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Part 3 of Mycroft Holmes and Sherlock Holmes; A Brother's Tale of Love
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2021-12-07
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2023-01-15
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Chapter 7: Home Again

Summary:

First of all, shout out to my new Beta reader, S0RT_0F_CRA2Y, who really helped polish this chapter and was incredibly diligent in getting through it all (they went above and beyond and even read some of the previous installments in this series to better help me with this chapter!). So once again, thank you S0RT_0F_CRA2Y for all your help!!

Any remaining mistakes are my own fault.

Summary of chapter: Mycroft, on medical leave from his gun wound, finally comes home. Who's there to greet him but the bane and hope of his life, Sherlock. And an unfortunate (wet) accident leads the boys to come closer than they had in years.

Chapter Text

There was surely no greater humiliation than to be wheeled into the foyer of the house he had been walking around since before he could remember. Mycroft bit his lip and did his best to keep the sour taste of shame from overfilling his stomach.

“Well, me and Mummy did our best to make some accommodations. Of course, we moved you to the guest room downstairs so that you might have a bit of an easier time, what with the stairs...” Daddy was attempting to fill the silence and Mycroft wasn’t sure how helpful it was.

 “Thank you. Where is Sherlock?”

“He’s upstairs, has been sleeping mostly, but we told him you’d be coming,” Mummy said softly. 

“Have you now? How did he take that?” Before Mummy could respond there was the sound of uneven footsteps on the staircase and then the familiar tone of Sherlock’s voice, marred only by a slight drag. 

“Getting old, Mycie? Can’t deduce the simplest shit now?” Sherlock’s voice was slurred and Mycroft turned to see his little brother slide his way down the stairs in a manner befitting a drunk. Come to think of it, he indeed appeared drunk. 

“Good afternoon, brother mine. Mummy, has he been given anything?” 

“Oh, um, yes. We’ve decided to try him on some medications again. We hoped that they might help with his panic attacks. He had a rather bad fit a few hours ago so he took two pills and went to bed.” Mummy did not sound pleased at all with this new development, and Mycroft didn’t blame her. Medicating Sherlock had never worked out when he was a child diagnosed with ADHD. And to be slowed down was certainly a nightmare that Mycroft couldn’t imagine coping with. 

“The fuck you gave me two pills!” Sherlock snorted, wobbling down the last step haphazardly, he only then seemed to realise that Mycroft wasn’t sitting on a chair, but rather that he was seated on a wheelchair. “The fuck happened to you?” 

“Eloquent,” Mycroft clicked in disapproval. He almost made to get up when the tensing of his muscles swiftly reminded him of why he was chair-bound. “Daddy, if it is not too much trouble, I’d appreciate being resituated in my bedroom. I’m afraid I’ve grown rather fatigued from my flight.” 

“Of course, Violet love, why don’t you get Sherlock some tea?” Daddy said meaningfully, “If he’s up, he might as well be really up.” 

Mycroft was wheeled into the guestroom and, unironically, felt like a stranger in his own home. Daddy had to help him stand and get back into bed after questioning if he needed any assistance to use the bathroom, to which Mycroft hastily refused. There were some things he could not fathom asking help for. 

“If you need anything, give me a ring, I’ll have my cell on me all day now, alright? Mummy will be in with the tea soon.” Daddy adjusted the duvets around Mycroft and patted them down, perhaps more in an attempt to sooth the shaking of his hands than to really make the bedding any more comfortable. 

Mycroft sighed softly and took his father’s hands in his, smoothing out the alarming number of wrinkles. How had time passed so fast? 

“I’m alright Daddy, I’ll be up on my own feet in no time.”

“Will you ever tell us—,”

“In time, perhaps,” Mycroft interrupted, “But I cannot for the moment. If I get notification from my superiors that you have been cleared for this, then I will. For the moment, you’ll have to let be with what I’ve told you.” His words didn’t seem to comfort his father much, but they neither seemed to affect him negatively. Daddy gave him a nod and with a tight squeeze to his eldest son’s hands, took his leave of the room.

A few hours after Mummy had come and left, and the tea had been served and savoured, Mycroft realised his error. Having not used the loo since leaving the hospital (and the catheter) he had already been slightly uncomfortable, now he was verging on pain. Any longer and he was in danger of wetting the bed—a fate perhaps only slightly better than having his mother or father help him to the toilet. 

Mycroft twiddled his fingers for a moment, weighing his options. He pulled the duvets back, revealing his rather plain pyjamas which he got at the hospital (better than the blasted gown) and the large bulge from the bandages around his upper thigh. Swallowing his nausea, Mycroft attempted to rotate his body to the edge of the bed, just twisting at his hips. 

Instantly, the pain seared through his leg—almost blinding in its sheer intensity. Mycroft choked on a half-formed scream and bit his lip viciously. The last thing he needed was for Mummy or Daddy to see him like this. With blood pounding in his ears, and the pain still violently spasming through his nerves with each pulse of blood, Mycroft moved again.

For a moment, it seemed painless. Then the pain snapped through his leg again, all the way down to his ankle and up his spine. 

The pain caused him to cry out, faster than he could have stopped himself. 

For a moment, the pain was all Mycroft could feel—until a warmth trailed down his leg. Alarm caused him to look down, terrified that he might have torn a stitch, but it wasn’t blood which stained his trousers. 

Shame consumed him as he realised he had wet himself and Mycroft felt close to hysterics. He was barely at a forty-five degree angle from the edge of the bed yet already his transport had failed him—unable to control itself through the shocking agony of movement. 

For a moment, Mycroft thought of calling his father, the child inside him longed for that comfort of a parent’s helping hand. The shame of his sins and the shame of his person quickly threw that thought away. 

Don’t you dare! You do not deserve help—you do not deserve kindness! A familiar voice whispered viciously in his ear. The thoughts, while normally instantly banished for their uselessness, gave Mycroft a rather grisly idea. 

With some trepidation, Mycroft brought himself into his mind palace. He walked the corridor to the lift which took him swiftly down to the darkest depths of his mind. It looked like an unused library—dusty and old. And at the back there was a familiar bookcase with a false book.

The book in which, as an adolescent, Mycroft had stored his more private amenities. He opened it now and pulled a key from the box. From there he travelled to the door at the far end of the library. The door was clean, and stood in stark contrast to the dark filth of its surroundings. Mycroft unlocked the door and walked into his corridor of forbidden memories.

His baby brother sat on his thighs and used small hands and fingers to follow lines and curves from his neck to his collarbone.

He spat into his hand and batted his little brother’s hand away before gripping the boy’s cock in his fist. His fist covered the entirety of his brother’s prick and it caused a flush of warmth to spread up and down his body. He began to move his fist, only a small amount of motion needed, and gave squeezes to encourage baby brother’s little aborted thrusts. 

The memories turned sour then; Sherlock’s face of pleasure morphing into an expression of pain and fear. The resulting wave of guilt and shame whipping through Mycroft demanded urgent punishment.

There was a red siren of alarm blaring in Mycroft’s mind. The disgust and repulsion poured over his body like a sludge of insects, crawling and squirming and needing to be killed. Mycroft stuffed his palm into his mouth and bit down harshly, the pain—far too little—was a sample of relief. Mycroft braced himself before violently swinging off the bed and crashing on his injured leg down on the hardwood floor.

The instantaneous pain was like the shock of snapping a bone, quick on the onset and rapidly growing worse. Mycroft tasted blood and saw white and red flash over his vision—even blacking out for seconds at a time, with the sound of his heart pounding away like a bass drum in his ear. Then there came the loathsome realisation that he had failed to maintain control over his traitorous body—a puddle of urine pooled around him and stretched down to his uncurled leg. Red tainted the mostly yellowish liquid and that set the alarm bells resounding in Mycroft’s brain.

He must have torn a stitch. Panic reminiscent of the very moment he received this wound pounded through Mycroft’s brain. He began to desperately search for his phone, seeing with dismay that he had left it on the bed out of his immediate reach.

As though some malevolent being had decided to make his life worse, the guest-room door opened and Sherlock marched in. He was naked, but for a pair of old and loose trousers, and was holding a piece of toast in his hand. Yet as soon as he saw Mycroft on the floor, he closed the door behind him, dropped his toast on the nightstand, and turned on the soft lamplight. 

“Do you have a suture kit?” He asked briskly, pulling Mycroft’s leg out from under him and straightening it, unnoticing, or perhaps uncaring of, the puddle of piss under his brother.

Mycroft gasped, the sound muffled by the hand in his mouth and then realising his brother had asked him a question managed to remove the abused appendage; his hand, too, was now bleeding.

“In—in my du—duffle.” He managed at last. Sherlock glanced up from where his attention was fixed on Mycroft’s thigh, and frowned.

“What did you do to your hand?” Without waiting for a response, Sherlock took Mycroft’s hand and examined it. The touch of his skin was both familiar and warm, as well as electric and alarming. 

“B-bit it.” Mycroft pulled his hand back. He had not yet locked the door to that forbidden room, and so the shame and disgust at the sight of his nude ten-year-old brother was far too volatile for him to maintain any form of eye-contact with the same, now sixteen-year-old, brother. 

“Obviously,” Sherlock snorted, though he didn’t look very nonchalant at all. If anything, his hand shook a little. He got up and quickly searched Mycroft’s duffle, finding the first-aid kit alongside the trauma-kit. “Do you need the tourniquet?” He threw over his shoulder.

“No! Gods, no! It’s n-not bleeding th-that much anyhow.” Sherlock came back with both kits and with a precision which perhaps was benefited by his not-so-legal medical experience, threw on a pair of gloves, got out the antiseptic and some cotton swabs, then prepared the suture kit. He straddled Mycroft’s calf, not sitting down on it of course, but balancing on his shins on either side. 

Mycroft swallowed the brief flare of arousal and felt shame quickly take its place. Sherlock was quite literally kneeling in a puddle of Mycroft’s piss, the yellow liquid quickly drenching Sherlock’s grey trousers and making them tellingly dark. Mycroft tried to shift, quickly reconsidering as the pain blasted through his leg and threatened to blind him. “M-maybe you should g-get up? Don’t you need me in th-the light?” He desperately needed to remove himself from this situation—out of this pool of piss—and for his own sanity he needed Sherlock out of it too. 

“Not my first time sitting in your piss…” Sherlock muttered. “Here just hold this.” Mycroft almost choked and barely caught the torch Sherlock passed him. Obediently (and silent from shame), Mycroft turned it on and shone the beam on his leg. Feeling a burning heat on his face when he spotted how his brother’s trousers had darkened from the piss. But the pain in his leg came back with a vicious vengeance when it was jolsted by Sherlock, and he was subsequently hurtled from his rumination.

Sherlock cut the leg of the trousers along the seam to better access Mycroft’s wound and then proceeded to remove the bandages slowly with the same sharp scissors. It was quickly apparent that two stitches had torn, leaving blood and damaged tissue exposed. The wound was not infected but was greatly irritated and inflamed. Sherlock frowned suddenly, recognizing the shape of the wound. “Wait. This is a gunshot. Mummy didn’t say you were in a gunfight. She said you had an accident. What the hell were you doing?”

Sherlock’s anger was tampered by the panic which was all too reminiscent of when he was a boy. Mycroft remained silent, watching his brother remove the torn stitches and wash the area with saline and then iodine. 

“I—I can’t share the confidentials. I was in a small f-firefight. One of the stray bullets got me. I think that’s all I can sh-share.” Mycroft winced as his brother pulled out the curved needle and efficiently stabbed the epidermis around the wound.

“I suppose I’ll have to deduce the rest, but my knowledge on politics is limited, so I have no idea why you were in Russia to begin with. I’ll guess it was some sort of intelligence mission. I’m going to also guess that you failed in that goal.” 

 Mycroft frowned, wincing, “Yes, well, no need to rub— fuck —rub it in.” Sherlock gave a half-hearted smirk and Mycroft felt his heart beat warmly at the sight despite the painfully sharp pinches to his skin. 

Sherlock finished tying the stitch in silence but upon reaching for the clean bandages seemed to reconsider. He blushed a tad as he glanced down to where Mycroft still sat in a puddle of his own piss and blood. “D’you want to wash maybe? Before I put new wraps?”

Mycroft felt his face burst in flames of embarrassment once again, and nodded mutely. Sherlock got up and Mycroft winced at the sight of the dark, wet fabric of his brother’s trousers, soaked in his piss—a fact he had momentarily forgotten.

Sherlock seemed mostly indifferent—his earlier comment ringing rather true for himself too. He offered Mycroft a hand and then shouldered his brother’s weight as they made their shuffling way to the loo. 

“I’ll clean up that mess, just—,” Sherlock hesitated, his eyes trained on the floor near Mycroft’s feet, “Try to take off your pyjamas, we’ll need to get you a new pair anyway.” He left before Mycroft had a chance to respond—which was just as well, since Mycroft didn’t know what to say. 

He managed to take off his shirt without too much difficulty, finding that the hem had gotten a tad wet from where he sat, but struggled with his trousers. He managed to slip them under his hips yet failed to get them under his thighs, the pain of movement far too raw to bear on his own. 

Shamefully, he struggled for the entire duration that Sherlock hovered outside the loo, cleaning his accident, and still couldn’t get more than partway down his thighs. He was sweating by the end of it, panting with exertion and blinking away tears of pain and embarrassment. 

“No luck?” Sherlock was suddenly leaning against the doorframe. A casual pose, if not for the stiffness of his limbs. Mycroft couldn’t help but notice how his brother was eyeing his body, trying to be quick and discreet about it. Yet for some reason, Mycroft couldn’t understand if it was indifference, surprise, or anxiety in his brother’s expression when those ever-shifting eyes scanned him; nonetheless the experience was not comforting. 

“I’m sorry. The angle…” Mycroft trailed off, grateful when Sherlock stopped his intense surveillance of him. Sherlock sighed, a ruse if ever there was one, and walked to his brother. His hands were shaking as he dragged the hem of Mycroft’s trousers down past the stitches and off his long legs. He was exceedingly gentle in his motions, despite appearing annoyed and irritated.

The only sound was that of Mycroft’s slowing breaths and Sherlock’s quickening ones. Sherlock threw the soiled trousers in the tub and then quickly reached for Mycroft’s pants.

Sharply, Mycroft grabbed his brother’s wrists, their eyes meeting in a heated and terribly tense glare. 

“You need a new pair,” Sherlock said monotonously. His fists clenched tighter on the elastic, perhaps to hide the intensity of their shakiness. Mycroft grit his teeth. 

“It’s. Fine.” 

“You want to sleep with piss-wet pants, be my fucking guest. But if you wake with a rash, don’t blame me.” Sherlock did not budge away however, and it was clear that he knew he won this fight.

Mycroft swore a hundred different oaths in his mind and roughly let go of his brother’s wrists. His mind was blanking; panic and desire fighting like two alley cats over the scraps of his mental focus. He leaned back, glaring at the ceiling, and breathing harshly through his nose as Sherlock briskly set to removing his pants and revealing his rapidly hardening cock. 

Mycroft winced and shut his eyes, begging his body to stop. To not betray him. 

To have mercy on him just this once .

The sound of water made him glance to the sink where Sherlock wet a towel with some soapy, warm, water. He turned back to Mycroft and began, deceptively, at the bottom of his legs. 

Mycroft shut his eyes, unable to see his brother kneeling before him without having some horridly pornographic thoughts. Please, just once in your life, have some fucking decency, you pervert! The voice demanded, almost pleading. 

The silence was broken with Sherlock wetting the towel with warm water again and rinsing the soap off Mycroft’s legs. He now moved up to his thighs, and Mycroft couldn’t stop himself from glancing at his, not-so-little-anymore, brother’s face. 

He was both alarmed and somehow unsurprised by what he saw there. There was frustration clear and evident, be it sexual frustration or just ordinary frustration it didn’t matter. There was also desire; deep, painful, desire. There was also concentration and concern—care and dedication.

Those iridescent, ever-shifting, blue-green eyes snapped up to match Mycroft’s deducing gaze. And Mycroft hid. He threw his shields up desperately. The resulting disappointment and hurt in Sherlock’s face was far more painful than the bullet in his leg. 

It ached. It burned. It was sore like a bruise on the most sensitive part of Mycroft’s frozen heart. It pounded like the last beat before death—frantic and pleading—yet hopeless and despairing. 

Sherlock continued to clean his brother’s legs, but his motions were slower, as though he were savouring this contact for what it was—all he would ever get from his brother.

Mycroft gasped slightly as Sherlock passed around his wound, but it wasn’t the physical pain which caused him to break. He felt tears stream down his face like trails of blood. Soft and warm as they passed over his cheeks; bright and cold as they fell on his thighs. 

Sherlock saw them. And stopped in his motions to look at Mycroft, who was far too weak to put up his shields again. 

Naked, injured, vulnerable—Mycroft had never felt so defenceless in his life.

And so when Sherlock cupped his face in one hand, he leaned into it with desperation. Feeling weak and pathetic, yet so incredibly desperate.

“Why did you do this to us?” Sherlock whispered softly, his voice somehow calm in the wake of such tumultuous emotions. 

Mycroft wished he could answer. He wished he could have said no that night when his brother had been ten years old and so damn curious.

He wished he could go back to his seventeen-year-old self and whip him bloody for what he had started. 

He wished he could have forgotten everything. 

He wished the bloody gun had fucking worked that night when he was twenty-one. 

His shock when Sherlock leaned in and stole a kiss from him, was understandable. His subsequent flame of desire and arousal was not. Even his self-disgust and hatred could not quench the sudden ignition of need in his stomach. It was with a furious desperation that he reached out and pulled his brother closer, that his hands tugged on familiar curls with jealous rage.

Why couldn’t he have this? Why was it forbidden?  

Greed and hunger overtook his consciousness, conflicting arousal and guilt to make him mad. Sherlock parted from him with a loud smacking sound, pausing a breath away while his eyes blazed like methane-burning flames. He leaned in again and viciously bit Mycroft’s lower lip with what felt like possessive fury. 

“Where’s she now?” He hissed darkly. Mycroft was confused for a moment, lost in the scent of his brother’s hair and skin. When Sherlock gripped his hair and pulled his head back suddenly and sharply, he started.

“Who?”

“You know who. You know exactly who.” Sherlock’s voice was vicious and Mycroft realised that he was referencing the staged relationship with Anthea. 

“We’re not together anymore,” he said slowly, feeling Sherlock let go of his hair. 

“Get on the floor,” Sherlock said quietly.

“I can’t.” 

“Get. On. The. Floor.” Sherlock grabbed Mycroft’s arm and yanked him off the toilet seat with little regard. Mycroft managed to adjust so that he fell on his back but it didn’t stop the jolt of searing pain in his leg and he cried out just as Sherlock came to stand over him.

“Sherlock, please!” Mycroft wasn’t sure what he was asking for—for mercy? For forgiveness? For more?

“You swore I was the only one you loved. Yet, I saw you and her together. And you loved her.” Sherlock was furious, yet the growing tent in his trousers was what made Mycroft worry. 

“Sherlock, you know we can’t do this. You have to move on!” 

“Oh, but I can’t ,” Sherlock laughed, but it was a dark and hopeless laugh, one which made Mycroft’s blood run cold. “See, you’ve ruined everyone for me. All I look for in others—is you. Obviously, they aren’t you, so I fail…Every. Fucking. Time.” Sherlock started to untie the drawstring on his trousers, his eyes somewhat distant, “So it’s not fair that you can move on and I can’t. You shouldn’t have anyone if I can’t have anyone. You’re mine, Mycroft. You shouldn’t forget that.” 

Sherlock stepped back a tad and dropped his trousers midthigh, revealing a semi-erect cock which was horrifyingly familiar. Mycroft felt his heart race so fast he feared he was having a heart attack, he forced himself to look up at his little brother, and demanded his damn mouth to work.

“Sherlock what are you doing?” 

Sherlock cupped his cock and he aimed it at Mycroft’s face. “Making sure you won’t forget.”

The sudden jet of piss that hit Mycroft’s face was as hot as blood. It was pungent and steaming and Mycroft wasn’t sure if to be horrified and try to crawl away, or if to keep silent and simply take the humiliation.

Sherlock said nothing, even as he adjusted to piss directly on Mycroft’s hair and then on his lips and down his chest. His face was as cold as stone, expressionless and blank—not even a trace of sympathy behind those damned beautiful eyes.

The stream ended quickly but even as Mycroft sat on the floor, his face, hair, and chest dripping with his brother’s piss, he could tell that Sherlock was not finished with him. 

The boy moved closer, “open.” The demand was given just as Sherlock shifted to hover over Mycroft’s chest, his cock far too close to his elder brother’s face.

“Sherlock—” Mycroft knew he should reason with his brother, though really, he did not want to fight this—did not even want to offer a token of resistance. This was, after all, what his brother thought suited him. A punishment to further his penitence. 

Open .” The word booked no refusal, and Mycroft was helpless to listen. He tilted his head up, and opened his mouth—obedient and quiet.

His little brother instantly pushed his salty prick in, dipping deep into Mycroft’s mouth before pulling out and then repeating the process. He pumped into Mycroft’s mouth slowly and then placed a hand behind Mycroft’s head, gripping his wet, red hair dangerously tight.

The fucking started then. 

Mycroft barely had a chance to breath before Sherlock pushed his cock deeper down his throat, it was by some miracle that all his gags heaved nothing more than spittle which now joined the drying piss on his jaw and chest. 

Disgusting.

Deserved.

Sherlock began panting and suddenly his thighs convulsed and he came down Mycroft’s throat with a small, weak, and terribly familiar cry. 

Instantly, Sherlock’s demeanour changed. He crumpled into a heap on the floor beside Mycroft and began sobbing. Heaving giant, breaking wet breaths and burying his face into his arms.

Mycroft swallowed the taste of his brother, cursing the part of him which searched for familiarity, and reached for the now cold and wet towel. He wiped his face from most of the spit and piss and gave his chest a brief wipe down before pulling Sherlock to him and embracing his little brother.

He had no idea why Sherlock did what he did, he had even less of an idea how he felt about the matter, at least outside of his self-destructive desires, but what he knew for certain was that Sherlock desperately needed to know he hadn’t messed up. 

“I’m s-sorry!” Sherlock gasped, shuddering as his brother held him tight.

“Shhh,” Mycroft coughed and winced at the soreness of his throat, “Shh, it’s ok.” 

“Oh gods, what have I done?” Sherlock cried, lifting his face to stare at Mycroft in horror. Mycroft pushed his brother’s hair back from his face and swiped at his tears with his thumbs.

“Nothing near what I have, brother mine. I forgive you.” 

“Myc—,” Sherlock’s eyes overflooded again and he pushed his face to his brother’s chest, sobbing loudly and shaking uncontrollably. “I’m so sorry!”

Mycroft soothed his hand up and down Sherlock’s back, tracing familiar molecules on his brother’s skin, feeling himself delve into memories far gone and far too close. 

“G-glucose”

“No that was sucrose, try again, Lockie…” 

“D-Dopamine?” 

“There you go… focus now…”

“Serotonin.”

Sherlock eventually stopped shaking, his breathing slowed down and his tears had dried to angry red trailmarks. He got up, pulling his trousers up as he did, and reached for the cold towel. He sniffed as he washed and warmed it up again, coming back to sit by his brother and gently cleaned the remains of piss, spit and sweat off his chest. 

Silence enveloped them again, neither knowing if this meant things were mended, or if things just got a whole lot worse. Mycroft was light-headed, and hard. He only noticed the latter when Sherlock passed the warm cloth over his cock.

He gasped softly, and Sherlock instantly looked at him. His eyes said nothing, his face almost unreadable to Mycroft. Yet, he maintained that burning eye-contact.

The silence of the bathroom was as oppressive as a heavy smog. It sank around them and deafened them to everything which wasn’t pure physical sensation.

Sherlock pulled the warm cloth over his brother’s hard cock again.

The motion made Mycroft shake, his uninjured leg spread out instinctively and he heard Sherlock inhale sharply. 

There was a pause of hesitation from Sherlock, his eyes darting to Mycroft’s face before quickly retreating to the safer space of his covered cock. 

Sherlock dragged the towelette up and down again.

Mycroft’s gasp was shaky.

It was with sudden, and unforeseen confidence which made Sherlock grip his brother’s hard cock through the towel. Holding the stiff member in his hand in a tight, warm, grip. 

Sherlock glanced upward again, his eyes dark as night, and his lips red from how much he had bitten them. He spoke aloud nothing, but his face said everything. 

The fear and trepidation was only tampered by the sheer intensity of arousal and hope and Mycroft was helpless to do anything but look away as he nodded, unable to give his consent while watching the sin he was indulging in. 

Sherlock removed the towel, and slicked his hand with some of the same body soap he had used before, and returned to grip his brother firmly at the stem of his cock. Mycroft couldn’t stop his gasp.

“Shhh,” Sherlock whispered—a warning. Then he started up at a fierce pace, vigorously tossing Mycroft off. And it took no time at all for Mycroft to taste the peak coming. 

This was Sherlock —his forbidden desire—doing what he had for so long dreamt of, and for even longer dreaded. 

Suddenly, his orgasm was there and Mycroft didn’t want it. He didn’t want to finish and come back to himself. He didn’t want to end and break this spell of bliss. He reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s hand. 

Sherlock whipped his focus to Mycroft’s face, wide eyes plainly displaying his fear, but upon seeing Mycroft’s half-lidded gaze he gave a small knowing nod. He circled his pointer finger around the slit of his brother’s cock, watching as Mycroft tossed his head back and breathed

Sherlock slid his hand upwards, pulling his brother’s foreskin over the head and then back down to reveal the red, weeping slit. He watched Mycroft’s face closely and, when Mycroft opened his eyes, saw the deepest desire reflected in his brother’s eyes.

He watched, hypnotised as Sherlock leaned forward and tilted his head, just so. When their lips met this time it was like the flame of a candle.

Flickering, small, brief, inconspicuous. 

Then burning and searing, igniting and devouring. Growing like wildfire and licking along  all of Mycroft’s skin. He inhaled his brother and wanted to sob from the incredible unity of the moment. Their lips parted for air, and then rejoined for love which, both lacking sorely for, desperately took.

Urgency fogged Mycroft’s mind and he guided Sherlock’s hand up and down his shaft, desperately needing to feel the sinful pleasure of his baby brother’s lips as he reached the cliff which he was to jump off of. 

As he fell, he saw his brother, at all stages of his life, grow before him. 

Sherlock at birth, a clever babbling baby. 

Sherlock as a toddler, curious and daring. 

Sherlock at ten, sweet and charming, brighter than ever. 

Sherlock at fourteen, beautiful and hopeful. 

Sherlock now, dark and handsome, the last kisses of youth still present in his eyes and cheeks. 

“Myc?”

At once, the reality of what he had just done… of what he had allowed to happen, crashed into Mycroft. And the bile which rose to his throat made a threatening attempt at escape. 

“You need to go, Sherlock. Now,” Mycroft rasped.

Sherlock grabbed his hand and his voice shook with a mixture of desperation and fierce anger, “No! You aren’t doing this again! You can’t just keep running from what we are!” 

“I can and I will! This is wrong! Get out now!” Mycroft barely suppressed the tinge of terror in his voice, managing to cover it with frustration and agitation. Sherlock was fuming. 

“I can’t fucking believe you. Why do I even try?” His hands clenched into fists and Mycroft forced himself not to wince when Sherlock’s punch hit his face. 

Of course he could only prevent so much of nature’s physics and he fell backwards on the slippery floor. Sherlock was already gone. 

Miserably, it took Mycroft far too long to drag himself close enough to the bath to use the water and wash his hair of piss. Then use the towel to clean the rest of his body. He then gave the floor a poor mopping (while struggling to stay seated in the same position) with that same towel before throwing it in the tub. 

He eventually dragged himself near his bed, still nude, and, having given up on attempting to stand to reach the comfortable sheets, he pulled the duvets to the floor and slept on that. It was hardly the worst way he’d fallen asleep.

He only hoped his parents wouldn’t find him before he woke up.