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Mycroft smiled, the tips of his fingers traced the rim of the empty tumbler. He had just finished his second drink and contemplated refilling the glass. The inky darkness outside was comforting, it was only half past midnight, they had plenty of time before the inevitable return to the roles of two brothers who didn't like each other. For now, he was comfortably seated in a chair by the bed, watching Sherlock. He was sprawled across the bed, on his back, nude and shivering but not from the cold. No, his entire upper body was flushed deep red and surely hot to the touch. The room was dimly lit, yet enough to see the sweat shimmering on his skin, brows furrowed in concentration, drops of moisture gathering on his belly and Mycroft loved what he saw.
Sherlock's task was not the easiest but anything else would be offensive. He was so confident abut his ability to control the impulses of his body that Mycroft felt obliged to push him further and further, the quest of finding Sherlock's breaking point had been his secret top-priority for decades. The safeword Sherlock had chosen was simple enough to remember and utter even when he could barely speak, yet so far, he had never used it.
Mycroft checked the time, almost an entire hour since they had started, since Sherlock first slicked his fingers and reached between his legs. As instructed, he went slow, slower than he would do if given choice. The pads of his fingers rubbed against the tight opening, brushed against his perineum and that was as far up as he could go, lest he wanted to leave at dawn unsatisfied. Mycroft encouraged him to warm the lubricant first in his palm and Sherlock listened, then pressed his index finger in, shallowly. There was no reason to go deep and crook his finger upwards, no, Mycroft would not approve of that.
Fifty-five minutes and two more fingers later, Sherlock was desperate for any kind of relief. His free hand kept wandering towards his erection, without his conscious decision. Whenever that happened, Mycroft counted the seconds between the inappropriate action and the correction. The longer it took, the less likely his hypothetical orgasm became. That was the price for his insolence.
'How long has it been this time, brother dear? A fortnight?'
'And one day,' Sherlock replied breathlessly, arching off the bed and rolling his hips. What he was permitted to do was not enough to sate him, he wished to make the proper use of his long fingers. That kind of show was reserved it for special occasions. At the moment, Sherlock's pleasure was immaterial, the goal was to stretch his muscles and nothing more.
'This must be hard to bear, waiting for your brother's permission to have an orgasm and knowing how difficult it is to earn this special privilege.'
Sherlock whined, 'You're evil.'
'Distracting as well, I assume. How can you concentrate on your silly cases? How do you manage to hide your restlessness and the cause of it from John? He worries about you, doesn't he? So loyal and concerned. He would probably stay by your side even after you told him about our little arrangement. He knows you so well, yet does not suspect who is hiding behind that façade of repressed sexual needs.'
Sherlock kept his comments to himself, his thoughts were so easy enough to read. Yes, Mycroft also wore a mask, his was of a respectable, virtuous man, too preoccupied with keeping his brother safe to even consider any sort of private involvement with anyone. Combined with the vague family feud they kept bringing up but never explained, it was the perfect smokescreen, even all those criminal masterminds that Sherlock attracted could not see the truth.
Quiet, little moans and legs spread apart invitingly tempted Mycroft to rise to his feet and shed his clothes. He had only taken off his jacket, the rest stayed on. The contrast between them could not be sharper, one was writhing on the sheets, feeling dirty and vulnerable, the other was dressed to the nines, cool and in control. As much as Mycroft was fond of his well-tailored suits, he did not deny Sherlock the confused pleasure of the touch of fine fabrics against his heated skin.
'Please,' Sherlock said unexpectedly, in a small voice. Mycroft quirked an eyebrow at him, usually at this point he would snap angrily and advise Mycroft to do something anatomically impossible yet exciting. Could that be a sign of improvement, a proof that Sherlock was not completely incorrigible?
'I am impressed, honestly. I have always feared that saying this word out loud might kill you,' Mycroft smirked and took one cigarette out of the packet and lit it. The smoke interrupted Sherlock's steady rhythm, he lifted his head off the bed and gave Mycroft a pleading look. Either that was his nicotine addiction getting the better of him or he realised that his agony was not going to end soon.
'Have I told you to stop? Get back to work,' Mycroft reprimanded him and blew out a curl of grey smoke. He wondered if it was possible to make Sherlock sob without laying a finger on him. There had been tears in the past, silent, unobtrusive crying. Who knew how another hour of the gentle torment would affect him?
Sherlock sensed the risk of punishment and quickly resumed his careful movements, twisted the three digits, pulled out a bit and thrust back in. To avoid temptation and distraction, he fixed his gaze on the ceiling. Trying so hard to be good, even when it hurt, Mycroft loved his dedication, loved it so much that as soon as he finished the cigarette, he stood up and walked over to the side of the bed where Sherlock's head was.
'Come over here,' he crooned and Sherlock awkwardly shifted towards him, until his shoulders reached the edge of the bed. Head down, mouth opened wide and the perfect angle. Mycroft tenderly touched his exposed throat, stroked the place when he was about to feel his hardness. That reminded him, reminded them both, of the first time they tried this position.
The memory was exhilarating even after so many years. As a troubled, confused teenager, Sherlock was torn between the powerful desire to explore his sexuality and the stubborn reluctance to follow in his ordinary classmates' footsteps. The struggle continued until the most eventful Christmas break of his youth. The naive boy believed that he could torture his big brother with indecent remarks and teasing touches. The shock he experienced when Mycroft agreed to fulfil his wishes probably never truly passed. He reacted almost the same way to particularly filthy suggestions.
Young Sherlock's eagerness was endearing but the absolute lack of experience proved to be an annoying inconvenience. Coughing and gagging with only the tip of the reasonably-sized prick in his mouth was far from Sherlock's high expectations. Mycroft would never push him past his limits, he was his first and spoiling the joy of giving oral sex would be unforgivable. There was only one reasonable solution. The two brothers sneaked into their parents' bedroom in the middle of the day, when the house of full of people and anyone could walk in on them. Mycroft instructed Sherlock to lie on his back on the bed, chin up, his head between Mycroft's legs. Mycroft towered over him, one hand caressing the side of Sherlock's face as he drove into his mouth, meeting little resistance.
Now he repeated the action, with much more confidence. Sherlock was used to the discomforts of his currents position, learnt to breathe when he could and didn't panic when his throat was filled and blocked. His trust was of paramount importance to Mycroft and he would never risk losing it, not all of his thrusts were so deep and long enough to make Sherlock squirm. He gripped Sherlock by the jaw, his thumb pressing against the bottom lip, to keep him from attempting to close his mouth. Saliva mixed with pre-ejaculate trickled down Sherlock's cheeks, but he didn't wipe it. He was still fingering himself, did not increase the depth of penetration, although in the past he thought such details would go unnoticed. He deserved a reward. Mycroft withdrew, let him catch a breath and gave him the permission to remove his fingers.
The thorough preparation served another purpose, it was an attitude adjustment therapy. When Mycroft settled between Sherlock's trembling thighs, there was not a hint of impatience in his brother's eyes, just quiet acceptance. His body was just as welcoming, Mycroft sank in easily, in one fluid motion and paused only out of habit. Sherlock's gratitude was expressed by him shutting his mouth. For once, he let Mycroft have the last word. And he had it. He whispered into the dark curls, 'You're Daddy's good little girl.'