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“Keep still!” Mycroft hisses.

Sherlock wants to pee so badly it’s scaring him. Their father will kill him, kill them both, if his precious vintage upholstery gets ruined.  This car’s his pride and joy. Punishment will be harsh and humiliating.

Sherlock knows that. He feigns sleep and tries not to fidget. The black miles sweep past. Sherlock whimpers and shifts helplessly. Mycroft rubs his back under the blanket. “Just hold on.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I can’t…” He sniffs.

“You have to.” Mycroft hates their father. He reaches down between Sherlock’s legs and kisses his temple. “It’s okay, I’m here.”



Mycroft dislikes the clinic. Sherlock hates it. Totally uncooperative, they say, even refusing to urinate.

Sherlock’s naked, wrapped in a duvet.  He rests his forehead on Mycroft’s hip. “Take me home.”

“I will. I have to sign some papers first.” Mycroft strokes his hair.

“Hurry!” There’s a damp patch on the duvet and Sherlock’s abdomen is swollen. He’s been there nearly twenty-four hours.

Formalities completed Mycroft gets Sherlock dressed and into the car. Mycroft turns the key in the ignition. Sherlock moans. The piss floods out of him. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Mycroft hugs him tightly. “It’s okay, I’m here.”



Victorian blue glass. Sherlock’s bottle. He’ll be desperate for it when he arrives.

They kiss frantically. “Bottle…” Sherlock groans.

“Soon.” Mycroft nips at his lower lip.

“I need it now!”

“Five minutes.” 

Sherlock’s protest is silenced with a kiss. Mycroft leads him to the sofa. He buries his face in Mycroft’s neck, both brothers are furiously aroused. Sherlock squirms about and begs brokenly for his bottle. After fifteen minutes Mycroft relents. Sherlock’s piss gushes into the bottle, filling it rapidly. It overflows and runs down Mycroft’s hand.

“Oh, god.” Sherlock’s almost crying.

Mycroft strokes his cheek. “It’s okay, I’m here.”



An expensive foreign hotel. Sherlock hasn’t pissed since they left Heathrow. Slowly, inevitably he’s wetting the four-poster bed.

Sherlock’s cock twitches and pisses. “Stop, oh, please stop…” 

Somehow he manages to stem the flow.

Mycroft licks away the droplet that clings to his slit. He stretches out beside Sherlock and embraces him. Sunset creeps in at the window. Sherlock cries out. His cock sprays piss on silk and skin. Every rapid spurt is more intense than the last.

Sherlock writhes on the bed. “I can’t hold it!”

“Then let it go.” Mycroft kisses his lips. “It’s okay, I love you.”