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The Holmes family manor is less a home and more a shrine, these days. Entire wings go for days without a single visitor, save for the staff assigned to dust and otherwise tidy the wide, immaculate spaces. Priceless artwork and collectibles lie unappreciated. Tapestries and tasteful accents are arranged and re-arranged for no purpose at all. Even the rich carpeting shows no signs of tread or wear; every fiber seems to have been combed over, hiding the odd maid's footprint.

Sherlock delights in leaving his mark. He rarely visits his childhood home anymore, but when he does, the temptation to upset all of that sterile perfection is too great. He wanders all over the place, moving things off-center, deliberately fingerprinting the vases, undoing greenery arrangements. Antique items are tipped over with exquisite care. Statues are turned backwards. He is a nuisance, but he figures he may as well give the staff something to do before they rot of boredom.

He always ends his walkabout with his old nursery, the one he inhabited until he turned twelve and moved to a more permanent suite in the east wing. The place is just as pristine as the rest: his old books, clothes, even the remnants of childhood experiments sitting exactly where he left them on the day he moved out. (Or, to be more specific, they sit where they would have been if he hadn't knocked everything to the floor in a fit of pique that very day. His twelfth birthyear had coincided with Mycroft's graduation from uni, the fat smug sod.)

Sherlock enters the nursery with much more care than he shows any other room in the manor. Something about the pale blue and navy trim stills him down to the bones. He closes the door and breathes in; it smells of bedsheets, new carpeting (new, as in, replaced after he'd vacated and scarcely used since), and dust. Sherlock quirks a faint smile. It shouldn't smell of dust, not if the staff are doing their jobs properly. Probably off shagging each other in the broom cupboard again. It doesn't matter how many times the staff are replaced—the interlopers always, always end up in that same broom cupboard.

He smooths his hand over the coverlet neatly tucked across his old bed. It's free of dimples and dust. So they've been taking the time to change and flip the bedding, at least. Sherlock abruptly wonders if some extremely naughty couple might have been using this very bed for their liaisons. Oh, my. Wouldn't that be untoward, having illicit sex on the employer's clock, in the employer's child's bed. And if they were caught...

Sherlock wets his lips slightly and presses his hand into the downy comforter. His brain has no trouble supplying the scenario. A woman splayed flat on her back, sensible shoes kicked up in the air, knee-length skirt rucked up around her waist (Mummy's a traditionalist when it comes to work attire, bless her), slender female fingers clenched at the edge of the mattress; between her spread thighs is a man's bare arse, clenching, shuddering, damp with cooling sweat, rocking them both in sharp, fierce jerks; his cock slick and engorged, her breath coming in thin gasps when he rubs her just so; and above all else they must be silent, because the lady of the house is sharp-eyed and as unforgiving as the marble strewn throughout her halls.

Ah. There. Sherlock plucks up a single blonde hair, a long filament utterly out of place in this room. It's possible a maid shed it by accident as she changed the bedclothes, but when he takes it to the desk and examines it under his old microscope, he finds it's been yanked out by the root. He neatly coils the hair and sticks it in his pocket. Not conclusive, of course, but interesting nonetheless. Perhaps later he'll go over the room with a UV lamp to be sure.

Even given the triviality of it, Sherlock finds he's a bit more unsatisfied with his finding than he might've expected. It's all so pedestrian. A man and a woman, coworkers, bored out of their tiny ape brains, who find (no, work up to, they're repeat offenders) the most inappropriate location for their sordid little rendezvous—well, one of the most inappropriate locations, and one far less likely to be discovered than Lady Holmes' bedchamber. A scenario repeated over and over and over, ad infinitum, ad nauseum. Nothing new. Nothing interesting.

The only point of appeal, Sherlock supposes, is the location. He looks around his old nursery again, taking in the surroundings with a critical air. Imagines a young child pulling clothing from the closet; sitting before the desk to finish his notes on the effects of lemon juice on tadpoles; kneeling on the rug to haphazardly tie a shoelace. Superimposing those images with the adult world of sexuality is... hm.

Sherlock drapes his jacket over the chair and sits down on the bed, perching in a contemplative manner. Down to shirtsleeves, he feels more exposed. Less removed, somehow. He recalls a thousand days and nights in this very room, sitting on this same bed, in much the same manner. He was much smaller then. Lighter. Delicate. Innocent, perhaps, to a point.

(Sherlock learned of rape at age nine, and sex at age ten. Mycroft had been careful to differentiate between the two in his explanations, only separating the similarities—there are many and there are none—on the latter occasion, when Sherlock had been confused by all of the seemingly legal rape happening on telly. Mycroft never minced words with his little brother. He always gave Sherlock exactly what he wanted to know, and just that—until Sherlock learned to ask the right questions.)

Mycroft. Smug, annoying git that he is. Perfectly tailored down to the umbrella, never a thread out of place. He certainly wouldn't leave any incriminating evidence, if he chose to conduct some sort of illicit affair. Sherlock grins. He will be drawn and quartered and dead before he'll admit it, but it gives him a nasty sort of satisfaction to think of Mycroft fucking some staff member, some helpless peon who wouldn't dare make a peep during or afterward. Oh, they'd love it, of course; no Holmes would dream of giving a second-rate performance. But it would be a fair few minutes of hot, sweating desperation, a crash of bliss, and a crisp farewell after.

Mycroft would probably make said peon change the bedding, too. And he'd never, ever leave a hair behind to tell the tale.

Sherlock rubs his fingers over the pocket containing that blonde hair. A shiver of sensation radiates inward from that light pressure. He looks down, surprised and a little curious. His cock seems to appreciate something about this line of thinking. Is it the sex itself? Unlikely. Sex in general bores him to (non-literal) tears. Is it the prospect of sex in an inappropriate location, with an inappropriate person? Sherlock experiments, envisioning himself this time, flung back across his childhood bed with a faceless suitor propped above him—a man grunting between his spread legs, thrusting deep, the frantic slap of flesh in flesh breaking the dusty silence all around—perhaps a staffer, someone of whom Mummy would wholeheartedly disapprove—

Oh. Sherlock takes his lower lip delicately between his teeth and presses his hand to his groin, the ache there growing warm and steady now. Oh, that's it, certainly. Well, then. A bit less pedestrian, at least. It isn't the most original contrived scenario, of course, but Sherlock supposes that since sexual congress itself is a fairly dull undertaking, the unpredictable irrationality of fantasies must be half the battle.

He toes out of his shoes and unbuttons his cuffs, quickly stripping down to his vest. His shirt is tossed carelessly over the chair, as well, and he lies back across the bed, knees still hooked over the edge. When he stretches his arms over his head, cracking his joints luxuriantly, his hands and forearms clear the other side with no trouble. It truly is a smallish bed; Sherlock is always a bit surprised by how little he was, once. He's far too tall to sleep comfortably in it these days.

He returns his hands to his middle, long fingers splayed over his abdomen. Stretching has tugged his vest up out of his trousers, but he leaves his clothing otherwise untouched for the moment. No one's going to come looking for him for quite a while yet. He has time to indulge himself.

He lets his eyes flutter shut, calls the image to mind once more. The man in his mind cuts a fine silhouette, a sharp figure accentuated by the trim sort of suit Mummy prefers. The color's a little off; too light for a proper uniform, but Sherlock likes the way the imagined grey washes with the blues in the room.

Phantom hands descend on his thighs, gently kneading, the thumbs circling in slow, torturous paths up the inseams. Sherlock instinctively parts his legs a little further, inhaling deeply. Some part of his mind distantly notes that this is beginning like a seduction, not like a quick shag under pressure. Oh, but isn't this better—something slow and dirty, right under everyone's nose? He imagines the man above him huffing a light, prim chuckle in response. His palm cups Sherlock through his trousers, squeezes ever so gently. Is this for me? he asks. And in your baby-bed, too. Dear me.

Sherlock presses his hand to his cock, rubbing through the layers of fabric until he's miserably hard against the inside of his zip. Something about that voice he's conjured up... that's no staffer's voice, no countryside brogue or street-sharp slant. It's positively dulcet. It's decadent. Filthily observant.

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock—must you, really?"

Sherlock's eyes snap open, and his hand freezes at his groin. He's aching, hips pushing up into his own touch. There's no mistaking his intent. Even the dullest-witted forensics tech couldn't miss it.

Mycroft's wits are far from dull. He stands just inside the closed door, having entered without a sound. The hinges would be well-oiled in this house, of course. He looks down his nose at Sherlock, mouth pursed in disapproval. "Well?" he demands in that poncy, just-this-side-of-impatient tone of his.

"It's my room, Mycroft," Sherlock snaps in response, taking his hand from his cock with an aggravated sneer. It throbs mournfully for the interruption. "What the hell are you doing sneaking in here, anyway? If you're looking for me, dinner's not for another two hours. So piss off."

"I was hardly 'sneaking'," Mycroft sniffs. "It's my home, too. Certainly I visit more frequently. As for why I'm looking for you, I wondered whether you might be interested to walk the vineyard with me—supposedly there's a rare species of parasite infesting some of the plants, I'm sure you've heard—but if you're otherwise occupied—"

"I am," Sherlock cuts in. "Occupied. Otherwise." And now he's annoyed for more than just the one reason; damn it, he really would like to go see these parasite-infested plants for himself, and Mycroft knows the vineyard's layout much better since the renovations. Besides, there's nothing quite like "accidentally" inflicting pesky grape-stains on Mycroft's impeccable clothes. He spares a few seconds wondering whether he might get rid of Mycroft for a few minutes, finish himself off brutally in the loo, and skip along to the vineyards after.

"I see." Mycroft's eyes narrow, focusing without hesitation on the crux of Sherlock's legs. The swelling there has abated somewhat with the interlude, but Sherlock may as well be naked and rock-hard for all that he's fooling his brother. "I must say, I hesitate to imagine what could possibly have brought you to such a state in your nursery."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, shuts them tight, and laces his fingers together on his abdomen, ignoring the delicious curl of heat ignited by that word—nursery—chopped up and delivered with such affronted precision. "If you've nothing useful to contribute, Mycroft, you can lumber right back the way you came," he snips. "I don't need your imagination or your company."

"That much is very clear, indeed." A pause, during which Sherlock fancies he's actually gotten his way, that Mycroft has scuttled back to the kitchens for more fattening, and then: "Exactly what 'use' would you expect of me, little brother?"

Sherlock peels his eyes open and glares. "What?"

"Just now, you said I'd nothing useful to contribute." Mycroft takes a few steps toward the bed, rounding the corner in a leisurely manner, uncallused fingertips tracing the wood grain of the bedposts. "I wonder what on earth you meant by that."

"What on earth I—what did you think I meant, Mycroft?" Sherlock hisses indignantly. "I'm trying to have a rather filthy wank, if you don't very much mind. Unless you're planning to watch, that is."

It's meant to fluster Mycroft. A bit of crude language here, a lewd accusation there: all calculated to drive the elder Holmes brother from the room in a pink-eared huff. To Sherlock's further frustration, Mycroft does nothing of the sort. Instead, he seats himself on the bed beside Sherlock, deftly crossing leg over the other and clasping his hands at his uppermost knee.

"Hardly the best use of my time, of course," Mycroft is saying archly, "but I admit, I fancy the vineyard idea. The more quickly you finish your... business... here, the sooner we can go." He locks eyes with Sherlock, studying his brother's face with intent. "Now. What could you have been visualizing, hm?"

And Sherlock realizes in a bewildered, furious rush exactly what—exactly who he'd been visualizing. Tailored grey suit. Pristine figure, nose turned up in dry amusement. That voice. (Filthy, observant, all-too-knowing.) "Go away, Mycroft," he manages. Dear me, and in your baby-bed? croons the silky voice in his head. He swallows hard.

Mycroft's brows bob in a long-suffering manner. "I'd rather hoped you'd outgrown this childish crush, Sherlock," he sighs. "It isn't healthy. I am your brother."

"Oh, sod off," Sherlock growls suddenly, his cheeks flushing. "I'm going to the loo." He starts to sit up and immediately falls back, albeit more slowly, pressed inexorably by a broad palm flat in the center of his chest.

"Lie down, Sherlock," Mycroft reproaches him gently. His hand remains where it is for a heartbeat, heavy only with implication, before he removes it and laces his fingers at his knee once more. "I suppose you want me to touch you... intimately. You have since you were sixteen. But I never have, have I?"

Sherlock remains where he is, sullen, staring at the ceiling with bright, slitted eyes. "No, of course not," he replies, all impatience. "You are, as you so astutely pointed out, my brother."

"Mm, yes, your elder brother. I would never do anything to hurt you." Mycroft gives another soft sigh, a breath that speaks volumes of his forbearance. "Were I a lesser man, however... an unkind brother... I would touch you. I would strip you down to your skin, tie you with your own clothing until you could no longer fight, even if you wished it. I would have your body in every way conceivable, turn you inside out and lick every inch of you until you begged me to stop."

Sherlock's breath stops in his throat, Mycroft's words reaching down and jerking his cock back to full, hot-blooded attention. Oh, yes, that's the voice he heard earlier. Rich vowels, lips shaping certain breaking consonants just so—fuck, he's harder than he was under his own hand, and the only weight on him now is Mycroft's gaze. "Would you?" he murmurs to the empty air. "Would you really?"

"Oh, yes." Mycroft rakes a critical glance up and down his body. Sherlock isn't looking at him, but he feels the appraisal like a breath of hot air, prickling all along the nerve endings. "I would have you right here, in fact. Just like this. Strip off your trousers and pants, drop them on the floor like so much rubbish. You've probably already stained them; I know how you leak when you think of me violating you."

The blush burns fiercely in Sherlock's cheeks, heat staining his neck and ears. He feels a tug-of-war between his cock and his face, each vying for every simmering drop of blood. "God, Mycroft," he whimpers under his breath. His hands twitch spastically against his stomach, blunt nails digging through his thin vest.

"No use begging, little brother," Mycroft tells him soothingly, his smile soft and razor-sharp by turns. "This could only end one way, and that's with you in my lap, positively stuffed full of my cock. You're a dreadful tease, you know—no, I won't touch you, no matter how you spread your legs for it."

Sherlock nearly pulls his thighs together on impulse, hearing the cheeky amusement in Mycroft's voice, but he stops himself. Fuck Mycroft, he's the one egging this on, he's the one choosing to be here. Sherlock will do as he pleases. Right now, he pleases himself best by lying in a wanton sprawl, one hand rubbing the seam of his groin and thigh, transferred pressure stretching the fabric of his trousers over his straining cock. His fingertips creep down deeper to nudge his balls, snug and sweltering with need.

Mycroft pauses to allow for Sherlock's low, throaty groan. "But I am fairly lazy, it's true," he resumes thoughtfully. "No, I can't say I would do any of the heavy lifting. I would settle back and let you ride my cock until you burst. Oh, I would probably hold your legs open wider than you're comfortable with—it's this new diet, I'm fluctuating a bit, you understand—and I suppose I could let you fuck my fist. You do whine so when you don't get your way, I can only imagine how you might complain if I didn't whet your cock."

"Lazy bastard," Sherlock chokes out, his voice entirely too high-pitched. He's past giving in. His hand curls over the prominence of his cock, jerking desperately through his trousers. The rough friction is too much, driving him up too fast. He'd swear he feels Mycroft's fat cock (thick, pulsing, molten-hot) splitting him open. "Fat, lazy, smug, nngh!, God, fuck—"

Mycroft might well be offering commentary on a polo match, so smooth is his voice. "Precisely my point. You'd be on your own to find your release, goodness knows you've enough practice at this point. If I were feeling overly generous, I might suggest you rotate your hips to find your sweet spot. Granted, you wouldn't leave it alone once you'd found it, would you?" Mycroft shifts minutely on the mattress, humming under his breath. "You'd bounce on it until you cried. You'd reach up inside and rub my cock against that spot manually if you could. You never did learn the meaning of restraint."

Sherlock darts a frantic look at his brother, belatedly noticing that Mycroft has planted a hand on the bed, the better to lean over and catch every twitch, every flicker of Sherlock's expression. He's nowhere near touching Sherlock, but Sherlock feels peeled-open under that gaze. Mycroft doesn't look or sound aroused. He looks long-suffering. Mildly amused. Fond, even, to put a saccharine twist to it.

Sherlock snarls soundlessly, his body trembling, hips bowing up into his punishing grip. Like fuck he'd bounce on Mycroft's cock. (Like fuck he wouldn't, yes, until Mycroft begged.)

Mycroft doesn't miss a beat of that. "Ah, now, don't be stubborn, little brother," he tuts. "The gentlemanly thing to do, when your brother has been kind enough to fuck your sweet, grasping arse, is to drive yourself to a rapturous orgasm around his cock. I'd like to come all over the inside of you—keep my mess to a minimum, at the very least—"

Sherlock misses the last half of that sentence entirely as his balls seize up, his vision whites out, and he bursts into his hand (through pants and trousers and a fog of whatthefuckwhatthefuck) with a soft, indecorous cry. Mycroft's never come inside him before. Or said he would. If he were actually touching and fucking and... and...

And the bastard really won't leave a hair behind to incriminate himself, some bleating corner of Sherlock's mind notes dazedly.

Mycroft waits until Sherlock's breathing has lost some of its ragged whistling. He straightens his cuffs with a prim twinned wrist-flick. "Now then, I suggest you clean yourself up—I expect those trousers are a lost cause, hm?—and meet me by the western entrance in, say, twenty minutes. The infested vineyards await." He stands and casts one more imperious glance down at his brother. "And, Sherlock? For shame, defiling your baby-bed so. What would Mummy think?"

And he is gone, the door opened and shut on its silent hinges, leaving a thoroughly fucked-out and disgruntled Sherlock to muse on the possibility of lacing Mycroft's wine glass with a soluble laxative of some kind.