Chapter Text
Paris is nice this time of year. No, not really… The de Lour brothers and their lot have been taken care of. SH
Well done. How are you? MH
Still alive and kicking. You? SH
Good now. MH
°°°
Edinburgh nights. Hard case. Could have needed another brain. Yours. SH
I trust you managed on your own. You know you can always ask for advice. And support. MH
I do. Thank you. Can't wait to be back. SH
Ask me… Take care of yourself. England needs you. MH
°°°
Dublin is almost like being in London. So lively. But then – not. You are not here. SH
London is boring these days. Miss you, little brother. MH
°°°
The Spanish side is done. Thinking of you. SH
Busy boy. Wish you were here. MH
°°°
Cracked ribs do hurt. But Romania is rid of them. SH
Do you need medical help? MH
Nah. I'm fine. I dreamt of you last night. SH
Something nice? MH
Very nice… SH
*****
It's like living two completely separate lives.
In one of them, he's Mycroft Holmes, the powerful shadow in the depths of the British government. A man who plans, intrigues and schemes like he's always done. A man in and of control, pulling the strings of people who seem so important to the oblivious public.
In the other one, he's constantly thinking of the man he desperately loves, misses and worries about. Every time he has no immediate problem to concentrate on, his thoughts are solely focused on Sherlock. It has always been Sherlock he worried about of course and Sherlock used to give him more than enough reason for it, but now with the relationship that is developing between them and Sherlock away on his life-threatening mission, his concern has exponentially increased.
Where is he? What's he doing and with whom? Does he have food? Does he sleep? Does he… live?
As if Sherlock could sense his thoughts, he very often texts from his safe phone when he's sitting at his desk, having finished working on a report or giving orders, his thoughts circling around Sherlock's wellbeing, and Mycroft answers at once.
Gradually, their texting has changed. Has become more personal. At first, even after telling each other they had missed the other one on their last meeting, it was still careful and rather unemotional. Too weird, too difficult did it seem to write about their feelings. But proportionally to the time being separated and longing for each other more and more desperately, they've become braver in their expressions. Mycroft catches himself smiling at some texts and Sherlock's words of sentiment wrap his soul into unknown warmth. Of course the longing and the concerns overpower the positive feelings but it does provide some comfort, and he hope his answers do so for Sherlock as well.
As if Sherlock knew when he feels the worst about not having him here, he calls him and Mycroft will take the call wherever he is and whatever he's doing, excusing himself with eyes of steel, leaving who ever shares the room with him alone. That's not unusual for him as he's a man of many tasks to take care of, one in more need of absolute discretion than the other one so people are used to abrupt interruptions of meetings.
They never talk for long but Mycroft savours every word his brother says, turning them over in his brain for hours afterwards.
And then, eight months after their last meeting, Mycroft is lying on his bed at ten pm, a glass of whiskey on the nightstand next to him, when his phone rings. He grabs it at once and when he sees Sherlock's (disguised) number, he is frightened at first. Sherlock has never called him when he was at home.
“Are you all right?” he almost barks into the phone.
“Don't screech, Mycroft. Yes, I'm fine.”
He sounds rather weird though, his voice pressed, and Mycroft suspects he's drunk something. No drugs – Sherlock has promised it. But some booze, and who could blame him?
“You're safe?” he asks again, somehow not being able to get rid of the picture of a Sherlock in captivity, bound and tortured, forced to call him. It's a stupid picture but it mirrors all his worries.
“Yes, I am! Completed my mission in Bulgaria. I'm lying on a comfortable bed, I'm physically fine and… I'm doing something I thought about for bloody months.”
“What?”
“Calling you when you're not confined in your office, Mycroft! Late, in bed or sitting in your living room, relaxed…”
“I can't even remember when I've been relaxed the last time. Certainly not since you've gone away…”
“Okay, point taken. But the main point is that I've avoided it so far…”
“Why? Are you…” He breaks off, realising that what he wanted to ask would have sounded stupid. 'Are you having second thoughts?' They have not spoken about the night they spent together and the two times they had sex. When Sherlock comes back, he will move in with John again, returning to his life. Perhaps, if he feels good enough about their shared intimacy and wants to experience more of it, they will meet in Mycroft's house and be together for more of this. They are not lovers after all. They're brothers with an obviously mutual attraction. This was born out of loneliness, change and crisis – for Sherlock. He knows it's not quite like this for him…
Sherlock has been silent for a moment. “No, Mycroft. No second thoughts.” Can he read his mind? This is unsettling. And Sherlock senses his distress as well. “Deductions, brother dear? You taught me?”
“But not…” Mycroft feels confused.
“Stay cool, Mycroft. And you might have heard I had a few drinks. I knew this was going to be… emotional.”
His voice is chewing on this last word. It has always been an alien concept to both of them. John Watson has changed it to some extent but Mycroft knows a part of Sherlock will always be cold and calculating even though his friends might not want to see it. But… This is between the two of them. Two men, despising sentiment, so similar and yet so different. Sherlock - impulsive, reckless, easily bored and willing to do almost everything to get rid of this condition, and Mycroft has always provided a distraction. Mycroft – scheming, plotting and calm but not when Sherlock is concerned. They complement each other. Nobody else could. It's as easy as this.
It all comes down to being 'soulmates' and that's the most embarrassing concept he can think of.
“Emotional,” he slowly says. “All right. I'm open to talk about anything that's on your mind, now that you've helped yourself to liquid courage.”
“Emotions, dear brother, are not on the mind.”
Mycroft smiles. “Very true. Forgive me; you know sentiment has always been foreign to me. Something for the, you know, goldfish.”
“I figure. But it hasn't been like that lately?”
“Not so much, no. Still it's difficult to imagine I have a heart.”
“But we both know you do.”
“Yes.”
Sherlock hums. “Me too.”
“I haven't questioned that for years.”
“And you didn’t like it…”
“Not really, no.” But Sherlock hardly ever asks about John anymore. Mycroft knows he has to be thinking about him but he trusts him with making sure the doctor is safe and unharmed. And of course Mycroft has kept his eye on John, no matter how little he likes the doctor. He means a lot to Sherlock and so he has to be kept alive.
“They're my friends,” Sherlock says. “And you're my brother.”
Which is in fact one of their many problems…
They both stay silent for a while. Finally Sherlock audibly drinks and Mycroft follows his example. They whiskey burns nicely in his throat and the warmth that spreads out in his stomach is very welcome.
“Did you think of me?” Sherlock finally breaks the silence. “Before I called?”
“That's an easy guess.”
“Because you… think a lot about me?”
“Carefully put, yes.” Mycroft takes another sip of his drink.
“Always?”
“Quite. You?”
“Yes. Quite. If I don't have to concentrate too hard on not getting killed…” Mycroft groans and Sherlock chuckles. “Sorry, brother mine. Be assured I'm not going to let them. So… You're in your bedroom?”
“I am. Heard the creaking of the bed?”
“Mh-mm. Are you… No, forget it.”
Mycroft can't help but grin in wonder. “Am I what? Dressed?”
“Yeah…”
“Really, Sherlock – phone sex?”
“Do you prefer talking about our feelings?”
“Point taken. Yes, I do wear my pyjamas.”
“Under them?”
“Nothing.”
“Silk?”
“Yes.”
“Nice on your body, right?”
“Your hands and mouth would feel nicer...” Mycroft is surprised about himself but this is kind of… fun. He would have never pictured himself doing this kind of thing. But this is Sherlock. And it's easier like this – on the phone. The distance helps him relax.
“Oh, I can guarantee they would,” Sherlock breathes. “Touch yourself.”
“Sorry?”
“You heard me.”
“You really want this?”
“I'm already doing it.”
The picture makes Mycroft's vision go blurred. Imagining his beautiful, troubled brother lying on his back, the phone in one hand, the other one wrapped around his long, stiff cock.
It makes him do the same…
He hardly ever indulges in such – quite literally – self-indulgent pleasures. Usually when he comes home from work, he longs for dinner, a drink, quiet classical music and overall peace. But since he's discovered his scandalous feelings for Sherlock, his fingers have found their way around his sizeable cock rather often and they find their slow rhythm in stroking himself now easily.
He can hear Sherlock's breath speed up and he knows Sherlock can hear his as well.
“What are you thinking of now?” Sherlock asks, his voice trembling.
“You.”
“Oh, good. I'm glad it's nobody else!”
His brother's sarcasm makes him grin.
“What I meant is – what are you doing to me in your imagination? Or me to you?”
He hasn’t had a real picture on his mind, just Sherlock overall. But now he sees himself, lined up behind his brother, his hands on his lush bum, his cock disappearing in a red, stretched-out hole and he involuntarily moans.
“Tell me!” Sherlock urges him, sounding equally aroused.
“Me, taking you, you on all fours, me pushing into you,” he stammers and his thumb touches the tip of his cock, and he feels stickiness and rubs it into the shiny head.
“God, yes… I want that,” Sherlock pants. “Would you… let me do the same?”
“Yes, of course.” He wants his brother to possess him, to take him, to rock into him.
“Has anyone ever done that to you?”
“No. Never. But I'd let you.”
“No, Mycroft. You will let me.”
And he sounds so convinced it will happen, so convinced he will survive his mission, and Mycroft wants to believe it and he knows if anyone can do all this and live to tell, it's his little brother.
When he hears Sherlock cry out in his low voice, he comes as well, spilling all over his hand and his stomach, and he rubs the stickiness into his skin and imagine licking Sherlock's from his cock, and they listen to each other panting, both in their lonely beds, so far apart.