Work Text:
Sherlock spends the way back to London glued to his phone. One by one, he checks on everyone involved in Eurus' games, those who are still alive. Molly even listens to his explanation, a hint of success in the sea of failures.
The last person on his list is his brother. There's no response, he does not answer the phone. Sherlock feels a stab of trepidation, this is something entirely new for him, being anxious about Mycroft. He dials Lestrade's number. He reports that Mycroft went home, alone. That should not be a surprise, the concept of seeking consolation in social interaction must be foreign to Mycroft.
The flat is not completely destroyed and Sherlock is certain he can return there soon. Somewhere in the background, he hears John's invitation to his place for the rest of the night. He doesn't reply, too caught up in the strangest feeling of apprehension that doesn't pass. He worries about his brother, probably for the first time in his life and it's unsettling. Is this how Mycroft feels all the time?
There's not much left to do. Eurus has been taken away, the flat can wait and so can the dreadful conversation with mother and father. Too late to sleep and too early to face the problems of tomorrow. The empty hours before dawn that he usually fills with unsolvable puzzles or overthinking now seem the perfect time to visit his brother.
His key still fits. Mycroft is so hopeless, no matter what Sherlock does, he still wants them to reconcile. He wouldn't change the locks even if an army of midget clowns invaded his house. Caring is not an advantage, obviously, Mycroft speaks from experience.
He takes off his shoes, in case Mycroft is asleep. Sherlock will simply take a look and retreat silently, then pretend the outburst of concern never took place. He walks to the bedroom soundlessly, holding his breath. His hand rests on the doorknob, then twists it. It's dark inside, making the red glow of the cigarette more visible. There's so much smoke in the air that one breath makes Sherlock dizzy. He leaves the door open and comes closer to the bed.
Mycroft is lying on his back. He remains in that position when Sherlock turns the bedside lamp on. He must be too wrung out by the events of the last twenty hours to care. Everything, from the unbuttoned pyjama shirt through ash on the linen to the creased clothes scattered on the floor, confirms Sherlock's assumption. There are visible cracks in the façade of the unemotional, always composed Iceman and it's alarming.
Sherlock watches him, not bothering to hide his frantic thoughts. He doesn't need words to confess what frightened him most during the whole, hours-long ordeal. Not the little girl on the plane, nor the long-lost childhood friend, not even the hardest choice he has ever had to make. Waking up all alone, hearing only John and the girl and no Mycroft, that was the worst. There was no time to think about it then, but now the numbing fear returns. Just seeing Mycroft, shaken but uninjured, is not enough to calm down. It dawns on him that the true reason of his visit is not to offer support but ask for it.
Intrusive thoughts flood his mind, those that he has elected to ignore and delete from his mind, unsuccessfully. The longing he hesitates to define, the unwelcomed surge of desire whenever Mycroft is near. There's no doubt that it is mutual, Mycroft initially struggled to hide the signs, but eventually realised how pointless his efforts were, he taught Sherlock how to read between lines and the student surpassed the master. Nothing has ever happened between them, they hoped to grow out if it, but after one decade, then another and a half of one more, it just became a natural part of their lives. The unspoken truth, their secret.
Sherlock often wonders if they would ever let it happen. Years of missed opportunities, resisted temptations clarify the matter. But when he turned the gun on himself, he understood what his biggest regret was.
He does not break the eye contact when he shrugs off the coat, then the jacket and unbuttons the shirt. Mycroft does not look away either. He only finishes his cigarette and puts the overflowing ashtray on the nightstand, then moves from his usual spot in the centre of the bed. Sherlock slips under the covers, stark naked and despite the duvet, exposed. For an endless moment, they lie on their sides, face to face. They observe each other, make their deductions. Mycroft is preparing a speech, he wants to trivialise Sherlock's craving, turn it into the side effect of all the stress and recovered childhood trauma. 'It will pass, tomorrow you would regret it,' he is planning to say. Sherlock is aware there won't be another possibility of fulfilling his years-long yearning. Mycroft will emerge from this nightmare stronger, he won't be seen so vulnerable ever again. Now or never.
Sherlock reaches out, his fingertips skim across Mycroft's cheek. The gesture is intended as innocent and it is, for a split second. From a simple touch to make sure Mycroft is really there with him to a wordless plea, an invitation. He predicts refusal, lecture, apologies or lies. Mycroft does not react at all, still deciding what to do. This gives Sherlock hope. He closes the distance between them, chest to chest and eye to eye. He has been kept at arm's length for so long he wonders if he can appreciate the closeness. He can. He loves the warmth of Mycroft's body, the sense of safety and belonging, the intimacy he has longed for since he was a teenager.
He experimentally presses his lips against Mycroft's. His brother stiffens but does not stop him. Sherlock places small kisses in the corners of his mouth and on his lower lip, then along his jawline. Mycroft allows it for while longer, then his internal debate is over and he surrenders. His hand rests on Sherlock's back, lightly. Sherlock takes it as a permission to continue. He mirrors the movement, though he applies more pressure, then, encouraged by the lack of protest, slips his hand under the pyjama. He runs his fingers up and down Mycroft's spine and strokes his side. He hears an exhale that might be interpreted as a gasp when he nuzzles into Mycroft's neck and mouths at his collarbone. He has had some experiences but never been that intimate with anyone.
Time slows down to a crawl. Sherlock cannot tell how long they lie like this, embraced, exchanging soft caresses. Neither of them ruins the mood, they don't speak at all, one incautious word and the bubble will burst. Sherlock is content with what he has, Mycroft is mostly shirtless and their legs are intertwined. This may be enough, certainly better than nothing. The soothing skin to skin contact, the sound of breathing and heartbeat of the loved one- it almost lulls him into a deep sleep. This is different from his usual restlessness and the dull ache of insomnia.
At first, he thinks this is a dream. Mycroft's cups his cheek and gently pushes until he can see Sherlock's face, then kisses him properly, for the first time. Not as tenderly as Sherlock, nor as tentatively. There's a hint of teeth on Sherlock's bottom lip and the tip of the tongue sliding in. Sherlock welcomes it, reveals in the sensation, clings tighter to Mycroft. The sweetness of the kiss becomes more enticing when Mycroft clasps his hand over Sherlock's nape and keeps him in place. He moans into Mycroft's mouth, begs him not to stop. They could have died, both of them, but they survived. What they tried to perceive as a disastrous mistake, now seems to be the only thing that can prevent them from losing their minds.
Sherlock doesn't notice who starts the grinding. It's immaterial, there won't be any regrets or accusations later. The pyjama ends up kicked off the bed, so does the duvet. Nothing separates them now, not the thinnest barrier of fabric. The evidence of Mycroft's arousal is impossible to ignore, hard and hot against Sherlock's belly. A slight adjustment and it can slide right against Sherlock's own. It's electric and sparks something inside Sherlock. He considers rolling them over and riding Mycroft into oblivion, but does not complain when the opposite happens and he's on his back, the solid weight of his brother surprisingly comforting. There's no stopping now.
The way their lips meet is no longer so neat and controlled, it's wet and messy. Seeing Mycroft like this, for once not so bloody indifferent and aloof is satisfying on every level. His inhibitions slide away and Sherlock enjoys every moment of it. He wants to remember this part of the night in great detail, to later relive it in his own bed. Another time like this seems just as wonderful as unreal, and dwelling on that will only sour the delight.
Mycroft lifts up a bit, only enough to reach between their bodies to wrap his fingers around Sherlock's erection. His strokes are deliberate, his grip tight whenever he gets to the head. He thumbs the slit, over and over again, until there's enough fluid to move lower. Sherlock is positively surprised by the turn of events, lust blended with disbelief. But it is happening, he spreads his legs, raises his hips. He wants to watch, it, see Mycroft's expression when he fills him but it's too intense. He can't keep his eyes open long enough to memorise the look on Mycroft's face, everything is blurred by the mixture of pain and pleasure. The distraction Mycroft kindly offers, his free hand palming Sherlock's crotch, fondling his bollocks, gathering more pre-ejaculate, works, Sherlock relaxes minutely, lets Mycroft's thumb in deeper. He clasps his arms around freckled shoulders and pulls down, nails raking the skin. The kiss he initiates turns frantic when Mycroft switches hands and adds another finger. Sherlock groans and grinds against the intrusion, uses all the leverage he has to take more of it and faster than Mycroft is willing to give.
Mycroft is having none of that. He cards his fingers through his curls and yanks, forcing Sherlock to expose his neck. The old habit of flipping up the collar of the coat and wearing a scarf even in the summer betrays the incredible sensitivity of that particular area and Mycroft makes good use of the knowledge. Sharp nipping, followed by open-mouthed kisses and back to biting. Sherlock writhes under him, moans, too far gone to be bothered by how wanton he sounds. He cradles the back of Mycroft's head, neither shoves him away nor brings him closer. The idea of hiding marks under his scarf is thrilling, but one more minute of it and it will be over for him.
Mycroft reads him like an open book. The replacement of the fingers is not as swift as Sherlock hoped. Logic is the last thing on his mind and he clenches down on Mycroft, holds his breath, his eyes water. The burn is overwhelming, he is not aware of Mycroft leaning in, his mouth close to Sherlock's ear. But even through the fog, he can hear the whispered confession, words he has never expected, heavy with repressed emotions. Mycroft repeats it until the tension melts away.
Sherlock is glad his fantasies about inviting Mycroft to his own bedroom remained fantasies. The secret would be out within moments, he discovers he is unable of staying silent when Mycroft starts rocking into him. Groans of pain and shuddering whimpers could give the impression of a torture and he wonders if John or Mrs Hudson would come to his rescue.
He knows his body will remember this for a couple of days and wants to return the favour. Mycroft's back and shoulders will be sore, littered with finger-shaped bruises and scratches. It's not entirely intentional, self-control becomes a distant memory when the angle is changed. Jolts of pleasure keep on coming, increasingly stronger. He bucks his hips up, chasing the blinding sensations, lowers his hands to Mycroft's bottom to keep him even closer and deeper. Mycroft gives him what he wants, thrusts in with enough force to push Sherlock over the edge and follows him with a ragged cry.
The shattering climax leaves Sherlock breathless, blissed out and deeply satisfied. His body is still vibrating with pleasure, the unavoidable languour slows him down and he doesn't stop Mycroft from rolling off him. One look and Sherlock knows Mycroft is coming back to his usual self, troubled by the unacceptable mess in his immaculate house, the unfolded clothes laying on the floor and sweat and sperm staining the sheets. That bothers him so much that Sherlock settles on his side close to him, palms his heaving chest and pushes one leg between his. They are almost cuddling and it's more unexpected than the sex they have just had. He is not asked to leave as soon as the afterglow fades, one more small victory. Before Mycroft starts thinking clearly again, Sherlock tilts his head up, kisses his cheek affectionately and murmurs everything he has always wanted Mycroft to know.
Soon he notices another source of light in the room. It's morning.