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Sherlock has been abominable. His father's word, "abominable." It doesn't matter; Sherlock has been called worse, several times this month. He doesn't disagree. He picks at his thumbnail. He thinks about how Mycroft would sound, saying "abominable."

His brother's words always cut more deeply than his father's.

"Chester and I are going to take a walk up to the village. Would you mind very much, Mummy, if Chet stayed for dinner?"

Sherlock hates his brother. He hates Mycroft's soft face, his pointy nose, the tidy ebbings and flowings of his inadequate facial hair. He hates his pretentious clothing. He hates his far-off faffings about, and the aloofness he's perfecting, and every single thing Mycroft has ever touched in the house, and most of the the things he hasn't touched. He hates the way his brother comes and goes as he pleases in Mummy's old Mercedes, and the snide familiarity with which he addresses their father.

He very, very much hates the way Daddy and Mycroft talk quietly together, laughing their fake laughter behind the closed study door.

Right now, this June, this afternoon, he hates the insipid new friend Mycroft has escorted into the front hall and introduced to his parents, all but ignoring Sherlock, who lurks halfway through the French doors.

Chester, Chet – what a stupid name – is blond and freckled and taller even than Mycroft. Athletic, but somehow soft and oily. Uncomfortable. Out of focus. He distorts the shape of the room. Sherlock's skin creeps with spite throughout the full, entire, long, vast, measureless, interminate hour of tea. Even he is tired of how he is behaving. He leaves the table.


Sherlock is in a malignant funk. He can't pin down the problem. He knows what the problem is, but he won't think about the problem, there is no problem. The problem is everyone else.

Other people are intolerable. He knows they're mostly stupid, and often cruel, but it's never mattered before. Just an irritation. Recently, though, they've seemed more threatening. He's seen two other top-tier O-track students targeted this term for special attention: a social incompetent who grew withdrawn, and a cheery buffoon who joined in the fun at his own expense. There are special warehouses for that kind of student.

If it worried him, he would have to think about it, so he doesn't. He simply hates them all.

He will perfect his fermentation techniques, and annotate every book in the library from 390.00 to 570.17 (before he is disciplined), and swim alone, and put on no pretense of interest in puerile chatter. In any case, he will draw no attention by pointing out inconsistencies in people's stories and flaws in their conclusions. Abstaining from comment is more exasperating than he expected, so he stops taking lunch in the dining hall.

The nagging older brother in the back of his mind informs him that he should be more observant of the people around him, but he would rather not be. He focuses on the shelves from 540 to 547. He will be invisible.

Then he catches one smirking sideways look on the temple terrace, and another in the loo. Shortly afterward, he stops mid-stride between morning classes, turns on his heel, and walks briskly home, where he removes his clothes, bathes twice, and dresses afresh. He bins his soiled underwear behind a café on the way back to class, where all eyes follow him to his seat. That afternoon, he leaves a wake of soft meowing behind him in the fine arts block.

He arrives home well after dark, with burdock seeds in his socks, and goes to bed without greeting his mother.

He is called into the counselor's cramped and priggish office at ten the next morning. Slouching in an armchair upholstered in waiting-room camouflage, he stares through the pastel-colored geometric Rorschach tests framed on the wall until the woman breezes in with a pair of manila folders. He can see his name typed on one of them. There are clearly leaflets in the other.

"I haven't spoken with you for a while, Sherlock. Why don't we catch up?"

He knows already what she wants to say—he's been through the vague and scanty texts in 304 and 571—and before her face can open its simpering wormy lips to patronize him further, he's lashed her raw with the all the pent-up venom of the damned.

Perhaps it would be better if Sherlock sat out a term. Perhaps he is a bit advanced in his studies for a young man his age. Perhaps he could use the time to adjust.


He spends the time forgetting.

He imagines what Mycroft's face would have looked like if he'd been in that office when Sherlock was thrown out. He laughs.


Mycroft has been home for a week.

Sherlock would rather he wasn't. Sherlock has spent a good deal of time alone with Mycroft over the last two years.

Mycroft critiques his logic, his hygiene, and his choice of reading material. Mycroft has some very choice words for an instructor whose inability to maintain order is "impacting" his little brother's education. Impacting. Mycroft takes a number of direct hits on the piste. Mycroft appreciates with both eyebrows the improved posture and tone quality effected by his brother's much-abused violin teacher. While Sherlock sits cross-legged atop the running tumble dryer, considering the qualities of lint, Mycroft recounts again the time he hid his infant brother in the bottom of a laundry basket because he was jealous of Papi Hélène's "particular attentions." Mycroft is at hand when the parents take an unusual degree of interest in something Sherlock has done with a garden hose. Mycroft sits carefully out of earshot while Sherlock lies on the kitchen floor reciting a list of illicit reagents and their properties. (The position isn't helpful. He tries again on the sofa.)

Sherlock likes this model-Mycroft that he can inflate and deflate at will.

There are some aspects of Mycroft's character that he has disdained to include in his little assemblage. Minor failings. No need to complicate things.


Now, Chester. Chester, sipping his oolong under flesh-Mycroft's beneficent gaze, looks like someone who would smile at his bullies, someone who would joke with his administrative handler as he was bustled off for a quiet conference. He looks at Mycroft like he's waiting for a kick, as if he expects to enjoy it.

Sherlock would like to kick him. He tries to imagine Mycroft kicking someone for fun.


Sherlock walks down the lane toward the neglected back end of the common where the neighbors keep their horses. He swings his epée. It makes a nice whoosh and a satisfying whack against an errant alder branch, but he prefers the foil. Fip! Fip! Ha!

He is not going toward the stables. He doesn't like the horses, and anyway there are only the two, and there's nothing interesting in that end of the meadow since they rebuilt the hay barn. The horses smell, the barn smells, school smells, people smell. Everything smells offensive.

He doesn't like the horses, and he doesn't like the hay barn. He also isn't in the least upset by the muffled, rough sounds coming from behind the heavy rolling doors. He doesn't look. He does scuff his feet loudly and whistle a few bars of an obnoxious song he has overheard on the radio.

He wanders toward the pond at the edge of the meadow and crouches in the shade of a willow, splashing the end of his blade into the surface of the water. He doesn't feel nauseated and floaty, his pants aren't unpleasantly sticky, and he doesn't notice that the ugly noises have stopped, or that the men making them have left the barn, brushing hay from their sleeves and taking up a disjointed conversation in strained voices as they very, very casually stroll back to the house.


Just before dinner, Sherlock is abominable again.

No one holds it against Chester when, stiff and livid, he stalks out the door without looking back.

No one really holds it against Mycroft when he slams out of the room.

No one is surprised that Sherlock has already disappeared.


Sherlock's brain is writhing in his grasp, slippery, eely. He will not think about the devastating smell in the small sitting room, Mummy lounging cool and oblivious on her second, no, third gin and tonic, Chester and Mycroft squared off in opposite corners, legs crossed, reeking at each other. He will not analyze the sudden loose heat he felt between his legs as he stood in the doorway, unable to pull his eyes from Chester's smarmy face, unable to look at Mycroft's. He could recall in fine grammatical detail the barrage of abominable words he launched into the room before he fled, but he isn't going to.

He will not acknowledge the heavy breathing he hears in the attic as his own. He notes that he is twiddling and pressing at the middle seam of his jeans, but can't be bothered with that right now. He could stop, but in order to stop, he would have to think about it; if he thinks about it, he might have to do something about it; there is nothing he can do about it. Quod erat d. A stinking maw has opened up beneath him, a rubbish chute, a slimy endless passageway to his own annihilation. There is nothing he can do about it.

He rocks tightly on the stool where he's mounted, breathing and twiddling.

The wooden steps behind the door creak under Mycroft's weight. Sherlock can't quite manage his "contrite" expression, so he settles for "guarded". He'll take whatever's coming; he's earned it.

Mycroft steps softly into the room and stands there, unspeaking, for a curiously long time.

Sherlock finally feels compelled to look up. His brother's face looks deranged in the thin twilight. Animal. Demonic. It has never occurred to Sherlock to imagine this kind of mirror-Mycroft. He's still floundering in syrupy awareness when the mirror-Mycroft opens its lips and teeth and fierce black eyes and hisses at him.

"Do you think I don't know what you are, you little swine?"

The stench of Mycroft's fury is unmistakable now. Heat surges through Sherlock's pelvis. He is abruptly and hideously aware of what a puny, filthy, wilfully ignorant little swine he truly is; how wrong and how stupid; what a cozy, coddled infant he has always, always been.

The walls of the world shift. A stage set. He knows that if any of this was real, he would be mortified by the obscene bulge distorting the pleat in the right leg of Mycroft's trousers. He can smell his own stink rising with his body heat. So stupid. Stupid. He can't think about it. He can't think. He knows.

He is filthy meat. He is slimy, stinking, abject meat. He is not an odious pedant, or a casual vandal, or a smug, ungrateful twerp. He is meat.

He bolts.

Mycroft lurches at him, grabs half a handful of shirt, and yanks Sherlock back from the roll top desk he has attempted to vault. There's a flurry of poorly-aimed fists as Mycroft crowds Sherlock against the low angle of the ceiling, finally knocking him flat. He rests his weight across the middle of Sherlock's back, pins his left arm down, and leans heavily with his other hand on the back of his brother's neck, his face out of reach of the jerky inadequate flailing of the free right arm.

"Fuck you," Sherlock wheezes, "Get off me. You conceited. Prick. Get off."

He squeaks, dry short convulsions of panic, fury, grief. His stunted breath is confined to his throat, his hands going numb, his life closing in to this horrible stifling moment: the unfinished floorboards against his temple, a splinter pressing near the corner of his eye; two display boxes filled with the poorly-mounted shells of large marine snails; a dust bunny, approximately 65% of it composed of someone's light brown hair, coiled beneath a cheap cherry-stained bedside table.

His legs are free but as he kicks and wrenches he finds purchase only against the end of a cardboard box, which skids away. His pants are wet between his thighs. His breath stops and his muscles go slack as Mycroft slides his fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and tightens his grip.

Mycroft releases Sherlock's left hand and works at something lower, ah, trousers button. A sharp shift of weight, a sound of fine wool against denim, a hand forced under Sherlock's hips, yanking at the flies of his jeans, peeling the sticky shorts from his backside. Sherlock distantly recognizes that his own hands are now free, that he has pushed his groin up slightly from the floor, and that his penis is very, very hard. He makes a feeble grab for Mycroft's wrist behind his head.

His brother impatiently quells the token resistance, pins Sherlock's neck against the floorboards, and penetrates him.


Sherlock is weak from hyperventilation.

At some point his shocked silence had given way to a low wail, which grew louder until Mycroft slapped a hand over his nose and mouth, only letting up when Sherlock began to thrash. He had sobbed and wheezed through the loosened fingers, then subsided into grim, mechanical breathing, counterpoint to Mycroft's jaw-clenched curses and the stream of horrible promises that struck him deeper with every thrust.

There have been no further words for a time, and the mass snugged just inside Sherlock's anus softens. "Hush. Hush," whispers Mycroft. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." His fingertips are tentative on Sherlock's back, even as his cock continues to pulse.

Sherlock's knees and elbows are abraded. He came twice, early on, spattering the floor and his thighs, and he remembers pissing himself, a little, when his brother pounded hard against his bladder. Everything is a bit damp.

The swelling inside Sherlock loosens a bit more, and Mycroft's penis slithers out. The transition feels strange, like waking from a faint, and Sherlock blinks for a moment. A hot viscous gush runs down the back of his thighs and pools between his knees. He rears up in disgust.

"What happened?" Mycroft reaches forward in the dark. "Oh ... oh." He gently takes Sherlock's shoulders and gathers him between his spread legs.

Mycroft has leaned back against something. Sherlock's knees are drawn up, his ankles awkwardly bound in his jeans. He sits gingerly in his brother's loose embrace, but can't see him. That's good.

They don't speak for a while. Sherlock can't imagine how anything will ever happen after this.

"I said some things," starts Mycroft. "I said some things about making you pregnant. That isn't going to happen, do you understand?"

Sherlock shakes his head. He doesn't want to think.

"You're having what are known as 'soft heats' right now. You won't be fully mature for a year, perhaps. There's no opening yet to accept the, the ejaculate." Mycroft's voice pinches off.

Sherlock relaxes, fractionally. He breathes. "I'm sorry about the noise," he says.

"Oh, god," says his brother with a choked laugh. "Oh, my god."


On Mycroft's bed they are again curled back-to-front.

At some point in the process of slinking into his bedroom and laying an extra cover over his brother, Mycroft cleans himself and slips downstairs to offer a passable excuse to the parents. When he returns, he takes the telephone handset into the adjoining room. Sherlock lies sullen in the dark, listening to the indistinct monologue, until his brother returns, snaps on a lamp and approaches the foot of the bed.

"Mummy and Daddy will know," mumbles Sherlock.

"Daddy will know," says Mycroft. "Mummy is on suppressants, and can't tell what's going on anymore."

"Suppressants," breathes Sherlock. He feels as if a window has been opened in a stuffy room.

Mycroft is silent for a long moment.

"Sherlock, Mummy used to be a very bright woman."

To his own enormous surprise, Sherlock begins to cry. And then he doesn't stop, but pulls a pillow to his face and cries and cries, harder and harder, until Mycroft slides in behind him, lays an arm over him, and holds him tensely against his body.

When he has recovered, Sherlock corrects himself. "Daddy will know."

"Daddy will know," agrees his brother, his voice a bit thick, "but he won't say anything. I do suggest that you stay clear of him for a few days."

Sherlock turns this over in his mind. There are nasty things clinging to the underside of it, and he drops it quickly.

"A few days, Sherlock."

Sherlock nods. He presses back against the bulge along his brother's thigh and nods again. He turns his head, shifts his shoulders, and runs the very tip of his tongue across his brother's lips. Mycroft makes an odd noise and pushes himself away, then rises and strides out of the room.

He returns with an armful of Sherlock's clothing and a large toiletry bag. He retrieves a kit bag from the bottom of the wardrobe, stuffs it, slings it over his shoulder, hands a pair Sherlock's black jeans to him, and gestures toward the door with his head.


They drive for a long time. The countryside is dark and unfamiliar, and Sherlock is not watching the road signs. Mycroft looks ill. Sherlock is happy that the way is mostly wide and straight. He offers to drive, but his brother doesn't respond, and they continue on in silence. At one point, Mycroft abruptly pulls the car to the verge and disappears into a hedgerow for almost fifteen minutes. He looks more relaxed when he pulls back onto the road, but Sherlock is grateful when finally they enter a dark drive and pull up to the front of a smallish white cottage.

The entry hall is clean but slightly musty. Mycroft bolts the door, sheds his overcoat, and fusses with his shoes. Sherlock kicks off his own shoes and wanders past the kitchen into a low-beamed dining room. There is a heavy trestle table here, its long benches set aside against the whitewashed wall.

Mycroft bustles in the kitchen without speaking, disappearing several times up a rustic-looking curved staircase off the living room. It feels like a fairy tale, Sherlock thinks. Not a very nice one.

After some time, Mycroft pads barefoot into the dining room, where Sherlock sits with his feet dangling from the table and his hands in his lap, as if awaiting instruction.

"Would you like to see?" asks Mycroft. Slightly puzzled, Sherlock nods.

Mycroft unbuttons his shirt, starting with the cuffs, and sets it aside on a bench. He hesitates slightly before removing the rest of his clothes, turning away. Sherlock stifles an infantile urge to snigger when he sees his brother's bottom.

Mycroft turns solemnly to face him. Sherlock looks at a point on the wall past his ear.

"You got big," he says.

"I'm lazy," Mycroft answers. He sounds forlorn.

"That's all right."

"And I've grown up."


"It's not always this impressive," admits Mycroft. "It's the situation."

"Abominable," whispers Sherlock. He inches forward and slides his jeans off. They hang around his ankles. One black sock slips from his foot.

Mycroft presses his lips together. His breathing is tight and controlled, but his penis surges upward and Sherlock watches his testicles bob in confusion.

"Sherlock, I will probably say some things I don't mean. I don't want to scare you, but I might. Very soon I won't be able to stop. I'm not going to .... it won't be like earlier, I won't hurt you, but I won't be able to stop."

Mycroft is staring into nothing, his forehead squinched, and he has unconsciously twisted his fingers together until they've turned white. A light mist of perspiration is sparkling under the fuzz of hair on his chest.

Mycroft's obvious anxiety sends a surge of fury through Sherlock—he thinks he might like to say something noxious.

"Touch yourself," he blurts out.

His brother complies. Sherlock feels the rush of petty power and briefly relishes the thought of abusing it, but now Mycroft is smoothing the palm of his hand over one nipple and slipping the loose end of his foreskin over and over the shiny reddened glans that bulges out, its slit gaping open with a slow rhythmic "plip."

Sherlock finds his own hand at his groin, massaging his flushed genitals. He squirms against the slippery striations of the tabletop.

There is an unfocused look on Mycroft's face. His voice is strained. "I need to … may I, please?"

He gestures toward Sherlock's hands. Sherlock lifts them away in irked invitation. Mycroft steps between his legs and lets out a sigh as he bends his face to his brother's lap.

He licks and sucks like a hungry infant. It feels unbelievable. Sherlock's head falls back, and he exhales with tiny nasal grunts. Mycroft's right hand works fast and hard just out of view. He lightly pushes with his left hand at Sherlock's chest until Sherlock gets the idea and lies back. Mycroft lifts Sherlock's heels to the edge of the table and wraps his arms around his hips, hands on his ribs, mouth sloppy between his twitching thighs.

The gluttonous sounds are intensely embarrassing. Sherlock is potently aroused. His abdomen is trembling, independent of his breath and pulse. He has no idea what to ask for. He imagines that his brother is going to fuck him again, and his hole spasms against Mycroft's tongue.

Mycroft responds by engulfing Sherlock's penis in his mouth, with an extravagant groan. His tongue is hot on Sherlock's balls. He pulls his head away, breathing deeply, eyes closed.

"Do you want me inside now?" His voice is shaking.

Sherlock does. He does. He does.

Mycroft's grip is painfully hard on Sherlock's sides. He rubs his face on Sherlock's belly. "You smell indescribable. I can hardly believe you walked alone without being taken down and covered in a public thoroughfare."

He looms over Sherlock, clutching himself, breathing loudly. He looks so very much like his mother.

Sherlock's insides go cold. This is suddenly not, this is not an adventure, this is. He's falling, his stomach lurches. He is horrified to find he is holding his knees, presenting himself with all the dignity of a holiday bird.

"No! Not yet."

Mycroft falls forward as if he has slipped on ice, the heel of his hand barely missing Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock kicks him away with both feet. Mycroft staggers sideways but recovers with some grace. "No, wait! Don't—" Sherlock writhes off the tabletop and Mycroft seizes his biceps. He looks terrified. "Sherlock, don't."

Sherlock yanks an arm away and Mycroft catches him, sideways, like a struggling pig, clutches him suddenly, gasps and and disgorges one, two, three, four gouts of semen onto Sherlock's t-shirt.

Then he is hauling the shirt over Sherlock's head, leaving a tuft of his hair sodden with gunk. The cloth is stretched and twisted awkwardly, trapping Sherlock's elbows over his head. He yells as he feels his shoulder over-extended. Mycroft shoves him toward the wall.

Sherlock works the shirt toward his lower back. He's crouched against the rough plaster, arms loosely pinned to his sides, one sock on, dazed.

"Take it like this," gasps Mycroft, pressing the end of his cock against Sherlock's mouth. A trickle of come still pulses from it, running along the tight seam of Sherlock's lips.

Things could go a few bad ways at this point, thinks Sherlock. Some of them very bad. He opens his mouth.

He balks as bitter spunk coats his soft palate. Mycroft clutches Sherlock's head and crams his cock in further. Sherlock makes a small despairing sound as his pharynx spasms around the thick pressure, but he is too confused now, and somehow too relaxed, to struggle or gag. Mycroft thrusts into him with vehement force, unrelenting, and Sherlock gasps around the veiny organ each time it withdraws. He's in free-fall, he's floating, he wants to giggle. His eyes and nose are running, and a string of slobber swings from his chin.

Sherlock realizes he's piddling again. It must be a submission reflex.

Mycroft thrusts faster, and Sherlock feels opposition bubbling up through the glazed-eyed docility that has overwhelmed him. He slides down the wall a little, trying to pull away, but Mycroft widens his stance and bends his knees, banging Sherlock's head against the plaster. He presses his groin into Sherlock's face, brutally hard, smothering him under the pressure of the rubbery knot.

Sherlock can't make a noise, or raise his arms from his sides, and his brother doesn't withdraw, but pushes until hairs tickle the end of Sherlock's nose. Sherlock hazards a clumsy kick at Mycroft from his low crouch. Mycroft thumps him across the head with the side of a closed fist and grabs his hair. Through the black moment Sherlock can feel his monstrous genitals pulsing, discharging their burden into him.

"Take it," huffs Mycroft. He clouts Sherlock again. "Take it, you rank little slut." His voice dies off into short moans as his penis continues to spasm weakly.

Sherlock registers the words and folds them away. He still hasn't taken a breath. The shirt has slipped down behind him, freeing his arms. Where he was pushing against Mycroft's shins, now his hands rest loosely near his ankles. His eyes are half-closed, and his field of view is limited to the hairline of his brother's pubic mound.

Abruptly, his throat is open to the air. He gags on the first breath and chokes on the second, falling onto his forearms, coughing and shuddering, gulping in air as he retches it out. He is making such godawful noises, how could anyone … his entire body seizes and he vomits hideously. Apparently, that is insufficient humiliation; red-faced and rigid, he heaves over the slate tiles until his arms are shaking, mouth slack and wet with bitter slime. He spits.

Sherlock believes he has had enough of bodily fluids for the time being. He staggers to his feet.

All he sees of Mycroft is his arm swaying out in a halfhearted attempt to, what, stop him? He unsteadily evades the grab and tramps up the stairs with deliberate care, leaning on the handrail. He wants more than anything to wait, to be stopped. Wait to be pulled down. His legs are weak and his prick is hard. Mycroft hit him and swore at him. He steps past the landing and through the doorway, swings the dark door shut, and shoots the bolt.


Sherlock pulls the chain on a green glass lamp on the bedside table. There is a vanity at the far end of the room beside the door to an en suite bath. A generous double bed with a faux-rustic frame of light-colored logs fills the left half of the room. It is fitted with a spartan blanket and thin white linens, with extra coverings folded in an open trunk at the foot. The blue kit bag with their clothes in it is open on the floor.

Sherlock presses on the bed. It gives, but not a lot, and makes a plasticky crackling sound. Better and better, he thinks giddily. A holiday paradise.

His brother is outside the door now, apparently hunched against the frame. When he speaks, his words come mostly under the gap at the floor.

"Sherlock. I simply wish to speak with you."

It's pathetic and Sherlock doesn't want to hear any more of it. It curdles his stomach. It hurts. He walks into the bathroom and wiggles the spotty chrome tap handle until the water comes out hot. "Please don't," he hears through the door, but he locks himself inside and slips past the mildewed plastic curtain into in the steam and spray, first washing out his mouth, then scrubbing his sore, repulsive scalp and sluicing between his buttocks. He pokes at the bruised areas on his neck and elbows, and tries swallowing. The pain makes him feel small and dirty.

He dries himself with one of the hodgepodge of towels stored over the toilet and returns to the bedroom.

A considerable supply of fruit and packaged food is arrayed on the vanity, along with several jugs of water, plastic picnic bowls, and a couple of battered mugs with school crests on them. Someone planned ahead. He doesn't think it was Mycroft. He drinks some water and eats half a cereal bar. It hurts.

He rummages in the kit bag, hoists on a fresh pair of briefs, and stands considering the door for several minutes.

When he unbolts the door, holding it ready to slam shut, his brother is standing away from it, feet slightly splayed, holding his light blue shirt in front of himself.

Sherlock stares coldly. "How was this not like the last time?"

Mycroft takes a short, harsh breath. "I didn't anticipate precisely that behavior. Please accept my apologies."

Sherlock's vision contracts and he is flinging himself toward Mycroft, shouting hoarsely, in a high pitch. "You didn't anticipate? Your apologies? You're the putative 'alpha male' in this situation! You're the wise elder brother! Do you know what I think? I think you're a fake!"

It is spectacularly silly; he caps his performance with a roundhouse slap to the lower half of Mycroft's face. Mycroft flinches away and Sherlock punches him hard in the shoulder and again in the ribs.

Mycroft wraps his hand around his shoulder, looking puny. He holds his shirt closer to himself. "I was given to understand that it’s usually enjoyable. I thought if we ... I didn't realize it would be so violent. Perhaps it isn't, usually."

Sherlock isn't falling or floating, he's flying very fast, in the dark. "You haven't done this before. You've never done this!"

"Not as such," sighs his brother, his eyes closed.

Sherlock turns on his heel. He feels Mycroft's hand light on his arm. He shrugs it off, but Mycroft catches two of his fingers and sinks to the floor, pinching them.

"Don't let it hurt you. It doesn’t mean anything. You have no idea what I ... Sherlock. Please." Sherlock jerks his hand away, afraid it will be licked.

Mycroft slowly implodes, crumpling into himself and clutching hard across his forehead with one long hand. He's pressed his shirt hard over his groin as if to smother it. "Please," he says, very quietly.

Sherlock perches on the edge of the crinkling bed. He watches the bowed form of his sibling abase itself at the edge of the cheap woven throw rug. There is a serious flaw in the production model of his wind-up Mycroft. He will have to issue a recall. He's wrung out and he has developed a headache. He rubs his face with both hands.

Right now he wants nothing more than to crawl to Mycroft and grovel for his forgiveness. To lie back and pull his big brother atop him, and smooth the pain off his face, and lick at his mouth with the flat of his tongue, and gently place his hand over his throat, and spread his legs, and whine for—

Sherlock stands and digs into in the kit bag. There is one change of clothes for him. He will put those on and drive himself home and something will happen. Something else, something else entirely.

What happens is that he finds the toiletry bag. Hanging out of the closed zip is something puzzlingly like the end of a giant guinea worm.

He blinks.

He opens the bag.

"Mycroft," he says.

He turns. "Mycroft, what were you planning to do with this?"

Mycroft remains silent and bowed, but the tension in his back has a different quality.

Sherlock wraps a length of the thin white rope around his hand, incredulous.

"Mycroft, you have problems.”


Sherlock pokes through the bag. He understands the basic function of most of the objects within. Creased tube of wintergreen-flavored toothpaste, two toothbrushes (considerate), jar of shaving cream, high-end hair product (of course, pff). A translucent purple length of smooth silicone rubber like a section of turned baluster (use easy to ascertain, but why?). A heavy leather collar, saddle tan, quilted kidskin padding, curves clearly designed to fit ... a person. From collarbone to earlobe.

He can actually feel every blood cell moving through the capillaries in his face. It had never occurred to him. Talk at school can be truly lewd, but clearly his fellows lack imagination.

Sherlock has been staunchly oblivious to the feral odor permeating the room. Now it saturates his senses. He strokes the collar with one fingertip. Understanding uncoils and slithers through him: violence with need, the desire to hurt, to punish, to master, to own, to fuck the thing whose scent is driving you mad. The longing to be fucked, to be hurt, to be punished and hurt.

He narrowly considers his brother. Mycroft kneels, hands in his lap, holding Sherlock's gaze as long as he can before his eyes flicker away. He looks as if. As if he is expecting to be kicked. As if he would enjoy it.

Sherlock is almost doubled over by a wave of lust and rage. Unnerved, he takes his brother's wrist and yanks him to his feet.

Mycroft is watchful, still holding the stupid shirt in front of himself. Sherlock fumbles breathlessly at a bowline knot. There is barely enough rope, with a long end hanging loose. He snaps the shirt out of his brother's grasp, slips the knot around his his right wrist – Mycroft's brows rise in interest – adjusts it, maneuvers him to the bed, and pushes him onto his back atop the scratchy blanket. He has to stretch alongside him to knot the rope around one of the thinner branches adorning the headboard, and Mycroft finally groans and clutches low around his waist, pressing his face to the scent under Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock elbows him away and slides off the bed. How stupid to bring so little rope. Mycroft's inevitable long dark socks are rolled into buns in his luggage, and he retrieves a pair. He circles the bed to secure one sock clumsily around the headboard and Mycroft's unresisting wrist.

Sherlock is being humored; it vexes him.

Mycroft stares at the ceiling, breathing deeply, his weight and warmth creasing the blanket beneath him. A creature, a mammal. His member stands off him, crimson, a trickle of fluid creeping down its length to drip into the soft hair below his navel.

Mammal-Mycroft. Lucky mammal. Sherlock may have whispered that. His hand slinks into his shorts to rub his prick, his swelling folds, and the small warm mounds of his balls. He can feel his heartbeat there. He has to bend a bit to stroke his hole. He smears the lubricating fluid forward and back, slicking up his hand, and presses two fingers into the heat.

His brother is watching him with sharp intent. The pang of pity and shame is insupportable and Sherlock turns away in pique, wiping his hand on his hip.

The purple object in the toiletry kit is flared at the base. Definitely something talked about at school. Something perverts do.

He strips off his underwear and reaches through his legs to test the end of the plug against his perversion. It slips through with almost no resistance. Pervert. His muscles relax to accommodate the increasing girth, and he breathes hard until it slides in and snugs down, liquid warmth leaking out around the base against his flesh. He shimmies a bit; the sensation disturbs him.

Mycroft shifts on the bed. "I will untie myself if you continue doing that." He sounds a lot less contrite.

Sherlock stares at him hard, wiggling the thing with one hand. He is unsatisfied, and dizzy, and infuriated. Sinister chemicals are undoing his neurons, one by one, snap snap snap. Rank little slut. He pulls out the useless toy and takes two long steps to the bedside.

"Put your knees up," he hisses.

Mycroft reluctantly bends his legs until the soles of his feet are against the blanket, and Sherlock spreads his cheeks with one hand and begins to work the slippery plug into his bum.

He feels spiteful, and helpless. His body is operating by some mechanism to which he is not privy. He feels vile, he is vile, his vileness tugs him along. Mycroft's a bit wet, but not enough. Sherlock slimes his hand with his own secretions and uses his fingers to stretch the tight little sphincter. Mycroft's erection wanes.

Sherlock darts a look toward his face. What he can see of it is white and as strained as if he were facing a firing squad.

"I'm going to do this," he states flatly.

Mycroft gives a tight nod and his body becomes very slightly less rigid. Sherlock twists the wide part of the plug in, and Mycroft cries out once with shock, and again, softly, with some more bitter emotion. Sherlock mounts the bed and straddles his belly.

Mycroft groans. "For pity's sake, let me inside."

He looks a bit grey, but Sherlock feels the resurgence of the erection, wet and fat against his tailbone. He snatches the leftover sock from the bedside table and crams it into Mycroft's mouth.

"Shut up. You're rubbish at sweet talk." Then he rises and impales himself on his brother's cock.

Mycroft's muffled shout is drowned by Sherlock's groans as he bears down on the enormous intrusion into his body. He forces the just-swelling knot into himself and pumps aggressively, his slick hole sucking the thickness in and out, hitting bottom with each bounce.

Mycroft heaves to meet him, out of rhythm, and groans deeply as his flesh finally locks into his brother's. He flings his head to one side, dislodging the sock with his tongue.

"You're going to hurt yourself." His dry croak is almost lost in the squeak and crackle of the mattress.

"Yes. Hurt me!" Sherlock is on the verge of hysteria, his voice strident. "I'm locked tight, I can't escape. Hurt me!"

He will ram Mycroft's cock into himself until he bleeds, until he bleeds to death, it will be perfect. Propped on Mycroft's chest, he clutches his own throat with one hand, chin high, eyes turned down, spiteful.

"I'm all yours, big brother," he breathes. "Come in me."

"Holy god," squeaks Mycroft, and does.

Sherlock takes it leisurely after the first hot rush inside him, slow on the upswing, plunging down. It feels like he's pulling against a leash and returning to heel, pulling and returning. Little dog. He is more full with every pulse of the prick inside him. Little bitch, he thinks. How is a bitch worse than a dog? One of its feet are both the same. To get to the other side.

Mycroft sighs noisily and becomes half-real again, head thrown back, hair stuck to his forehead, clutching the bonds above his wrists. His erection begins to relent. Sherlock squeezes tighter. He wants this contamination spreading inside him. He wants it to rise through him into his guts, into his lungs, to asphyxiate him. He stretches his arm behind himself and gropes for the plug in Mycroft's rear—a surprised grunt of objection, then a whoosh of breath. He slips free of his brother's cock, lying prone across his chest, clenching tight, and emphatically plugs himself.

He rises and rocks slightly on his hands and knees, eyes closed. Sweat cools on his back, and the smooth sides of Mycroft's ribs tickle his thighs on each loud inhalation.

"Would you be so kind as to untie me?"

Sherlock regards Mycroft blankly. He rocks forward and back. Ah. Untie. Yes.

"Do you think I should?" He ought to be wary, but he can't recall why.

"My shoulders ache and my hands are numb. And I shouldn't be inclined to assault you for, oh, a quarter of an hour yet."

It seems reasonable. Everything seems reasonable. Sherlock dismounts and unties Mycroft, who turns away to sit at the edge of the bed, rubbing his wrists and arms and rearranging the sticky bits of himself. His back is very pink.

"Are we finished?" asks Mycroft, barely turning his head.

From his kneeling position, Sherlock looks at him as if he'd asked for a cup full of beetles. "What? How can we be finished?"

"I will put on my trousers, drive away, and have someone pick you up in a day or two."

Sherlock can't see Mycroft's face. He sounds matter-of-fact, almost chipper.

"There are historical works and other such fiction in the den, should you deign to read them. I'm sure the place will survive a bit of replumbing, should you become bored. There are more toys, should you need to relieve yourself. I'm afraid there's little else in the way of entertainment. You may leave me and take the car yourself, if you like, though there might be some question regarding your license to use it."

"Mycroft." Sherlock is a miserable bug, casually mashed. The plug inside him makes him feel very lonely. "I'm not finished. You aren't either."

"Well. Clearly, I can't promise not to hurt you if you fight me. The trick you pulled with the insertable did take me down a notch, but that isn't going to happen again." His false sprightliness fades. He still hasn't looked at Sherlock. "I don't trust you not to hurt yourself."

It isn't clear to Sherlock what he should be feeling, or pretending to feel. His arse is full of rubber and spunk, his head is full of bees, his nose and mouth are full of the scent from the back of his brother's long, freckled neck.

"Okay," is all he can think to say. "I won't fight."

"Won't you."

Maybe he will fight. Maybe he will. He doesn't know. He will never be anything or anyone now. He hates Mycroft and the way he says everything and the way he touches everything and the way he dresses and Mycroft is naked, he's naked and afraid, and he smells stunning, overwhelming, and Sherlock's face is inches, centimeters from the silky hair clipped close behind his ear.

Mycroft rises, touches Sherlock's shoulder, walks to the bathroom and returns with an armful of folded towels. He has one wrapped around his waist. His lips are pinched together. He sets the towels at the corner of the mattress by the headboard, and unfolds one under Sherlock, guiding him to a reclining position on his elbow, knees raised. Then he strokes Sherlock lightly with the flat of his fingers, grasps the base of the plug, and wiggles it out. Sherlock releases a little moan and a flood of hot liquid. He is gaping open, wet and filthy and sad. He wants to be filled again. He wants to disappear.

"I won't fight," he whispers. "You'll hit me."

Mycroft's inhales sharply and jerks his head back. Briskly, almost robotically, he folds up the soaked end of the towel and uses the dry end to wipe his brother down. He discards it on the floor at the foot of the bed and makes a trip to the vanity.

"This is wrong, Sherlock. This is the wrong thing for me to do. I am precisely the wrong person to be doing this."

It is unthinkable that anyone else should be doing this.

"I won't fight you."

"Do you even care how I feel about it?"


Seating himself beside his brother, Mycroft peels and shares out an orange, then hands him a cup of water.

Sherlock eyes him over the rim of the mug. "We missed dinner."

"I'll make sausages and eggs later."

Mycroft dampens a towel and wipes his fingers, then retrieves the toiletry bag and withdraws the collar. He undoes the two buckles at the back and opens it toward Sherlock, his head at a dubious angle.

"Do anything you want," replies Sherlock. He lifts his chin.


Sherlock stands and walks slowly through the room, touching. Bedpost, blinds, windowsill, wall. Dust, wall, wall, water jug. Half of a cereal bar. The collar holds him wide open, armored, upright. A king walking to his execution. A princess in a tower. His knees are weak. Everything aches. It's glorious.

Mycroft is seated again at the edge of the bed. He has turned down the covers. He watches Sherlock from under his brows, masturbating absently, his face fixed in an attitude of preoccupied concern. Sherlock predicts that his expression will settle that way for good. He comes to stand before his brother, lips parted, head high.

"Hurt me."

"I wish you had any idea," says Mycroft, as he lays him down on the sheets.

"Do we have to keep the plastic on?"

"It's only polite." Mycroft arranges a pillow under Sherlock's head, and kneels between his legs.

Sherlock pulls his knees up and spreads himself wide with a small wet noise. "Take me."

"Don't be a prat."

Mycroft braces himself on one arm and guides his cock to the soft pucker between his brother's legs. He savors the penetration, entering slowly, withdrawing, and pushing through again, deeper. Sherlock's groan of frustration barely precedes Mycroft's long sigh as he slides his cock in to the hilt. He presses forward, deep and tight, his thighs spread wide around his brother's hips, his girth stretching his brother to the point of madness. Shivering, he bows to rest his forehead on Sherlock's chest.

"You don't have to be nice, Mycroft. I was ... it's all right now." Sherlock's chest heaves. He is doling out patient encouragement while suspended on the cusp of carnal surrender. "Take me hard," he huffs. "I want it. I want you to pound me with that ludicrous tool of yours!"

"I wish you had any idea how precious you are to me," Mycroft whispers into his skin. He takes a shuddering breath, angles his hips, and hammers his cock home.


He makes eggs later, but not sausages.

It is just before noon. Mycroft has pulled a bench up to the dining room table, and Sherlock is seated there, wrapped in a duvet. The smell of eggs. Tomato juice. Spicy tomato juice. He sips. He stares blankly. Mycroft sits beside him with a small plate of scrambled eggs.

"You need to eat. Not too much. Slowly. It isn't wise to go all the way through this process without a break. It won't feel very nice until things get moving, but get something inside yourself." He holds a fork up to Sherlock's lips.

It doesn't feel very nice. Sherlock spends some time in the bathroom, then returns to gobble the rest of the eggs, an apple, another glass of juice, and the remainder of a jar of green olives. He finds a container of marmalade. He puts a thin, stale heel of bread into the toaster.

Mycroft nurses a mug of tea and watches.

"Do you want some?"


"Here, have mine. I don't think there's any more left."


Shortly, they are dozing on a broken-down sofa in a back room overlooking an overgrown meadow. Sherlock kicks and settles into his covers, pushing his feet against his brother's leg. Mycroft is sitting upright in his shorts, leaning against the arm of the sofa with his forehead propped on his fist.

Sherlock doesn't remember much of last night. Once, Mycroft mounted him from behind, crazed, puffing hard after a dash for a piss, laid his head on Sherlock's back with an exhausted groan and said, "This is truly miserable."

Once, Sherlock came to awareness, yelling as if emerging from a nightmare, to find himself atop his brother, snared on his knot, ejaculating across his belly. Mycroft, startled and scared, clasped him as he twisted away, holding him from behind, propping himself against the awkward headboard—"Ah!" was as much as Sherlock could articulate, the same hopeless phoneme, over and over, until his tongue dried up and he said, in a tiny childish voice, "Help me, Mycroft. Help."

Mycroft rocked him on his lap for a while, made an uncomfortable noise as he adjusted their positions, and loosened the collar around Sherlock's neck. They lay for a while with Sherlock half on top of his brother; Mycroft, arms crossed over Sherlock's chest, clutching his hands, talked with him about watch mechanisms and a great-uncle they hadn't seen for a long time, until Sherlock relaxed, breathed deep with a little groan, arched his back, and fucked himself on Mycroft again. That's what he remembers.

The daylight is cool and soothing, the room is still and warm. Sherlock half-hears Mycroft murmur to himself, " … some heat-maddened summer fly … " before he falls asleep.


They are crowded together, face-to-face under the duvet, when Sherlock blinks back into the world. The windows are full of lavender summer twilight. Mycroft is watching him, hands folded under his chin, elbows pressed tight between their chests. "What did you dream?" asks Sherlock, languid.

"Subterranean lice," Mycroft answers, without opening his jaw. "Your breath is abysmal."

"I bet it is."

Sherlock breathes closer to his brother's face, which twitches in irritation for a microsecond before his eyes flit to Sherlock's mouth and he angles his head to meet it. Sherlock barely licks the point of his brother's upper lip, then barely slips inside and barely touches his teeth, and Mycroft barely breathes, mouth open, and Sherlock shivers down his whole body into his groin, where he feels Mycroft's prick, bent in its confinement, firm up at the crease of his thigh.

His open mouth drifts toward Mycroft's, and the curves of their lips touch at two tangent points, the breath from their nostrils tickling Sherlock's septum, until Mycroft releases the tiniest sound and Sherlock melts against his brother with his hand cupped over his jaw, closed mouth pressed to closed mouth, open mouth against closed mouth, finally tongues and breath together for the duration of one soft moan. Then Mycroft ducks his chin and licks his lips.

"That might be a bit much."

Sherlock is muzzily baffled. "A bit much?"

Instead of responding, Mycroft wriggles the waistband of his shorts down below his balls and rolls against his brother. Sherlock lifts one leg and they scissor together, his back against the cushions of the sofa. He watches his brother's face as they shift and slide together and finally, inelegantly, couple. Mycroft is hard, and getting harder as he slips himself in and out, but his expression is closed and troubled.

"You wanted it to be Chester." There is a little prick of ice in Sherlock's gut.

Mycroft slows. "I liked Chester. He was gentle, and sweet, and bright, and well-connected. He's close to his family. He was a good catch, as they say. And he's just as well out of it. I am sorry, though."

"I am, too."

That earns half a smile. "You almost sound sincere." Mycroft shifts Sherlock's hindquarters directly below himself and begins rutting in earnest.

Sherlock places his hands over his brother's collarbone, not supporting but holding him. He imagines Mycroft fucking Chester here, collaring him, making him eggs. And sausages. He feels small and dirty. He is falling and falling.

"There's nothing I can do, Mycroft," he cries.

Mycroft watches his brother's eyes as he takes long, steady strokes into his body. "The world is an unhappy place," he confesses softly. He leans onto his elbow, slips a hand into the hair at the top of Sherlock's neck, and tightens his fist until Sherlock's breath is rough through his open mouth, his throat exposed, his mind dark and distant.

Mycroft lies heavy and warm across his brother's body, buried inside him, and whispers against his neck:

"I will always look after you."

Sherlock registers the words and folds them away.

* * * * *