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Wrong! (In All The Right Ways)

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Mycroft barely contained a delicate shutter. The house was filthy beyond all words, the walls a mix of dark mold and bright graffiti and the floor so strewn with rubbish and discarded furniture that he was surprised that the police had been able to find anyone, let alone finding the one person that all Mycroft's connections and power hadn't been able to for the last three months.

The sergeant in charge of the scene met him where the house's front door hung haphazardly from just one hinge, victim of a police battering ram. 'Nearly unhinged,' Mycroft thought, 'How apropos.'

The sergeant was a powerfully build man already greying at the temples. Mycroft had recruited him as a constable barely a year before after he had found a detoxing Sherlock in the man's spare room. Sherlock's sobriety had not lasted that time any more than it had any of the several previous tries but Mycroft had appreciated the attempt and had quietly taken an interest in the man's career as well as beginning to make small deposits to his banking account.

It was an investment that had paid off handsomely this evening when he had called his emergency line and continued to pay off as the sergeant had kept his wayward brother from being arrested with the rest of the filth and out of all the paperwork for this drugs bust. Mycroft made a mental note to see about shepherding the man into the Homicide department and out of Vice. He suspected, well hoped really, that he would be more useful there in future.

Mycroft was shaken from his plans when the sergeant stopped just inside a small room and gestured at a figure lying limply on a stained mattress. Something painful twisted in Mycroft's chest at the sight, but he managed to keep his face composed and his voice remote as he addressed the other man for the first time, “Thank you Lestrade. If you would please pull all your remaining officers from the scene, my people will be here soon to clean this up.”

“I dunno if I can do that, Mr Holmes. We still have evidence to log and photos to take.”

“I am sure they'll keep for an hour while this is cleared up.”

The man heaved a long sigh and ruffled a hair through his short hair. “Fine, but this better be the only time I do this, yeah?”

“One way or another, I think it will be.” Mycroft said, resignation in his voice. He didn't have any faith that his brother would get clean, but he also knew if he did not he would be dead within the year. He met the man's eyes, “Thank you, Sergeant.”

Lestrade nodded sadly before turning away and trudging out of the ramshackle room.

Mycroft picked his way through the debris to crouch down beside the pathetic prone figure. For several long moments Mycroft observed the scene before him, analyzing, deducing, memorizing every horrifying detail as a form of penance for failing his brother.

The man was a mess. His usually pristine curls were greasy and tangled almost to the point of being matted. A stained pair of track shorts and a ratty, once white tee shirt hung off his wasted frame revealing what seemed like acres of sallow skin, much of it mottled with bruises. Mycroft reached out and took hold of a pale wrist, scared to find it cold to the touch. After a tense second he was able to feel a pulse, weak and erratic as it was. He had arrived in time at least in this case.

The numerous track marks, many red and infected looking, revealed on the underside of his arm were less comforting. Mycroft gently prodded one of the marks and was surprised when the limb moved feebly and a hoarse voice mumbled, “Get off.” So he was at least semi-conscious.

Mycroft realized that he was putting off the inevitable, hoping this was all an error and that the half dead man would turn out to be someone else's brother and he go on to find Sherlock haring about France or America tomorrow. 'Sentiment,' his inner voice said chidingly. He steeled himself and finally rolled the figure to his back and looked into the unmistakable face of his brother. It was as grey as the rest of him save for a sickly green bruise over one of his impossible cheekbones. His light grey eyes were ringed with dark circles, and when Mycroft gripped him by the chin and leaned in closer to examine them he found that the pupils were unevenly dilated.

Suddenly the eyes came into more focus, seeming to fix on Mycroft's worried face. The broken voice asked, “My? My, is that you this time?”

“Yes, dear brother.” Mycroft tried for a dry acerbic tone but was pretty sure he missed. “I am here in this lovely-” Sherlock cut him off, leaning across the scant inches separating their faces to press dry, cracked lips to his in a fumbling kiss.

Shocked, Mycroft pulled back fast losing his balance in the process and ending up sprawled on his arse next to the bed. Undeterred Sherlock began to pull himself weakly toward him, babbling “I always knew you would come back to me. Every time it was one of them, when I needed another hit and then they would all hold me down and I- I would pretend. I would go to that place in my mind and it would be you and then it wasn't so awful.”

Mycroft looked down at his little brother in mute horror as he got a grip on the hem of Mycroft's crispy ironed pants, leaving dark hand prints on them as he dragged farther up, still rambling “I didn't like it, the things they did, not like with you. But then you didn't like it anymore did you, 'cause I wasn't your filthy little boy anymore. I could be again, if you'd let me try. I want to be your dirty secret, please My...” By this point Sherlock lay between Mycroft's legs, his head nuzzling into Mycroft's lap like a pornographic kitten. He gazed through his lashes, his eyes still slightly unfocused, up into Mycroft's face and said coyly, “Don't you remember the first time, My? When you came into my room that night and asked if I wanted to play a new game with you?”

God help him, he did remember it vividly. His little brother, always so beautiful and so in awe of his wiser older brother, so eager to please him. He had known it was wrong and that had only made it more irresistible until it had broken his will.

Sherlock continued, his deep voice almost as much a sin as the ones it revealed. “I was, what? Twelve? That first time. Did I ever tell you how much I loved it, how I reveled in the attention? How special you made me feel?”

To his intense shame Mycroft was well on his way to painfully aroused, a combination of words and memories stirring his cock into hardness. It would appear he was still powerless to resist his lovely, mad brother.

Sherlock rubbed his cheek against the growing bulge with a moan, his own hips starting what must have been a painful grind against the soiled carpet covering the floor. “Even when you were away at school, I would think about it constantly. My very first wet dream was of you, and every fantasy I have had since.” Mycroft couldn't help the moan that thought tore from him.

Sherlock responded immediately, clumsily pawing at Mycroft's belt. After several attempts Mycroft ended up undoing the belt and top button of his trousers himself before Sherlock pushed his hands away, pulling down the zipper and yanking trousers and pants down to expose his cock, thick and dusky pink, pre-come already gathering at the tip. Sherlock's nimble tongue darted out to lick the drop of desire off almost fastidiously, and Mycroft groaned again. When Sherlock closed his mouth around him, still dry as cotton but so warm and so beautiful to watch that it hardly mattered, Mycroft almost fell flat on his back from the pleasure, just barely catching himself on his hands.

His leaning back had given Sherlock better access and he took full advantage, pushing down until the cock met the back of his throat. He stayed there for an endless moment, choking, his throat convulsing around Mycroft, his own hand now reaching down underneath his shorts, fisting his own cock. Then he pulled off a bit and began a rhythm, moving all the way from the tip back down to the point of choking, using his clever tongue to tease the frenulum just the way Mycroft enjoyed best.

Maybe it was the familiarity of the motion, maybe it was simply the overwhelming pleasure, but something made Mycroft find his voice. In between his gasps and groans he began a rant of his own. “I remember the first time you did this for me too. The first time you got on your knees for me. And you tried so hard, there was drooling dripping down off your chin and you kept scraping me with your teeth. It was awful and bloody perfect because you were just so amazingly beautiful and mine. All mine. And when I came on your face and you just smiled up at me like an angel, God Lock, it was the most gorgeous thing I had ever seen. Can I do that again, Lock. Can I mark you as mine again?”

Sherlock's moan at the idea was low and utterly wanton, it felt amazing around his cock. But Sherlock pulled off, shaking his head no. “No, please My, please this time I need you to take me. I need you inside me, claiming every part of me again. I need it to be you this time and not someone else I am imagining is you. Please...”

He sounded so earnest and so desperate and honestly Mycroft had never been able to say no to him anyway. Mycroft leaned forward and brought a hand to Sherlock's cheek tenderly saying, “Of course, Lock. Whatever you need.”

Hanging his head in relief briefly Sherlock drew the hand that had been using on his own cock part way out of his shorts. He got up on his hands and knees and worked them down over his improbably plump arse, pushing them completely off. Mycroft was forced to scoot back slightly before he could get to his knees and crawl inelegantly, trousers and pants still trapping his legs close together, around behind his brother.

Unsurprisingly the bruises continued under Sherlock's clothes, black marks standing out lividly against his pale flesh. Many were in the clear shape of fingers that roughly held these hips in place not long ago and Mycroft winced. If anything the sight of Sherlock's arsehole was worse. The edges were red and abraded, still sticky and stained where the come of strangers had drizzled out. It should had been vile and repulsive. It was not. If anything seeing his baby brother used and defiled and still begging for more fanned the already searing heat of his arousal.

Still, it was with some hesitation that Mycroft positioned the crown of his cock over his brother's abused entrance, wondering if this would be wise without any lubrication or prep work. Sherlock had no such qualms. He gave Mycroft only a second to ponder propriety before saying, “Oh for gods sake!” and pushing back hard against Mycroft. Both men nearly screamed at the motion, Sherlock from the harsh pain of the breach, Mycroft from the tight, slick heat engulfing his length.

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's hips without a thought for the bruises already on them and held him still when Sherlock would have kept moving, drawing off and impaling himself again on his big brother's cock. Instead Mycroft forced him to take the time to adjust to the fullness, leaning down over his back and wrapping a hand around Sherlock's flagging erection and slowly stroking it back to full attention.

It was only when Sherlock was squirming and panting again with desire that Mycroft began to thrust shallowly into him. Mycroft changed angles slightly with each thrust until he found the right one to brush against Sherlock's prostate. The younger man cried out, “My, oh my God My, right there. Please!” and Mycroft obliged him thrusting harder and returning his hand to Sherlock's cock stroking it rapidly.

It took only a few dozen thrusts before Sherlock jerked under him, coming hard and sobbing Mycroft's name. The combination of that voice and the tightening of muscles around him brought Mycroft to climax a hair's breath later.

For a moment they stayed like that, melded together in a perfect moment of ecstasy, until Sherlock gave a pained grunt and collapsed on to his side, dragged a surprised Mycroft down with him. They lay there, half on the dirty mattress for what seemed like a long time. Mycroft's softening cock slipped out of Sherlock with a tide of fluid that had likely stained his expensive trousers. He found he couldn't care about that in the slightest, instead wrapping a protective arm around his brother and resting his chin in those greasy curls. Sherlock wriggled back further into the embrace, letting out a contented sigh and a sleepy, “Love you, My.”

Mycroft froze, all his muscles going tense. This had been where is had all gone so wrong the last time. The two of them had been wrapped together like this enjoying the post-orgasmic glow when a then sixteen year old Sherlock had declared his love and Mycroft had panicked. He had told Sherlock that he was too young, that what they were doing was wrong and unnatural, that he would get over it.

Then Mycroft had stopped everything and begun to push his brother away. He didn't come home for breaks any more and even when he did see Sherlock he treated him coolly, trying to give him the space to get over his 'silly crush.' He had started working longer hours and picking up more responsibilities at work to distract himself. Sherlock had dropped out of school and nurtured a drugs habit.

But there they were again, many hard years later. He couldn't call it an infatuation of youth anymore, any more than he could deny his own feelings again. Sherlock was giving him another chance to do this right, to do it the way he should have all those years ago.

He relaxed, hugging Sherlock tight against him, “I love you too, my Lock.”

Sherlock turned in his arms and looked him in the face. Mycroft dropped all his masks and pretense and let Sherlock see the love and regret plainly written on his features before he tried a little hopeful smile on. Sherlock smiled back, bright and quick, hints of that little boy Mycroft had thought he'd lost peeking though. Then Sherlock buried his face against his chest, exhaustion and drugs dragging him into a doze.

Mycroft allowed himself to enjoy the feeling of Sherlock's warmth and his breath ghosting against his chest for several minutes before his reason returned. He estimated that they had about twenty minutes until Lestrade and his team returned and he had yet to call anyone to come pick them up. He heaved a mental sigh and began making plans.

 

Three months later:

The black car dropped Sherlock off at Mycroft's townhouse late in the afternoon.

At first Mummy had been very insistent that Sherlock come home to the country house after he finished rehab but Sherlock had been just as stubborn about needing to live in the city. Eventually Mycroft had stepped in and with every appearance of reluctance offered to let Sherlock live with him and finally Mummy had agreed. It had been artfully done he thought, a compromise that seemed to please no one but that fitted his plans well. He was still not sure how Sherlock really felt about it, the man was a gifted actor and given his drugged state Mycroft couldn't be sure how much he remembered of that last night in the crack house.

Sherlock did shoot him a questioning look when Mycroft showed him to his room, and he was sullen and withdrawn throughout dinner, going up to bed early.

When Mycroft tapped gently on this door a half hour later Sherlock almost yanked the door off its hinges. His demand, “Oh, what now...” died on his lips as he took in Mycroft, dressed only in a silk robe.

Mycroft pushed up against his little brother, watching his eyes dilate and noting his quickened breathing. He leaned down just a fraction to whisper into Sherlock's ear, “Do you want to play a new game, brother mine?”