big brother and lover was so hellishly sexy… even when he was threatening his best friend.

John didn’t even flinch. “Understood and accepted.”

“Excellent,” Bobbie threw in. “Can we pick our meals now and have a good time?”

Mycroft smiled at her. “We can.” Then he turned to Sherlock. “Any recommendations?”


“Go no further. Not one step.”

Mycroft turned around to his beautiful brother. “Pardon me? You don’t want to go upstairs?”

Sherlock gazed into his eyes, a determined expression on his face. “You may put your damn umbrella away and take off your coat.” While he had been saying this in a calm but somehow dark tone, he had slipped out of his own coat and threw it onto the floor next to the door Mycroft had just locked behind them after stepping in out of coldness and rain.

“Do I now?” Mycroft did as he’d been told, a familiar warmth spreading in his groin. Sherlock wasn’t upset or angry. He was thoroughly horny.

Sherlock opened his trouser button and zip and stepped out of his jeans and took off his socks in one fluent movement. “Take your cock out and leave your clothes on.” He sat on the small table next to the door after clearing it from the several small items that had been gathered on it – a box of tissues, an opened and discarded letter, a remarkable stone from which Mycroft didn’t recall where it had come from and some other stuff he never paid attention to. It was probably the only untidy space in his entire house and now it contained nothing but his brother’s delectable arse after he had tidied it up in his own special way.

“I’m not sure this table is strong enough to carry you, let alone will survive what you have in mind...”

“And what, dear brother, do you think I have in mind?” Sherlock spread his legs wantonly, exposing his rosy little hole.

“You want me to take you hard because what I said to John turned you on.” And it was a surprise to him that it had, after all Sherlock was still very fond of the doctor. But thank God, he was way fonder of him…

“Yeah. Iceman. I had dinner with the Iceman.”

Mycroft shook his head. “You had dinner with your older brother and partner who is going to destroy everybody who dares lay a finger on you.” His cock was hard and heavy and dripping in his hand now and it was hard not to gaze at Sherlock's alluring entrance.

“God, fuck me now.”

“We will need...”

“Look into your inner coat pocket.”

Mycroft gasped. “You mean...”

“...I expected we’d not make it upstairs,” Sherlock smirked. “And since you are so neat to hang up your coat, I preferred putting it into your pocket.”

What a cunning little brother he had! He had obviously had another one of his premonitions. Well, he was not complaining. Mycroft took out the small plastic bottle that he hadn’t even noticed – he was slipping indeed… “So you want me to lube you up and hammer into you?”

Sherlock shuddered at his seductive tone but snorted the next moment. “Stating the obvious is beneath you.”

“No. What is beneath me is my wanton little brother.” With this Mycroft was all over the chuckling detective, easing the way of his fingers with sticky fluid while almost cruelly biting Sherlock's neck, and Sherlock was so ready for him so fast and very soon they were testing the solidity of the small round table and their moans and grunts were filling the hallway and Mycroft was hammering home his love, protection and the promise to take everybody out who ever tried to harm the one person that really mattered to him in all this world and Sherlock was clinging to him and plundering his mouth and every ounce of him was saying he wholeheartedly appreciated this.

Chapter Text

“So does he like the decoration?”

Sherlock turned to his brother and grinned. “I do think so. Personally I suppose he's in love with Queen Naughty up there.” He had put angel Howard on a shelf so he was directly looking at the piece of cheesy art that was Mycroft's Christmas tree. At least it had been tastefully cheesy until Sherlock had applied the exceptionally crude tree topper.

Mycroft chuckled. “You are crazy, you know that?”

“Of course I know. Mycroft…”

His brother got serious at once. “What's wrong?”

Sherlock smiled. “Nothing's wrong but… would you mind if I took a selfie of us, here, in front of the tree?” Of course he didn’t actually care about the background as long as Mycroft was in the picture but probably it would be nicer for his Christmas-loving brother this way.

“Why on earth would I mind?” Mycroft sounded seriously stunned.

“We've never done that – taking a picture of us together.”

“We haven't? Well, we definitely have to change that. Perhaps you shouldn't use it as your background picture though…”


“Sorry, little brother.” Mycroft had stepped close to him, putting an arm around his waist. “I'm not terribly photogenic though…”

Sherlock snorted and pulled out his phone. “You had a clown for breakfast?”

Now the older man was seriously confused. “I don't know what you mean. We had breakfast together and…”

Sherlock laughed out loud. “Oh God, you're too cute, big brother. Smile for me?” Mycroft squeezed his waist and they both looked into the camera and Sherlock made a few pictures in quick succession. “This looks best, don't you think?”

Mycroft nodded and pecked his cheek. “You look definitely wonderful in it. Send it to me?”

“Done already. I love you.” Saying it still felt so special and he could see in his brother's eyes that he shared not only the sentiment but also adored hearing it. And saying it.

“I love you, too, little brother. You posing with me in front of our Christmas tree. I've reached my goal.”

Sherlock smiled and kissed his dimpled chin. Yes. He didn’t hate Christmas anymore. He didn’t love it either though even though he had indeed taken to like some aspects of it for sure but more than anything he had to say that these past few weeks had made him love his brother more than ever. “You know when it will be really Christmas for me?”

Mycroft tousled his hair. “On the day you'll move in with me.”

His brother really knew him very well. “Yes. But we had some very appealing weeks and the next days will be the same so yeah, you did a great job.”

“Fine. What about a light lunch and then off to church?”

“To bed, you mean.”

Mycroft grinned. “Of course I meant that.”

“Good plan.”

“I knew you would like it.” And with this the brothers Holmes went to the kitchen to get some strength for their version of Christmas Eve, just the two of them.


Sherlock impatiently tore at Mycroft's shirt. “Too many clothes, too many buttons!” He had undressed in record time but for his socks and pants.

Mycroft batted his hands away. “Let me do it myself, you impatient boy. Will you always want me that much?” he asked then, a tad of insecurity in his voice. “You know I'm so much older than you and...”

How could he doubt that after these past weeks?! “Of course I will! Even when I have to change your nappies I’ll still want you!”

Mycroft huffed out a laugh. “Dear God, if that’s not something to look forward to...” He slipped out of his shirt and Sherlock immediately tweaked his nipples, as always admiring the erotic fur on Mycroft's pale chest.

“Always, brother mine, you hear me? Damn sexy big brother...” He closed his lips around one of the now stiff love buttons.

“I do think I can, oh, live with that,” Mycroft croaked before guiding them both to the bed, still half-dressed and both more than half-hard.

“You know, it’s always Christmas for me when we have sex.”

“Damn, why haven’t you told me that before?” Mycroft joked before Sherlock shut him up with a deep kiss and a giggle and proceeded to get them both fully naked as quickly as possible without damaging his brother's precious clothes.


Mycroft decided to let baby brother do all the work. He hardly moved a finger when Sherlock worshipped him with his luscious lips and devilish tongue except for gently stroking his shoulders while Sherlock turned into an incubus, sucking bruises into the pale flesh of his neck, before moving southwards to let his throbbing cock find a new home in his hot, wet mouth. He sucked and lapped most noisily before grabbing the bottle of lubricant from the nightstand.

“Here, lube me up, would you?” He straddled Mycroft reverse-cowboy-style and continued to suck him, leaving Mycroft with the breathtaking view of his twitching hole, which the older man hurried to prepare, unable to not lick it every few seconds.

When Sherlock eventually saddled up, facing Mycroft now, the older man was so aroused that he knew he wouldn’t last very long. Trying to distract himself by thinking of the PM giving him lectures in taste and behaviour, he shuddered himself through the process of sinking into Sherlock's sticky heat, and when Sherlock proceeded to ride him, he stopped him.

“Give me a moment or it will be over in two seconds.”

Sherlock chuckled and bent down to kiss him. “One should think you're used to that by now.”

“I'll never get used to that.” And he knew he wouldn’t. That Sherlock loved him so much and allowed him to be so close and intimate with him was a miracle that would never wear off. The past month had been filled with so much emotion and had brought them closer together in ways he hadn't expected. Sherlock was more open with his feelings now and Mycroft loved him even more for it. “You're too sexy, that's the problem,” he whispered now, his hands sliding up and down Sherlock's sensitive sides.

“That's indeed a problem. But the bigger problem is that if you tickle me like this, I might hit you involuntarily and this won't be too sexy.”

Mycroft stopped his ministrations. “Not exactly, no. I think you can move now.”

Sherlock smiled down on him. “If you shoot at once, don't bother. I'm going to ravish you a lot more the next few days.”

“Consider me your willing victim.” Mycroft hissed when Sherlock started bouncing up and down on him without much hesitation.

With closed eyes he enjoyed the sensation of his long cock sliding deep into and almost out of his brother, the rather indecent squelching noises only adding to his arousal. Christmas Eve was there and they spent it having sex and what better way to celebrate? If he hadn't had a Christmas tree and not listened to one Christmas song over the past few weeks, this would still be feeling like Christmas. Perhaps deep inside he had not wanted his brother to love Christmas – he should have known that would never truly happen – but he had longed for spending more time with him, indulging in more intimacy with him and deepening their bond, and that had definitely worked, after all Sherlock was even willing to move in with him, which Mycroft wouldn’t have expected, as silly as that might have been.

Well, he still loved Christmas music and traditions but he loved his brother so much more and if Sherlock told him to throw out the Christmas tree and declared the holidays cancelled, he wouldn’t really mind as long as Sherlock was here, was close and as devoted to him as he was now with Mycroft balls deep up his arse.

And when he came only seconds after Sherlock had spilled all over his stomach and chest with a guttural groan, he knew a happier Christmas had never been spent by anyone in this world.


“Is there a tear in your eye, Mycroft?”

“Of course not.”

“I see. It's the cold in here then?” Sherlock smirked at him after pointedly glancing at the fire, and Mycroft grinned.

“That or I’m allergic to you.”

“That would be a problem.”

“A big one. Thank you for sitting through this film with me. It can’t have been easy.”

Sherlock smiled. “If you had told me a year ago I’d ever watch ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’ with you, I would have had you institutionalised.”

Mycroft chuckled. “You could have tried...”

“They would have been here with a straight jacket within seconds,” Sherlock assured him. “But since you’ve manipulated me into becoming a Christmas addict...”

“You are most certainly not and you didn’t actually watch the film, Sherlock. You were too busy playing with my nipples.” He said this full of fondness. Sherlock had always liked his large pink nipples but recently he had developed quite an obsession with them. Not that he was complaining. Any body part of him Sherlock wanted to show extra attention was very keen on and grateful for receiving it.

“Guilty as charged. Not my fault though that your tits are so exciting.”

Mycroft winced at the expression but yes, he did have rather visible breasts. Not overly big but they were there. But since Sherlock obviously didn't mind, neither did he. “They were covered under my shirt though,” he calmly said, slowly closing his buttons.

“True but I dug them up.” Sherlock looked as if he wasn’t approving of his action.

“And nuzzled your face against them,” Mycroft accused and rightfully so.

“I did,” nodded Sherlock.

“Instead of losing yourself in this gem of a film.”

“You mean the most sentimental and cheesy film that has ever been made?” Sherlock winked at him to show that he meant no offence.

Mycroft hadn’t taken any. He sipped at his wine and nodded. “Exactly the one. You have to admit Jimmy Stewart was a sight.”

“I do. Too straight for my taste though. I like my men camp and gay.”

“Who is camp here?!” Mycroft unconvincingly glowered at his brother.

“The man who enjoys watching the most horrible tearjerkers,” Sherlock calmly retorted and was up and fleeing the room before Mycroft could catch him.

“I’ll teach you to insult your brother and Hollywood’s finest film!” Mycroft threatened, chasing after him, and he thought that he had never had so much fun on Christmas before.


“Got you, you menace!”

Sherlock giggled when he was embraced tightly from behind. “I surrender!”

“You’d better, or you’ll go over my knee.” Mycroft threatened.

“Oho!” Sherlock made but he didn’t have a spanking scenario on his mind now. They could do that on some of the following days, surely he would find another reason to provoke his brother – of course not in earnest. “Is it raining?”

Mycroft looked surprised but then he shook his head. “I don’t think so. Why? Want to take a walk?”

They could have done that. Ten o’clock on Christmas Eve – there wouldn’t be too many people outside, at least not in Mycroft's quiet quarter. But they still wouldn’t be able to touch in public – way too dangerous. So Sherlock had other plans. “Let’s go in the garden.” Mycroft had no direct neighbours and his property was seamed by bushes and trees as well as secured by cameras and motion sensors.

“Oh no.” Mycroft shook his head. “We can’t do that outside. It’s too cold!”

Sherlock grinned. “Believe it or not – I didn’t have sex on my mind. It might lead to it though but we’ll indulge in it inside then afterwards.”

Mycroft tilted his head. “So what then?”

“Come outside with me and I’ll show you. No coat. It’s not exactly freezing.”

“You know I’ll follow you anywhere, no matter that you totally lack any taste for films.”

“At least you can’t say that about men.”

Mycroft smiled. “I know – you like camp men with tits.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You know – they call them that in porn films, meaning the nipples!”

Mycroft laughed out loud. “You’re watching porn?”

“Not lately. But we could do it together. Perhaps it will turn us on.”

“Do we really need any more incentives to have sex?”

“Well, this advent calendar thing will be over with this evening. And I’ll still want you every day so you might need some extra stimulation.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I so do not. But you watched a film with me, or better kept me company when I did, so I will do the same for you.”

“Deal. And it will be for our mutual benefit. And now follow me so I can follow you.”

Mycroft looked rather confused about this statement but he would understand very soon.


Mycroft followed his precious brother into the dark garden, not knowing what he was up to. But then Sherlock pulled out his phone and after a few seconds, the first sounds of ‘White Christmas’ came to his ears.

“May I have this dance?” Sherlock asked him after carefully putting his phone onto a thick branch of a nearby fir – the Christmas tree from a year ago to be precise, soon to be joined by its successor.

“You’re crazy. And we could have done it inside.” What had they never danced with each other before? They couldn’t do it in public but in his own living room?

Sherlock nodded. “We could. But isn’t this more special?”

And it was. The darkness, the chilly air, about 5°C, just the two of them listening to the one song he would have never expected Sherlock would want to hear. And of course he didn't but he played it nonetheless – for him. And there was no question what to do now.

Mycroft embraced his brother’s slim waist and began leading, and they danced over the short grass, Sherlock's body close to his own, smelling and feeling so delicious, and he bent down to kiss him and his heart was so filled with love and gratitude that Sherlock was in his life like this and indulging him in this way that he wouldn’t have been surprised if it had finally burst. And when the song was over, Sherlock took his phone and guided him inside and after a hot shower, interrupted by more kissing and groping, they stumbled into his bedroom to fall onto his bed in a pile of kissing mouths, stroking hands and hard cocks searching for a friction they were thoroughly granted with, and there was no doubt that his brother had started loving Christmas because he loved him.

Chapter Text

The Holmes Boys

“Hell, they look posh!” Sherlock stared at the two suitcases next to the Christmas tree. The Queen looked pleased about them too, or perhaps she was just enjoying being poked by the top of the tree, who could say?

Mycroft smiled. “I forewent wrapping them up. But they are just a part of this particular present, Sherlock. I want to go on holiday with you.”

Sherlock gaped at him. “Really?”

“Well, yes. You can also use them for moving in here of course; when I got them, I didn’t know they might serve for this purpose as well.” He still sounded as if he couldn’t believe Sherlock actually wanted to live with him but in just a few days, Sherlock would prove him that he was, in fact, deadly serious about that. But now they had another subject.

“Where do you want to go? And when?”

“Well, I thought in March; I know that’s still a long while but we'll have to plan it all. And we can do some research about the ‘where’ together.”

“Tropical, no people, clear water, clean beach,” Sherlock said promptly, and Mycroft laughed.

“Drawing a nice picture again, I see! And all this sounds lovely. We can do some googling tomorrow, see what we can find.”

Sherlock planned to spend Boxing Day with rogering Mycroft but they could do that in between. “Deal! Thank you so much, brother mine. I love it. And I will look so wealthy with these suitcases.” Of course Mycroft had bought the best of the best. If they got lost on the flight, he would have a fit. Well, both of them would! But nobody would dare losing Mycroft's luggage!

“You’re very welcome. I’ve got some other small goodies for you, too.” He pointed at a pile of packages.

Underwear was in one of them, Sherlock deduced. Practical boxers for every day and very special ones for special occasions. Well, Mycroft had promised to try them on for him, too. He definitely couldn’t wait for that. He also saw shirts, a suit and some more stuff he definitely needed.

“I will unwrap it all but have a look at this first.” He handed the framed drawing over; the people who had framed it had also wrapped it into some nice paper for him.

Mycroft looked pleased and curious and proceeded to carefully open the packaging.

Too carefully for Sherlock's taste. “Just rip it open!”

“No, I will not, you impatient boy. Oh...” Mycroft had opened it and stared at the gift with wide eyes. “This is beautiful! Who did that?”

“Well, not me if you think that,” Sherlock chuckled and told him about the artist on the Christmas market. He could see Mycroft loved the picture and it made him proud to have found something that seriously pleased his lover.

Mycroft told him he would hang it up on the wall of their bedroom and thanked him with some passionate kissing, and who was Sherlock to reject such gratitude? They ended up snogging wildly on the carpet and indulging in some physical pleasures, including firm sucking, noisy licking and vigorous fucking before they rearranged themselves and opened each other’s presents with reddened cheeks.

Sherlock giggled at the sinful underwear and knew it would be Mycroft who would wear these pink knickers first, if he knew that now or not. He admired the shirts and was convinced he would look splendid in the dark-grey suit, and Mycroft blushed at the tight jeans he had got for him and laughed about the self-made socks.

“Where did you get those from?”

“I didn't make them myself either,” Sherlock chuckled. “A grateful client insisted on making them for me. John and Lestrade got some as well.”

“They will be over the moon,” Mycroft assured him, and there was just a tiny bit of irony in his tone.

“They will keep your feet warm in cold nights,” Sherlock declared with playfully narrowed eyes.

“They surely will. And if my cock freezes, I can put one of them over it, too.”

Sherlock liked this picture but he still shook his head. “That’s the job of my mouth or my arse, Mycroft, keeping your cock warm and fuzzy!”

“It is indeed, my deepest apologies.”

Sherlock kissed the apologies out of him and they soon found themselves indulging in another round of thoroughly pleasing sex.

John, Bobbie And Rosie

“Look how happy she is! Who would have thought he’d get her such lovely presents.” Bobbie looked at Rosie with eyes full of adoration, both for the child she already considered herself a mother for and for Sherlock, who had picked really nice gifts.

John was stunned, too. But then, Sherlock was always good for a surprise. “He loves her,” he said, watching his daughter playing happily with the clown Sherlock had bought for her. It reminded him of this nasty game they had played with Mycroft to force the truth about Eurus out of him. His idea… Just one more thing he was less than proud of and one he had never apologised for. Well, he would do that next time they met but better when he was alone with Mycroft for a moment. Probably Mycroft wouldn’t exactly like to be reminded of this incident, where he had been caught off guard and probably felt a bit silly afterwards. But not as silly as John did when he was thinking about it now. They could have just asked him…

“You haven’t opened his present for you.” Bobbie handed him the package. “It is even wrapped so nicely.”

Surely Mrs Hudson’s work. John didn’t really see Sherlock wrapping presents. Not that he could do that better… He was a doctor and really good with his hands but when it came to such stuff he was hopelessly out of his depth. “Socks!” Woollen socks, definitely self-made. A client’s present, no doubt about it.

Bobbie giggled. “Ooh, they will look sexy on you!”

“I could, you know, use one to keep my cock warm.”

Now she laughed out loud. “They are way too big for your little thing; it will feel so lost in it.”

“Damn cheeky woman!” John grabbed her but she slipped away, squeaking, and Rosie looked at them as if they had gone mad. Which was probably true.

John may be short and yeah, not exceptionally hung indeed as his cock size was matching his height, but he was fast and he caught her in no time, tickling her mercilessly until he received a hard and hopefully involuntary blow to the chin and they collapsed on the floor, laughing, and John thought that, all in all, he could consider himself a very happy man with a beautiful, healthy daughter, a stunning, tough girlfriend who would soon be Mrs Watson, and the best friend anyone could wish for.

Molly And Peter

“Do you really like it? I can bring it back if...”

“No, Peter, it’s beautiful.” Molly turned her back to him. “Can you close it, please?”

“Sure. I thought it would look great to your eyes. But if you...”

“I like it!” Molly closed her mouth with an audible noise. Who would shout at their partner who had just made them such an expensive present? “Sorry.” Her fingers slid over the golden necklace. “It’s a beautiful gift and I so don’t want to exchange it.”

And she ignored the malicious voice in her head that was whispering, ‘But you would love to exchange him, and you know for whom!’ It was a ghastly thought and it was as pointless as it could get. She should be happy she’d found someone like Peter! He was generous and kind and smart and just perfect!

But he was not Sherlock. Dammit… Would she really spend the rest of her life wishing she could have him? Would she turn those words (‘I love you’) that she had forced him to say for God’s sake, knowing all-too-well he didn’t mean them, over and over in her head, fantasising that one day he would come and say, ‘I was so blind but now I know I can’t live without you’?

Nobody had to tell her that it would never happen. And what did they really have in common? Nothing whatsoever… It was just stupid to not being able to finally let this fantasy go.

“Would you… like to take a walk now? It’s sunny and...”

Molly nodded vehemently. “Yes. Let’s go outside.” Perhaps the air would clear her head. But she knew of course it wouldn’t change a thing. She would still be pining for Sherlock when they came back. And next year. And when she had children with Peter. And when she would retire from her job in a few decades.

It is what it is.

And she would have to live with it without hurting this good man who was gently holding her hand when they stepped outside. But somehow it didn’t feel like Christmas…


Angelo was not celebrating Christmas. He was spending the day serving meals to people who had made some extra effort with their clothes, loud happy families or brooding loners, sitting at a table all by themselves. He had a friendly word for all of them and he tried to cheer the ones up that were unhappy on this special day.

Sherlock would not show up today he was sure. He grinned to himself while he was bringing some used plates into the kitchen. Sherlock would celebrate Christmas today for sure and he would definitely not be alone.

Ah, he had been a bit stupid, thinking all those years that his friend would end up with the short doctor. Now he knew who Sherlock had fallen for: the good-looking, tall man who had years ago showed up and asked strange questions about him and his flatmate. His brother.

Oh, Sherlock was a handful for sure. But this man with the piercing blue eyes certainly knew how to deal with him. Angelo grinned when he imagined what they would be doing now. Unwrapping presents? Probably rather unwrapping each other! Good for them! He had not shown that he had realised it; he had not been sure the doctor and his cute girlfriend knew about.

If Angelo had learned one thing in his time being a restaurateur, and yes, a thief, then it was that one had to be discreet. It was incest after all. What a stupid judgement to describe the love he had seen in both of the men's eyes. It was their business and nobody else's. Forbidden love! How terribly romantic!

And tonight he would open the fine wine Sherlock had brought him and drink on him and his sexy brother. May they always be happy and in love.

“Hey, Angelo. Can we have some more tiramisu?”

Angelo grinned broadly. “On the way!”

Mrs Hudson And Her Sister

“And then she said I should mind my own business! Can you imagine that?”

Martha Hudson sighed. Oh yes, she could… She should have done that, too. She could be sitting in her flat in Baker Street now, eating something nice for lunch, enjoying her peace and some Christmas music – instead of listening to the constant nagging and yapping of her sister.

Millie had not even registered she hadn’t answered her but went on and on with her ranting. Martha thought of her boys and smiled to herself when she imagined Sherlock and his brother being together now, probably exchanging something else than presents, and John with his two girls, having found happiness once more, and hopefully for longer this time. She missed them. Hopefully Sherlock would come along often for meeting clients, or just for a chat. She would always have ginger nuts for him. And she would always have an open ear for John as well.

“What’s so funny about her insulting me?!” Millie hissed.

Martha got up. “Nothing, dear. And now excuse me – I’m going home.”

“What?! But you wanted to stay for two more days!”

She had been crazy enough to agree to this. But life was too short to spend it with people so annoying and unpleasant, even if they were related to you. She would take a cab to the station now and get on a train home to cuddle up on her couch, wrapped in a blanket, for the rest of the day, and she would try Sherlock's chocolates. Perhaps she should get herself a cat! Oh yes, that was a good idea. She would go to the shelter right after Christmas. Or perhaps even tomorrow? She would figure out if they were open. A nice, cuddly cat she would get and then she would never be alone again.

When she left her sister’s house, whistling to herself and ignoring Millie’s petulant grumbling, she was feeling happy and buoyant.

Anthea, Her Girlfriend And Her Parents

“A bit closer together. Yes, just like that! Oh, you are so beautiful together!”

Anthea smiled at the camera and it was the easiest thing to do. Her arm was tightly wrapped around Jenny’s slim waist and her girlfriend’s parents were beaming at her.

“What a lovely picture! Look!” Jenny’s mother showed the display to her, and Anthea nodded.

“Yes, that’s nice.”

“That’s just because you’re so pretty.” Jenny planted a smooch on her cheek, and Mr and Mrs Dawson giggled.

Sometimes it was hard to accept that a family could be like this. That Christmas could be like this. Presents and candles and great food (and lots of it) but even more important warmth and love and support. Nobody had been to her like this when she had been a child. An alcoholic for a father, a weak mother who always looked as if she wanted to crawl into a hole to disappear for good, shouting and slamming doors and sometimes hits to the face – her childhood had been a mess to put it friendly.

“Would you like more tea, Anthea?”

“That would be lovely, thank you, Karen.”

“We are so happy to have you here,” Richard Dawson said, twirling the edge of his moustache. “It's like having two daughters now!”

Anthea was close to start crying but then she smirked when she thought of the Holmes men – who were brothers and lovers. She was sure Mycroft was very happy today… She had seen the signs of a love affair months ago. She couldn’t really do deductions like her boss and his brother could but she had thought about who it could be, with a shudder dismissing Elizabeth Smallwood at once. Mycroft worked all day and he didn’t have any hobbies and she really couldn’t see him doing online dating so it had to be someone he knew. And Mycroft would never start anything with an agent or someone else who was working for him, she had thought, and then shaken her head about herself. Mycroft would never start anything with anybody as he couldn’t stand people – with one exception so it had to be him. It hadn't shocked her, not even for a second. In fact the image of her handsome boss and his infuriating but without a doubt very good-looking little brother had even appealed to her as a lesbian woman. And Sherlock made Mycroft happy, over the past weeks more than ever, so she was fine with it. And if they ever wanted to make out in Mycroft's office as a special treat, she would be honoured to guard the door for them, and if the PM tried to enter, she would knock him out.

“I hope you'll like the vegetarian turkey,” Karen Dawson said with worry in her voice.

Anthea, having lived vegan for more than ten years, winced a bit as she couldn’t really imagine such a thing but she smiled. “I'm sure I will love it. And I'm so glad you invited me.”

Jenny pressed her hand and her parents said simultaneously, “Of course we did. You're part of our family,” and Anthea knew she would never let go of these people again.

Greg And Callie Lestrade

“What is that? Socks?” Callie Lestrade laughed, snuggling against her husband. “Who the hell gives you self-made socks for Christmas?”

Greg grinned. “Nobody else than the famous Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh, if you were gay, you would be with him, wouldn’t you?”

“What kind of a question is this?” Greg shook his head about his wife. “And I doubt he would want me, me old man.”

“Ah, he doesn’t know what he's missing,” Callie purred, stroking his thigh with her long fingers.

Greg was rather sure Sherlock wasn't missing anything. Should he feel bad about turning a blind eye to a law-breaking love affair? If so, he couldn’t have cared less. He had worried about the lad for ages. Sherlock had been a loose cannon when they had met, and John Watson had had a good influence on him at first and then made his life even more difficult when he had married the wrong woman. Mary had been nice on the outside but what had she brought over both her husband and his best friend? Nothing but pain and mayhem. Greg thought at these ghastly times with a cold shudder.

It seemed to be all fine now. John was happy with a woman who seemed to be very down to earth and good for him and his daughter, and he and Sherlock had finally reconciled. But he knew he could stop worry about him mainly because Sherlock was in the best of hands with a man who would go to hell and back to protect him. Sod it that they were brothers. It only made Mycroft understand him in a way nobody else ever could. Sod the law. It was meant to protect minors and save people who were dependent from their relatives from abuse and of course it should prevent the birth of sick children. Nothing of these factors applied to the Holmes brothers. They were both men, they were adults, they were independent. It was just stupid to say their love was wrong because of morals that may be great for the masses but not for these two unique individuals. Greg would never allow anything to happen to either of them. But of course Mycroft could look after himself, and he would always look after Sherlock.

Greg didn’t fancy Sherlock. Perhaps he would have if he had been gay. But it would have been a lost cause as he would have never been a rival for Mycroft. Nobody was.

“Hey, earth to Greg.”

“Sorry, love. Shall we make out now?”

“Will you be thinking of Sherlock Holmes when we do?”

Greg laughed. “Why are you so obsessed with him all at once? You've never met him!”

“I'm not but you are. He can be glad to have you in his life.”

Greg kissed her. That might be even true; after all Greg gave him cases and watched out for him. But he could be even gladder to have Mycroft and finally Sherlock had understood that, too.

Sherlock And Mycroft

“You promised.” Sherlock crossed his arms.

“But… I bought them for you!”

“And I will wear them but I want to see you in them first.”

Mycroft sighed. “I will look ridiculous.”

“No you won't.”

They had spent a wonderful Christmas Day. Sherlock had called Mrs Hudson after unwrapping the appealing shirt, and John and Lestrade had texted him to thank him for the socks, which had made him grin.

He and Mycroft had had dinner together and listened to more Christmas music, and Sherlock wasn't that unhappy that this particular chore would be over very soon as tomorrow Christmas would be done.

And after taking care of the dishes, he had dragged Mycroft into the bedroom, where the painting was awaiting them on the wall already, and he had taken the kinky underwear Mycroft had got him with them as well as the remaining candy canes.

Mycroft looked a bit stressed now but Sherlock showed no mercy. He knew his brother would love it in the end so he should be brave and get it over with. Sherlock held out the pink panties. “Put them on. Now.”

“You're a cruel big-brother-bully,” Mycroft accused and Sherlock chuckled.

“I am and you know what else I am? The one who is going to give you a juicy blowjob through these fancy things.”

“Okay, if you put it like this… But if you laugh, I will run out of the house, crying!”

“I won't laugh.”

And Sherlock didn’t. He turned his back to his brother so he could get dressed undisturbed, and when he turned around, he almost fainted at the sight of his hairy brother in nothing but a tiny bit of silk. He licked his lips and saw his brother relax.

“You really like the view.”

“Dammit, yes! But it's not complete!” Sherlock had taken the plastic from two of the candy canes and now he draped them over Mycroft's nipples. He grinned and produced his phone from his pocket.

“Oh no!”

But Sherlock had made the picture before his brother could really react. “Damn. That's blackmail material for the next four decades!”

“Ghastly little brother!” Mycroft moved to take the phone from his hand and of course lost the canes.

Sherlock giggled and wrapped his arms around him. “I'm just kidding, love. I will delete it if you insist. But I would love to keep it, very secure of course!”

“If you show it to John…”

Sherlock was aghast. “Of course I won't! It's just for me!” He took his phone again. “Okay, I will…”

“No. Keep it. I'm sorry I thought you could do that. But we'd better not frame it, too.”

Sherlock smiled and pressed him close. “Thank you. Thank you for everything, brother mine. For this month of excitement and fun and sex and for the presents and for being you.”

Mycroft blinked heftily. “Oh Sherlock. Ditto! I enjoyed this journey so much. And it will be my happiest day when you move in with me.”

Sherlock knew it would be his one as well. What had appeared to him impossible only weeks ago had become inevitable. “Next week, hm?”

“Yes. Definitely. I can't wait.”

They kissed for a long moment before Sherlock urged his brother to lie down on the bed. “I want to ravish you now.” He put the candy canes back in place. They looked awesome, snuggling to his brother's big nipples.

Mycroft had given up any protesting. “I'm yours. Do with me as you wish.”

And Sherlock was all over him the next second.


Mycroft grinned when he imagined the PM could see him now – wearing women's underwear that contrasted weirdly with his hairy male body, being licked and sucked through said underwear by his beautiful baby brother, his nipples decorated with sweets. It felt awesome and he wondered why he had even refused putting the underwear on in the first place. It should have been clear that he would surrender to Sherlock's pleas anyway.

His large cock was tenting the expensive fabric obscenely and damn, it looked strange but definitely hot, and it felt even better. Sherlock was going at it fiercely and he was obviously enjoying himself quite a lot.

Eventually the soaked panties were removed from his body and they were even still in one piece. Sherlock turned around and straddled him, presenting his fantastic arse to him in a silent plea to prepare him for a ride.

Mycroft took the lubricant and opened Sherlock up on his fingers, and eventually he took one of the candy canes and gently slid it in. Sherlock chuckled and turned around. “And? How do I look with sugar up my arse?”

“Gorgeous.” And he did. Mycroft took Sherlock's phone that was still lying on the nightstand and took a picture. “Look?”

Sherlock laughed and took the phone. “Damn! That's hot! Can you do one when I've started riding you?”

They had opened the gate wide now but Mycroft didn’t mind. As long as the pictures were secured and for their eyes only, he was fine with them. And in such a picture they were not even recognisable. So when Sherlock had lowered himself on him and taken him in inch by inch, he gathered enough self-control to take a few pictures before concentrating on fucking his brother, meeting his bouncing with hard thrusts of his own, and they were riding on waves of pleasure, his eyes glued to the point where their bodies were connected so intimately, and his hands were kneading Sherlock's plush cheeks and caressing him until his bottom half seemed to fly off the bed and he released himself deep in his brother, at once followed by hot fluid splashing onto his thighs.

Panting and searching for more closeness, they found each other in a deep, loving kiss as soon as Sherlock had disentangled for him and crawled into his arms.

They were sticky and filthy and Mycroft loved it. He pulled the blanket over them and stroked Sherlock's sweaty hair. “Merry Christmas, brother mine.”

And Sherlock beamed at him and kissed him once more. “Merry Christmas, Mycroft.”

And their lips found each other for another dance of love and trust and devotion, and Mycroft thought of all the things to follow – Sherlock moving in with him, going on holiday together, even John's and Bobbie's wedding and all the moments they would share and all the lovely things they would do, and he knew that wonderful times were ahead of them, and he would cherish every minute spent with his awesome little brother, the man he had always loved and would love forever.

Merry Christmas indeed!

The End