Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Very comfortable. Homely even.” Sherlock looks around, the irony in his tone as thick as honey.

The secret flat of the Secret Service is indeed looking very functional. A living room with a couch, at least. A small television. A bathroom with everything necessary; the shower cubicle sufficient for one rather slim person. And a bedroom with a bed for two, if neither of the persons needs too much space. The carpets are new. This flat hasn't been used a lot and it wouldn’t be needed for long now. Just a place for a man on the run to stay as long as necessary.

“This flat isn’t meant for spending comfort, little brother. Safety is the word of the moment.”

Sherlock waves this obviousness away. “Everything is ready?”

“Yes. You will enter the plane in two hours.” And wherever you will go over the next months or even years, you're not going to be more comfortable than here…

Sherlock knows that of course. He nods. “Are they all safe?”

“Yes. All your beloved friends. Moriarty's men around them have been all taken care of. But of course they will be devastated. Except for your dear Miss Hooper of course. I hope she will really keep her mouth shut.” It would be rather ironic if their plan blew up because the head-over-heels-in-love mouse gave them away. But they have needed her for their scheme.

“She will. No need to shut it permanently.”

Mycroft raises his hands. “I trust your judgement.”

“Since when?”

The older man sighs. He has put on a mask of indifferent exasperation when Sherlock has arrived. But of course he should have known he can’t fool his brother.

Sherlock eyes him closely. Then he steps closer. Which makes Mycroft take a step back, pointless as he knows it is. Still he says, “Don't.”

Sherlock lifts his eyebrows. “Why ever not? Don't bother yourself with telling me you've changed your mind. You should see your pupils.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “You're cruel. Why now? Now of all times?”

“Now is all there ever is.”

“Very philosophical.”

There was no way to hide it anymore. They had worked on this plan for weeks. Spent more time with each other than ever since they were children. Of course Sherlock had noticed what was going on in Mycroft's… heart, for a lack of a better word. Mycroft was devastated but to his surprise, his changed feelings did not seem to bother his brother. He didn’t say anything, neither of them did, but there was just a tad of torture. Sherlock, standing behind him a little too close. 'Accidental' touches when paper passed between their hands. A tease? A reassurance? Flirting? Experimenting? Proving a point? Provocation, Sherlock's elixir of life? Reciprocated feelings, the least probable possibility? Or just torment? He hasn't been able to figure it out. He can read everybody but like so often before he has failed reading his brother.

And now Sherlock is about to leave. About to go on a mission that he might never come back from. Dismantling the late Moriarty's web. Dealing with reckless criminals. But of course – Sherlock is reckless as well. Fearless. So confident he is going to complete his mission and come back in one piece, back to his doctor and his pathologist and his landlady and his DI. And his brother. To whom he had finally turned as this had to be planned, this had to be hatched by two brilliant brains and it required a certain power Sherlock doesn’t have.

And now Mycroft's feelings are on display. For Sherlock to stomp on and mock, but he hasn't done it. And now he offers… what? A goodbye-kiss? A goodbye-…

Mycroft stiffens when Sherlock approaches him again, his eyes wide and curious. There is a hint of derision in them but also a glow of… Is it affection?

“I can't… And you can't! You despise this!” Mycroft says, desperately. Is Sherlock craving for body contact because he knows he'll be alone for God knows how long? But why with him of all people? Well, of his friends only Miss Hooper is aware that he isn’t actually dead. And his gay but so far virgin brother obviously prefers contact with a man. So he is the only option… That is probably all there is to it. But of course it doesn’t make sense. Sherlock has never appreciated physical contact, not even as a child.

“So do you. But not if it's about me.” Sherlock is simply stating facts.

No. Not if it is about him. When has his brotherly care turned into something else? Mycroft can’t say. A slow process or a sudden lightning? He can’t even say that.

Of course he'd never wanted for Sherlock to find out. Or had expected him to act on it even in his bravest dreams. This is, by definition, a dirty little secret, requiring shame, guilt and fear. All embarrassingly exposed to his brother now.

He winces when Sherlock's arms creep around his neck. He is so close… Mycroft can smell him. Tea. Cigarettes. Skin. Sherlock. His impossible lips are parted, just a bit. These lips, protagonists of so many fantasies and dreams that left him feeling dirty and depraved.

“It's your choice,” the deep baritone rumbles and warm breath ghosts over his face. “Do it or don't do it.”

As if it really was a choice… Mycroft gives in because there is nothing else he could do and he bends forward and kisses him and his brain becomes dizzy at the unknown taste and touch and even dizzier when after a few seconds Sherlock kisses him back, probingly, curiously, experimentally. Always the scientist, his little brother. But Mycroft knows he will take what Sherlock offers. There is no way to pass this chance.

*****

They are lying on the cold bed with the too-hard mattress.

They have undressed with their backs to each other in silent agreement, and Mycroft feels more exposed than ever before in his life. All his flaws are on display, apart from the ones he can't hide even fully dressed – the thinning hair, the prominent nose, the unhealthy complexion of his face. And now he also shows his excessively hairy torso and his too-soft and slightly rounded belly that he just can't seem to get rid of, the source of countless diet jokes for his insufferable [desirable] little brother.

Sherlock has stuffed all the available pillows behind his head and watches him. He spares him, with unknown mercy, scrutinising him but Mycroft knows that with one short glance Sherlock has taken in his entire imperfect appearance. He doesn’t look offended or appalled though. Mycroft wouldn’t go so far to think his look is appreciative but he is obviously not feeling too disgusted by him.

And Sherlock – he looks painfully beautiful from his mop of black hair to his delicate toes. Sculpted stomach, smooth chest, muscular arms and legs and there – his generous package of genitals, unimpressed so far but alluring and fascinating. Mycroft tries not to stare but it's a lost cause.

“We don't have much time,” Sherlock reminds him, and his voice is soft and matter-of-fact, not mocking. “Better get on with it.”

“Your seduction abilities are a tad lacking.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “What did you expect? I don't have any. And I don't need any.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Yes, just rub it in.”

Sherlock smiles. “Rubbing seems like a good suggestion.” His hand grabs his soft cock and pulls at it. He glances at Mycroft's even more massive and not quite so soft penis and ballsack. “Impressive.”

Mycroft blushes. He knows he is hung big. And he has always thought, if he allowed himself to think about such trivia at all, that he has a rather appealing behind. Not as round and pert as his brother's but attractive enough. His only real treats – an over-average prick and a nice bottom. Pathetic…

“Come, brother mine. If you want to explore this, you better hurry up.” Sherlock sounds impatient now.

Doesn't he know how difficult it is to not be over him and just devour him like a primitive from the street? Only that he is way too nervous to really act like this.

But yes, Sherlock is right. They don't have time for caution, prissiness and second thoughts.

Finally he moves, reaches out with his right hand to caress his brother's hair, to probe at his cheekbone and his lips with his thumb and let his palm slide over his almost hairless chest and below. Sherlock is lying still and keeping quiet, just watching his shivering hand exploring his glorious body, rather innocently, so far. But when his fingers gently stroke over Sherlock's now plump dick, the last hint of innocence vanishes, never to return again. His heart is pounding now, and he knows the look in his eyes is appallingly hungry now. He wants it all, and if Sherlock lets him, he will take it all.

He has no illusions – this is all he'll ever get, and if Sherlock doesn’t make it back home or decides he doesn’t need a repeat, which Mycroft is sure he will, he will dwell on this memory forever. The silkiness of his curls, the warmth and softness of his skin, the hardness of his bones, the twitching flesh of his cock under his fingertips – he will never forget anything of it. Not in his brain and not in his heart.

*****

Sherlock is still quiet but his heartrate is elevated, his pupils are wider than usual and he keeps wetting his bottom lip while Mycroft is delving into his exploration of his body. Not only with his hands anymore but with his lips, his tongue and all his senses.

He is hovering over his brother and his mouth is busy. Busy nibbling at Sherlock's collarbone, busy kissing up to his ear again. Busy kissing and sucking his nipples, turning them into hard little peaks.

Then he moves down on Sherlock's body, paying special attention to his abdominal muscles that are so gorgeously sculpted under the warm, soft skin. He dives his tongue into Sherlock's navel, and the cock he has been holding and occasionally stroking with his left hand all the time twitches heftily.

Mycroft stores away every reaction in his Mind Palace, which is as powerful as Sherlock's. He has shown him how to build it after all, and Sherlock has mastered it as he masters everything.

He can feel stickiness when he casually wipes his thumb over the engorged head of his brother's prick. Sherlock finally lets out a moan, a very quiet one, but it's a triumph for Mycroft. Without showing his pleasure, he follows the trace of black hair that leads from the navel, which tastes sweet and sweaty, to the neatly trimmed pubic hair and he can't refrain from nuzzling his nose into it, inhaling Sherlock's scent. It's musky and wild and clean and it makes Mycroft's brain get giddy.

So far, this is all more or less excusable, isn’t it? No serious sexual action after all, except for more or less just holding Sherlock's erection, as brothers have done for ages, exploring each other in mutual masturbating sessions – not that the brothers Holmes have ever done that. Not much more than a man spending comfort to his brother, who is on the verge of leaving everything behind, who had to deceive almost all of his friends, making them believe he died, sentencing them to grief and desperation.

[And how the hell am I supposed to live without him?]

The pain of this sudden thought is so strong that Mycroft hurries to slay the questionable remains of illusion. Nothing about this has been innocent or pure comfort. If at all, it's Mycroft drawing comfort from Sherlock by taking what he should never have. In any way he silences his brain by taking the dark-pink proof of Sherlock's arousal into his mouth, swallowing it in one go, making himself gag, but he wouldn’t be himself if he wasn’t able to master this as well; he lets Sherlock's cock slide into his throat and swallows around it and his thoughts turn into sparks of excitement.

Sherlock moans louder this time, and then he finally moves, lifting his hand to put it on Mycroft's neck. He doesn’t push him down, just touches him, and Mycroft shudders at the gentle contact but he doesn’t interrupt his efforts.

He hasn’t done this very often in his life; he wouldn’t need all five fingers of one hand to count the occasions. And never before has it aroused him nearly as much.

His own untouched cock is throbbing, impossibly hard and leaking, and he closes his hand around it while his head moves up and down, letting slide Sherlock in and out of his mouth.

It's over within a minute. Sherlock doesn’t warn him; probably the thought hasn’t even occurred to him. He comes with a low, rough groan, and suddenly Mycroft's mouth is flooded with hot stickiness, and he has never let that happen before. As if it was completely natural to him, he swallows Sherlock's semen and then carefully lets him drop out of his mouth and licks him clean.

Sherlock's eyes are wide, he is panting, and Mycroft scrambles up on the bed and urges him to lie on his side, lining up behind him. He would love to do so much more but it would be too much, it would require too much time, and he wouldn’t demand or expect it from Sherlock anyway.

So all he does is place his aching erection between Sherlock's cheeks and moves up and down, biting his lip when it touches the wrinkled flesh of his hole and then he's coming, pulsing over Sherlock's plush bottom and into his crack and he can't help but reaching down and into the mess, rubbing a part of his essence into his brother's entrance. The naughtiness of this action sends a spark of shame through his brain but he can't find it in himself to be really sorry.

Then he lies back in the pillows and puts his arm over his eyes. His heart is beating very fast and he feels divested, bare of all his defences and shields and dignity.

What now? How are they supposed to go on now? After this has happened?

He is prepared for snarkiness and mockery when Sherlock turns to face him, and he gasps like a fool when Sherlock brings his arm around him and nuzzles his face against the side of his neck.

After almost half a minute, Mycroft is able to move, and he curls his arm around Sherlock, holding him, and neither of them says a word.

They stay like this until Sherlock gets up and disappears into the bathroom to get ready. To get ready to leave his life in London and Mycroft behind.

And Mycroft has no idea how to deal with it, and he doesn’t put it in words when they part. Sherlock leaves the flat to enter the car to the airport alone. They don't kiss. They don't shake hands but the atmosphere between them is heavy and thick.

The last Mycroft sees of his brother is a gaze he cannot identify.

He already misses him when the door closes behind him.

Chapter Text

“This is insane!”

“A good evening to you, too, Mycroft.”

Mycroft lets himself fall into the armchair opposite of him. His cheeks are flushed. In anger? Or just concern? “What if…”

Definitely concern. “Nobody saw me; I can assure you.”

“You didn’t have to come back for Seamus Q; my people could have taken over when he came to London!”

Sherlock knows very well they could have. Eventually they have. But…

Mycroft sighs and he's looking tired and hollow after a long work day, confronted with Sherlock, whom he has ordered to go into his house and wait for him after Sherlock has phoned and told him he's back in London.

He hasn’t managed to come home early. The signs of a difficult day are hard to miss. His face looks as crumpled as his suit. His eyes are red and his lids heavy. He looks strangely old. It makes Sherlock feel funny to see him so… out of control.

“You came back because of sentiment,” Mycroft spits out. “To see how they all grieve and to glance at your dear John.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer to that. He has followed John today. From Baker Street to meeting Lestrade for lunch. To the graveyard.

It has made Sherlock's heart wrench, seeing his friend standing in front of his gravestone. 'Don't be dead.' John's words have been echoing through his mind since he left with tears in his eyes. How much he has wanted to approach him and say, 'I'm not.'

They have discussed it thoroughly, he and Mycroft, when they planned his 'death'. And of course Mycroft was right. 'His genuine grief is essential, Sherlock. They will never believe you are dead if he knows you're not.'

He was right but… has this really come from logic alone? Or has Mycroft wanted John to think Sherlock was dead so he would move on and forget him? Because… he is jealous of his friendship with John? They have never been this kind of friends, and Sherlock knows they will never be. But Mycroft perhaps does not know that. Sherlock should be furious about his sneakiness. But of course he can't prove that this was at least part of Mycroft's motivation. And somehow… he's not - furious.

And Mycroft is quite wrong. He has not only, not even mainly, come to London, albeit only briefly, to see John.

He can't put that in words. He can't say, 'I came back for you.' Why not, actually? After what happened between them? For a million reasons and no reason at all. The memories of that encounter still make his toes curl, as they have during the weeks that have passed.

“I used another set of false papers,” he says, changing the subject.

Mycroft glares at him. “I know! None of the ones I gave you!”

“But equally good ones, I can assure you. They worked perfectly.”

Mycroft grimaces. There is not much to say against that. Sherlock hasn't been incautious. He doesn’t want to stop or endanger his mission; he can't. He has to make sure Moriarty's network is torn to shreds so his friends are all safe and he can come back. And his circle does include Mycroft. Does his brother not see that? Does he really think he's invincible? Does he really – still – think Sherlock doesn’t care about him?

“This isn’t the point,” Mycroft says, stubbornly. “It was not safe! It could have…”

“But it hasn’t. I did call you, didn’t I? Your lot took care of him.”

“You didn’t have to come back for that!” Mycroft repeats.

“So you didn’t want to see me?” Sherlock closes his eyes after this monstrosity has come out of his mouth, unfiltered and embarrassing as hell.

When he looks at his brother again, steeling himself against… what, actually? … Mycroft stares at him. “I…” he starts, then breaks off.

Sherlock hasn’t seen his brother speechless very often in his life. It's a tiny triumph. And it's one he can't enjoy. “Why don't you take a shower and change into something more comfortable, and then we can talk? About my progress, I mean?” he suggests. Not that Mycroft has not been informed about every piece of progress he has made. Which hasn't been a lot… At that rate, he will have to stay away for years…

Mycroft shakes his head, but not in negation, then he sighs and gets up. “Why not. Did you eat anything?” He tries to sound nonchalant and exasperated but Sherlock can feel how much his question has stirred his brother up.

Sherlock shrugs. “Not really.”

“Great. I'll make some sandwiches after the shower.”

“No, I will.” It will give him something to do, covering the anxiety that has crept onto him.

Mycroft looks at him as if he's grown a second head, which almost makes Sherlock's lips twitch in amusement, but then he nods. “Very well.” When he leaves the room, he seems relieved to escape him, at least for a short time.

Sherlock can't remember having seen his brother that disturbed ever before.

*****

Mycroft listens, he talks, he suggests; it all works, but it feels as if someone else is talking and thinking and scheming. He desperately tries not to show how deeply troubled he is.

The past weeks have been hell. The constant worry about Sherlock, whom he tries to cover on his mission as well as he can, which is not very good. The incredibly strange feeling of attending his brother's funeral, looking at a coffin with a stranger in it. Dealing with the tears and desperation of Sherlock's friends. And not mainly because he feels pity for them but because deep inside he loathes them and it infuriates him watching them – Mrs Hudson, inconsolable and clinging to the arms of both the stone-faced doctor and the openly crying Detective Lestrade. Irrationally, he hates them all.

He should be happy that Sherlock has found these loyal, supportive people who have probably done more for him than Mycroft has been able to since Sherlock has grown up. And a part of him is grateful that they took care of his uncontrollable baby brother like they did. But he hates them – or rather: envies them – for getting Sherlock's attention, Sherlock's affection, leaving him the role of the archenemy, the figure in the shadows, despised and dismissed.

He had to lie into their faces, telling them their parents hadn’t come to the funeral because Father was sick and Mummy suffered a breakdown after Sherlock's death. They all bought it.

And there was Molly Hooper, the only person at the funeral who knew. And she looked exactly as broken as the others, as if she thought Sherlock wouldn’t come back, and he hated her for fuelling his already deep concerns.

Because of course he worries about Sherlock's fate constantly. He can't interfere too much in his brother's mission. Sherlock wouldn’t let him and it would be too risky anyway. And he has to face the possibility that Sherlock might die, far away from him, alone, and it kills him. He's eaten only very irregularly as he's lost his appetite. He's hardly slept for weeks. He's been lying awake every night, his eyes staring at the ceiling, wondering where Sherlock was now and if he was still alive at all.

Mummy has called almost every day, eager for news about Sherlock, and most of the times he hasn’t had any, and he knows their parents suffer almost as much as if Sherlock was really dead. It is such a challenge to deal with their worry and not get nasty and shout, 'What do you think it does to me?! I love him!'

And that’s what he does. He loves Sherlock. In all the right and all the wrong ways.

All in all, it has been so difficult to function, to concentrate on his daily work and not just collapse, and he has been feeling thoroughly exhausted.

The texts Sherlock sent him and the rare phone calls were his only comfort.

They only ever spoke about the mission, not a personal word, except for Sherlock asking how John was doing. Mycroft kept him on the line for as long as he could, and when he hung up after listening to the dead line for way too long, he was feeling empty and desperate.

And now Sherlock has risked everything and come back. To check on John, he thought. It made him feel bitter and neglected, as if he isn’t used to that by now.

And then Sherlock's façade cracked and Mycroft can still hear the accusatory tone in which he, certainly without thinking, asked, 'So you didn’t want to see me?'

It has caught Mycroft totally off guard. It has confused and disturbed him even more, and he didn’t think this was even possible after being told his brother was back in London, for just one day and one night as he knows now. Because of course he wanted to see him. It has just come so unexpected [and what good will it do to have him back just to lose him again?], and he has not enough strength to keep his shields in place.

And now Sherlock is sitting next to him, they both have forced themselves to eat a few sandwiches and Sherlock has made tea, and Mycroft has no idea what to do now. He feels helpless and stupid and as completely out of his depth as he felt when they met the last time.

He realises that Sherlock has stopped talking. In the end his brain has betrayed him and he has not been able to focus with even a part of it.

Sherlock doesn’t look upset though. There is something in his crystal clear eyes, something… soft, and his desperate sentence is still echoing in Mycroft's mind.

Mycroft wants to reach out and touch him, hold him for as long as he is allowed to but once more he can't move. Until Sherlock looks away and takes his hand and pulls him up from the couch. They go upstairs without another word and Mycroft knows there will be another unforgettable memory made and he feels nervous and excited and confused and grateful and he knows he will be devastated when he has to let him go again.

*****

This time Sherlock doesn’t bother turning around when he undresses, and Mycroft flinches but follows his example.

And Mycroft audibly gasps when he sees the fresh bruise below his right nipple; it's nothing, doesn’t even really hurt if he doesn’t press his finger on it, but Mycroft glares at it as if he wanted to kill the one who did this to him, and it makes him shiver.

This time Sherlock waits until Mycroft is lying on his bed – and it's a huge, comfortable bed in a surprisingly beautiful bedroom that Sherlock has never seen before. His visits in Mycroft's house have been rare. Any real contact has been rare.

Sherlock remembers the moment when he caught Mycroft looking at him in a strange way the first time. He felt – embarrassed, hysterical, disbelieving. But also… thrilled and tense and curious. And the next moment he thought he had misdeduced Mycroft's look. That does happen.

But of course he had been right. The next time was even clearer and Sherlock needed all of his self-control to not say something nasty, not because he objected Mycroft's feelings but because he had no idea how to deal with them and because he realised he did not mind them as much as it might be expected.

When he was alone again, he took his time to think. Sherlock has known he's gay for ages. He'd never acted on it, simply because no man was worth the hassle. Whenever he's received appreciative looks, he's shrugged internally. Too stupid. Too uninteresting. Too boring.

His brother is none of it.

Sherlock had never thought about his feelings for Mycroft before he got aware of Mycroft's changed feelings for him – his brother had just been there. Always around, even if he was hundreds of kilometres away. Always there to admonish him, to glare at him, to tell him to do better – in person and in Sherlock's head. He had been his conscious long before John came into his life, with the difference of being impertinent and constantly lording over him, not telling him how brilliant he is. It's so much easier to deal with John.

But he has always loved his brother, in a subconscious, casual, natural way. And then he discovered the possibility that he could love him in a completely different way as well and after their sexual encounter, he entered the plane knowing that he did.

Still their conversations over the phone have been stiff and impersonal. How could they not, considering it was them? Before they ended up in bed the first time, Sherlock had been cheeky and snarky and provocative, but he doesn’t have it in him to be like that anymore. He couldn’t find other words, either, when they had sex or right after it and he couldn’t find them when he was gone. He doubts he will ever find them.

“You've bulked up a lot,” Mycroft says now, openly scrutinising him.

Sherlock shrugs. He has trained like mad. He needs to be at the peak of his condition if he wants to survive his task. And he does. He definitely does. Plus working out keeps him from thinking for a while. “Does it bother you?”

Mycroft gives him a wry smile. “Bother me? Have you also increased your sense of humour?” It's as close to a verbal compliment about Sherlock's looks as Mycroft has ever come. Of course, his eyes and lately his mouth and hands and cock have told Sherlock he loves his looks…

“You’ve lost weight,” Sherlock states, only realising it now. Of course his brother was already slim when they were together like this for the first time but he had a little tummy. Which Sherlock liked. He does like the even slimmer form as well but he knows Mycroft hasn’t lost this weight by working out. He's worried about him. And finally Sherlock realises that his brother's weary looks don't just come from a rough day at work. He's been through hell – because of him.

He moves so fast that Mycroft winces, and then he's lying on top of him, ignoring the sharp pain in his bruised chest, and lets their mouths crash together. After a moment of being shock frozen, Mycroft embraces him and returns the kiss whole-heartedly.

They kiss and kiss, Mycroft's hands sliding over Sherlock's back and sides, Sherlock's fingers fondling with his face and ears, and it's good that they're lost in their kissing as it means none of them can speak.

*****

Mycroft has allowed himself to indulge, to plunge into this kiss, has stopped questioning and just feels his brother's sweet lips on his, his warm hands caressing his face, brushing over his ears, and he feels dizzy when Sherlock breaks the kiss.

The incredible eyes gaze into his for a moment before Sherlock frees himself from his embrace but not to get away but to move on the bed and lower his head, his tongue lapping on Mycroft's left nipple, making the heart beneath it pound even harder.

Mycroft lets out a moan and he watches, mesmerized, how Sherlock moves even lower on his body, his target clear and even clearer when Sherlock's long-fingered hand wraps around his already throbbing cock. “You don't have to do that.” His voice sounds croaky and wrong in the silent room.

Sherlock abruptly lifts his head and snorts. “Tell me, brother – when have I ever done anything I didn’t want to do, let alone for you?”

It should hurt, this falling back into sibling snarkiness, but instead it's a relief. They are still themselves, their relationship just extended to something [unspeakable wrong exciting] more. And Sherlock clearly feels at home in this tone.

And then Sherlock's expression softens. “I want to.”

'Did you come back for me?' This thought only crosses his mind now. But of course he doesn’t speak it out.

“I don't mind…” Mycroft assures him and it sounds silly.

And Sherlock grins but it doesn’t look condescending. “Do tell. I wouldn’t have guessed.” He presses his hard cock to make his point.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Don't be smart, Sherlock.” Yes. It feels good to fall back into old habits. It's safe and homely.

And Sherlock smiles at him, really smiles, his eyes brightening up like fireworks, and he shakes his head. “I know – you're the smart one.”

No. I'm the one who burns for you. Mycroft blushes at the sentimental thought, and it has to be mirrored in his eyes as Sherlock tilts his head. He doesn’t comment on it but his hand leaves Mycroft's dick just to stroke his thigh in a gesture that is too soothing and tender to bear and then he shifts and a moment later his lips are wrapped around the head of Mycroft's cock and Mycroft simply stops thinking.

*****

It's like nothing Sherlock has ever tasted before. It's an attack on his taste buds and his brain, and he's identifying, analysing this wild, musky taste. But it's unique, and it's fascinating, and Sherlock likes it a lot.

He would have wanted to perform this act the last time already, when his brother indulged him with this particular pleasure. But then he figured it would be too much, not for him but for his brother, who was clearly struggling with his feelings and desires for the man who is his little brother – by definition someone for whom he has to care and whom he can't let be harmed, least of all by him who has always tried to protect him.

Sherlock has always known that, has always known that his brother's intentions were good. Their feud was nothing more than a younger sibling rebelling against the older one, plus every other authority, if it was their parents, his teachers, the law or anything that seemed to restrain him. But he has never doubted that his brother wants just the best for him, no matter the stupid stuff he has said about Mycroft being his archenemy.

Mycroft has developed thoroughly unbrotherly feelings for him, but that doesn’t mean those are gone and it means he feels guilty for his unexpected desires. So Sherlock allowed him to pleasure him and not get anything in return than rubbing himself off on Sherlock's arse, which has been an incredibly exciting pleasure for Sherlock in itself.

But in the weeks since this event, Sherlock has imagined exploring his brother's body like Mycroft explored his, and he is glad he's allowed to now and he draws it out for their mutual pleasure.

He uses his fingers to form a tight ring around the base of Mycroft's massive cock, moving it up and down in a tight grip. He laps and licks around the head and dips his tongue into the little slit that is sticky from the pearls of arousal he is able to elicit from his brother. He takes the head into his mouth and bends his neck to let him slide in deeper, and it frustrates him that he can't take him very far. And then he winces when Mycroft's hand lands on his neck, gently stroking him, caressing him, and he knows it's all fine, and he concentrates on his tasks and probes and experiments with pressure and gentle licks.

Mycroft's breath speeds up and his cock has become dark red and even harder under Sherlock's efforts.

“I'm… close, Sherlock… Get me out.”

Of course Sherlock does no such thing but he knows why his brother has urged him to do it when his mouth is flooded by hot spurts of bitter fluid. It takes all his considerable willpower to swallow it and not gag too much. He wouldn’t be himself if he didn't catalogue the taste and texture. It's not exactly pleasant but it makes him rather proud that he has managed to draw it from his brother with his clumsy efforts of a man giving head for the first time.

“Come up to me,” Mycroft asks and Sherlock straddles his chest.

His cock is aching with want and Mycroft wraps his beautiful fingers around it and strokes, roughly and efficiently.

Sherlock pants and then Mycroft's bends his head and takes the dark pink head into his mouth, and Sherlock comes in hefty convulsions, and Mycroft sucks him until there is no more drop to escape him.

Mycroft urges him to lie down next to him; he wraps both of them into the blanket and Sherlock snuggles against his neck and chest like the last time, and it feels so natural already.

They don't talk for a long time. Sherlock knows he has to be the one to break the silence.

“I missed you.” There it was. And it was so easy to say it.

Mycroft swallows hard. “I missed you so much, little brother,” he whispers then. “I… don't know how…” He breaks off but Sherlock can finish the sentence in his head.

'I don't know how I should let you go again.'

But he has to and they both know it.

It takes them a long time to fall asleep but when the sleep finally claims Sherlock it's deep and filled with bright dreams.

The next morning he leaves, and this time they share a long kiss that neither of them wants to break up before Sherlock goes with a heavy heart, not knowing when they will meet again, and his feelings are mirrored on his brother's desperate face.

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.

Chapter Text

“Mr Holmes!”

Mycroft winces and grabs his umbrella harder. He has almost reached his car and now turns around to see the woman belonging to the voice approaching him; he has recognised her at once.

“Miss Hooper.” He knows very well it should in fact be 'Doctor Hooper'. He doesn't know why he refuses to use her title. Only that he does know but it's hard to accept his [jealous] childish side.

“I'm sorry to bother you,” she mumbles, stepping from one foot to the other. She is clothed in a black coat that it's too wide for her; her face is pale and her eyes seem even huger than ever.

The driver opens the window on the nearside and looks questioningly at him.

“It's all right. I'll come in a minute.” The window goes up again and he turns to her once more. “What can I do for you?”

“I had no idea how to reach you; I don't know where you live and you’re not in the phone book and…”

“It's fine. So?”

“Sherlock. I mean… How is he?”

As if he didn't know why she ambushed him. “He's all right, thank you for your concern.” He doesn’t like her. Never has. She's too close to Sherlock. Of course he knows she's capable and useful for his brother and she has proven that by helping him 'die'. And he also knows Sherlock has no romantic interest in her. And still…

“So you're… in contact with him?”

“Of course. He's my brother.”

She smiles wryly. “I know. But I thought you and him are not that… close…”

He feels like slapping her but of course he doesn’t even move his hand. He just raises his eyebrows in a way he knows makes people cringe. “Did you now? Well, be assured I'm having his back.” It gives him a rather perverse satisfaction to say this, knowing it's a pun she doesn't get. And deep inside it makes him feel triumphant that he has been able to touch his brother in the way she longs for and will never be allowed to.

“I'm glad,” she nods. “I won't bother you again.”

“Better not. We wouldn’t want to make anyone suspicious.”

She shakes her head vehemently. “Of course not! It's just… hard. I… miss him… And John and Greg… and poor Mrs Hudson… They all suffer so much and…”

He makes a step towards her and she flinches. “Listen to me, Miss Hooper. You better go on playing your role and pretend to mourn him because nobody may know he's still alive! He's out there, exposed, and if anyone finds out, he'll be in mortal danger!” And if anything happens to him because you can't keep your mouth shut, I'll take care of you… He doesn’t have to say that. His eyes and his tone show it quite clearly.

Her ponytail is whipping hard when she nods, her eyes even wider than before. “I'll never do anything to harm Sherlock, you know that!”

“Good. Now go and forget that he's still alive. Pretend he's dead.” He's cruel and he knows it.

She huffs out a bitter laugh. “I wish I could. Forget him. I… love him.”

How can she have the nerve to tell him that?! It's hard to keep his composure but he's used to it and he manages. It's not as if he didn’t know it already. “Well, you were very helpful for us. We appreciate it. You're… a good friend to my brother. Do yourself a favour and get over these… feelings. Sherlock is gay, did you not know that?”

She pales even more. “Gay?”

“I thought that was quite obvious.” Her lips tremble and he guesses he should feel ashamed. He doesn’t. Isn't it really a kindness to tell her the truth? So she can finally get over these silly feelings that will never be reciprocated? Shouldn’t it make it easier for her, knowing that it will never be because the man she wants is into men, so it's not because of her as a person? Not that he really believes Sherlock would have been interested in this grey little mouse if he wasn’t gay. He remembers Irene Adler… Sherlock was tempted back then. Mycroft knows he saved her life. But he also knows he has never seen her again. One day they will talk about her, he guesses.

“No, not to me…” She stares at him and for a split second he fears she knows about him and Sherlock. But of course she doesn’t. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“Well, why should he? Have you ever told him what you just told me?” For whatever reason?

She bites her lip. “No.”

He nods, realising that he's rather enjoying this conversation. “And did he say or do anything to encourage your…”

“No!”

“Silence!”

“Sorry…” Tears are glistening in her eyes now. “I better go now.”

Only now he wonders if his 'outing' of Sherlock towards her might influence her behaviour in a very unwelcome way. “Don't forget – he's dead.”

She turns and glares at him. “I won't. Nothing has changed. I've always known he'll never want me.”

“So you will be all right?” he asks, generously, not because he cares but because he's made his point.

She shrugs. “Sure. How are you? Now that he's out of your control?”

Oh, she can hit back after all… “He never is, Miss Hooper.”

“Doctor Hooper. And I hope you won't fail him.”

“Never. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

*****

When he's sitting in the back of the car, his head more or less comfortable leaning against the backrest of his seat, a crazy idea hits him. It has been on the surface for quite a while, he realises.

If Molly Hooper didn’t know Sherlock is not dead…

If their parents didn’t know Sherlock is not dead…

If the people they needed for faking his dead didn’t know Sherlock is not dead…

…he would leave everything behind, follow him and be with him, under a different name and not as his brother…

It's early in their new kind of relationship and they have almost always been apart since it happened. He can't be sure that it will last; if Sherlock will want it to last - there is no doubt about his own feelings.

But Sherlock is already dead to almost all the world. It's a chance that will never come back. They can never be together openly in England. They will have to hide it, if it really does go on, and it will hurt both of them and perhaps bring them apart. And Mycroft would be willing to give it all up – his position, his house, his influence, his entire life. And if it was just Molly Hooper, well…

He knows it's impossible. Not only because of the other people who know. Sherlock wouldn’t want it. No matter how many nights they have spent now on the phone with each other, getting each other off, being more open about their feelings for each other every time without actually speaking out The Words. They haven't come over his lips and Sherlock hasn’t uttered them either but he knows that's what Sherlock feels and he hopes his brother too knows that he loves him.

But Sherlock is on his mission to protect his friends and he wants to come back to be with them again. His brother will hopefully also want to be with him but he won’t give up these people forever if there's a chance to return to them, and Mycroft won't demand it from him. He won't demand anything from Sherlock that isn't given freely. Never.

It's a dream. A nice dream.

But he knows it won't happen, and he knows that when Sherlock is back – and he doesn't allow himself to ever think 'if' he comes back – they will find a way to be together, if that's what Sherlock wants. It will happen in the dark, in disguise, by deceiving everybody they know but there will be a way. That will have to be good enough. But first Sherlock has to come back…

And in this moment he realises he can't wait until that happens…

Chapter Text

“I don't know how to thank you,” the man says in his surprisingly good English with the strong Bavarian accent.

“Then don't do it,” Sherlock answers. He's not out for gratitude. He hasn't helped the German police to catch a murderer because he wants to be thanked. God no. He knows he shouldn't do such things at all. But he hasn't told them his real name and shown them Mycroft's perfect false papers for Mr Gregory Kent. He doesn’t look like Sherlock Holmes anymore. His hair is much shorter, he's wearing glasses and he has a false tattoo on his arm.

“Verdammt,” the German policeman says. “Without you, we would have arrested the wrong man!”

Sherlock smiles. He bought a newspaper and read about this case and the suspect, and he knew at once he's not the murderer. So he did what he does best - solve the case. “That does happen, Inspector Reimers. It was my pleasure. Goodbye then.”

“Wait! I mean… Will you stay in this area for a while?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I'm afraid not. Just for a day I think.” His work in Germany is done. Karl and Raphaela Kerner have been given to a different sort of authorities. Germany has a Secret Service as well and they have been at least as grateful as the inspector. Mycroft seemed rather proud when they talked on the phone a couple of hours ago.

Mycroft… There is not a moment he's not on Sherlock's mind. He's the last he thinks of when he falls asleep and the first when he wakes up. He's in love, it's as simple as this. In love with his own big brother.

They have spent hours on the phone now, almost every evening. They don't always have phone sex. Often they talk about their childhood, and Sherlock indulges in Mycroft's anecdotes. They were so close back then and Sherlock has wondered so often now what has brought them apart. The age gap? Mycroft's moving out very early? Sherlock's unhealthy ways of spending his free time? He can't remember there has been any special incident that could explain how Mycroft became a figure he felt he had to rebel against.

But now that's ancient past. Now they are so much more than they were all this time ago, when Sherlock was a little child, admiring his big brother, who indulged him and cared for him. Now they are two men who want each other. He wishes he could drop this all and return. He wants to be with Mycroft. He wants his old life back – the cases for Lestrade, John, Baker Street… He's sick of travelling around, bringing himself into danger, dismantling a network that seems too vast to eliminate it. But he can't return before it's torn down completely, no matter how long it takes. He can't let anyone die because he's homesick.

Slowly he walks back to his shabby hotel where he will stay until the next morning before he will head off to Austria. He's rented a car; driving is soothing him.

When he gets to his floor, he doesn’t bother making light in the hallway. It only takes him one walk down a corridor to know exactly where he has to go. And when he opens the door of his room, he stills at once. Without seeing anything, without sensing a different smell, he knows he's not alone. His thoughts whirl around and the first one is, stupidly enough, 'Moriarty'…

“Do come in, brother mine,” a well-known voice says.

Sherlock's heart moves in a way he hasn't experienced before. He slips into the room, closes and locks the door, and makes light. His brother is sitting on the old chair next to the wonky little table. He's dressed more casually than Sherlock has ever seen him – apart from naked, of course. A black pullover, black jeans – he looks ten years younger. And he looks cautious, as if he's not sure this has been a good idea, as if he doubts Sherlock would want to see him. And the he says, “I'm not here to control you or because I think you can't cope on your own…”

Sherlock shrugs off his coat and then he's right in front of him, pulling him up, and they both sigh when their mouths crash together in a fierce, needy kiss, and soon Sherlock starts pulling at the pullover, and Mycroft chuckles and helps him stripping the offending thing off, and soon Sherlock's hands are caressing soft skin and he nuzzles his face against a warm, hairy chest and thinks, 'This is like coming home'.

*****

The room is sordid as is the entire 'hotel'. The smell that lingers in the air is revolting and Mycroft has feared the chair would break when he sat down. The bed is creaking horribly when they move on it now.

Nothing of this matters now. Everything pales against this experience – holding his naked brother, kissing his lips that are made for kissing, feeling his heartbeat, his breath, his vitality, touching him with his hands, tasting him with his lips. Sherlock seems to inject him with life. He looked tired when he entered the room but nothing about him seems tired anymore. His hands and lips and teeth are all over Mycroft, his frantic desire making him shiver. They can both not be close enough to each other and Mycroft has no idea how he will be able to leave him again.

“How long can you stay?” they ask simultaneously, lying next to each other, their legs entwined, and Mycroft smiles.

“I've taken tomorrow off work but I can extend it for another day.” He can't afford actually but still he will.

“I've planned to leave to Austria tomorrow but I'm in no hurry,” Sherlock says. Which is not true either. Mycroft knows his brother needs to get his mission done as soon as possible. The more of Moriarty's soldiers fall, the more suspicious will the others become. Speed is a necessity. He's both grateful that Sherlock wants to spend more time with him and worried it will get him into unnecessary trouble.

“Do you want to stay here?” he asks his little brother. “I can arrange for us moving to a nicer place…” Not for the first time he notices how different he's looking. Not only because of the shorter hair and the silly false tattoo. He's become edgier, manlier, stronger. It doesn’t affect his beauty and Mycroft finds it makes him only more attractive, if that's possible.

Sherlock shakes his head. “It's safe here. I know you're used to posher environments but I'm sure I can get this room for two more days and nobody will ask questions. And we won't lose any time…”

“I don't care about 'posh', Sherlock. If you're fine here, I'm fine with it, too. I didn't come for convenience but for you.” Sherlock grins and he realises that sounded rather odd. “I'm sorry, that doesn't mean…”

“It's fine, brother mine. So glad you're here.”

“Yes?”

Sherlock snorts. “No, actually – why don't you just leave as it's so nice to always be alone and just talk to you on the phone. I loathe it when you touch me and…”

“Hush, you sarcastic twat!”

“Oho, who's a twat here, Mycie!”

“Mycie!” He hates it when their mother calls him 'Mycie' or 'Myc'. No matter how strange his name is, any short form sounds even stranger. But…

“I'm not Mummy,” Sherlock retorts, easily deducing his thoughts.

“No.” Mycroft shakes his head with conviction. “You're most certainly not. Otherwise I wouldn't do this…” He pulls at Sherlock's half-hard dick and winces when Sherlock's face becomes serious and his brother cups his cheek with a large hand.

“I want more, Mycie. I want you…”

He doesn’t have to speak plainer; Mycroft gets what he's out for. He has hoped for it, and he's brought something for this purpose. “You're sure?” he still asks and is rewarded with an eye-roll.

But Sherlock contains himself this time. “Yes. Completely sure. Un-virgin me, Mycroft.”

Mycroft smiles. “Is this the correct expression?”

Sherlock gives him a rather nasty smile. “Is it not? How about this then – fuck me, brother.”

The obscenity would have appalled him had it come from anyone else. As it is, it goes straight into his already plump cock. “That's what you want? Your big brother fucking you?” he asks nonchalantly and he can't deny that this sentence does have equal impact on him.

Sherlock's eyes brighten up and he looks stunned and impressed. “Nice, Mycroft. Yes, big brother. Let's see if we can break this nasty bed.”

*****

For a long time Mycroft just stares. It's impossible to draw his look away from what his hands are revealing – a small, round, pink piece of skin, twitching obscenely under his gaze. He has pulled Sherlock's cheeks apart carefully, revealing the spot that his fantasies have gone wild about for months now. It's so tiny and it's hard to believe that his thick penis will be fitting into it. He knows he must prepare his brother thoroughly as the last thing he wants is to hurt him.

“Don't just eat it with your eyes, brother,” Sherlock challenges him, his voice muffled from the pillow his head is resting on. Another pillow is stuffed under his groin to give Mycroft better access.

Mycroft smiles and lightly taps on the puckered flesh with the tip of his forefinger. “So with what else shall I eat it then?”

Sherlock tenses a bit and Mycroft knows his brother has blushed. “You don't have to…” Sherlock mumbles, and Mycroft nods.

“No, I don't,” he says and plunges his face into the widened crack like he's dreamt of doing for too long and he immediately gets high from a taste he's never experienced, the wild, musky smell and Sherlock's surprisingly high-pitched tone when he starts eating him in earnest.

Time seems to come to a halt while he's licking and nibbling, sucking and invading, his fingers helping him along, and he stores every bit of the data he gains in his mind palace, in Sherlock's wide room, a room full of a vast range of memories, good and bad, and he knows this night will fill it up with the most exciting, forbidden and scandalous ones and he can't wait to do more and more and more. He wants to touch and taste and fuck his brother, a part of him still completely stunned that Sherlock lets him do all that, and he wants, more than anything, to spend him pleasure, to make him feel good and loved and desired and to give him strength for what's still ahead of him. He pushes this thought away, not wanting to spoil this holy moment with anxiety and loss.

He goes on and on, feeling Sherlock loosen up more and more, until a strong hand grabs his neck. “My, please…”

He smiles at the fact that Sherlock can't even be bothered to use the full first syllable of his name. He raises his head and licks his lips and almost moans at the taste once more. “Yes, Sherlock? Shall I stop?”

“Yes!” Sherlock thunders even though it almost sounds like a whine. “Do it now! Stick this huge thing into me!”

“Ah. So eager…” He's feeling great right now, high on pheromones and aroused to the maximum. His cock is throbbing painfully but he's refrained from rutting against the mattress.

“Shut up and do it!”

“Always so impatient…” But Mycroft doesn’t plan to annoy him and make him beg. He reaches out for the bag he's brought and put under the bed. He pulls out a small bottle of lube and squeezes a generous amount of the sticky fluid onto Sherlock's now heftily twitching hole and coats his cock with it as well. “Come up now, would you?” The angle is not exactly perfect like that – Sherlock lying on his stomach. And he wants his fantasy fulfilled, having his brother on all fours.

Sherlock gets up at once, and glances over his shoulder. “God,” he says, his bottom lip red and swollen from biting on it in ecstasy. “You should see yourself!”

Mycroft can't but he can imagine how he's looking. His usually impeccable hair a tousled mess, his face red and damp, his own lips swollen from spending his brother pleasure, his chest covered in sweat. He has to look debauched and primitive, and…

“You're so sexy,” Sherlock husks, and Mycroft feels his cheeks flush stupidly.

“Am I?”

“Oh, I wish I could film this!”

“Better not. And we both know you won't forget it and neither will I.”

“Thank God for eidetic memories! Still I wish you could see yourself now… And now please, brother – fuck me.” His last words are very quiet and very urgent, and Mycroft obeys.

He lines up and guides the blood-filled tip of his impossibly hard dick to the waiting entrance his hands resting on Sherlock's amazing arse. “Tell me if it gets too much,” he whispers. “I don't want to hurt you.”

“You won't,” Sherlock says with conviction and Mycroft very slowly and carefully presses himself into him.

*****

It does hurt. A lot. It burns and stings and the pressure inside him makes him breathless. Of course Mycroft senses it and stops moving at once. But Sherlock shakes his head. “I'll get used to it. Just go on. I want it!”

“Unreasonable,” Mycroft chides and Sherlock turns to him again and smiles.

“Nothing about this is reasonable, Mycroft. This is so far away from any reason as it gets. And that's the whole point of it, isn’t it?”

His brother gives him a wry smile. “True. But I don't want to harm you.”

“Men have done this for centuries. I'll live. And it doesn’t only hurt. It's…” He breaks off, not being able to put his feelings in words. This is the most intimate way they can be connected. This is breaking the last taboo and Sherlock has never been one to not embrace breaking rules. This is merging in the most primal way and it's like… transporting love from Mycroft to him. There is no question that he wants it and if he can't sit for days afterwards, he will embrace it as it will be a thorough reminder that this has really happened.

“Move, brother,” he says. “You won't break me.” Instead it feels like being healed when Mycroft hesitantly starts to move his hips back and forth, providing a prickling feeling that spreads out in his entire groin despite the pain. His cock is hard and he wishes he could touch himself but of course he knows Mycroft will take care of him.

Mycroft has always taken care of him. He has always been a caretaker for Sherlock, a protector, a guide. Sherlock didn’t let him be all this for a long time but he's long realised that his trust in his brother is unconditional. He knows Mycroft will never let him down. He will always look after him and in a very new way, he's doing it now with making him fly; his bottom part feels as if it's about to take off.

He's hyper aware of Mycroft's warm hands on his hips, grabbing him hard whenever he's thrusting into him, easing the grip when he pulls back. He can hear his brother pant and groan quietly, and every noise he makes is a treat for Sherlock. He is making his brother feel like this… He has ripped the layers of ice from him permanently but he knows nobody will ever see Mycroft like this and it makes him feel proud.

The pressure becomes more and more bearable and the arousal gets stronger with every deep stroke. And then Mycroft moves his legs, pushing into him at a different angle and Sherlock cries out as it feels so good. He knows what spot his brother has hit, and Mycroft hurries to do it again, and again, and then Sherlock comes in thick stripes all over the shabby linen, only staying on his hands and knees because his brother is holding him up. He clamps down on Mycroft and then he feels a hot eruption in him and his brother is stammering his name while he's emptying himself into him, and then he lets him go and falls onto the bed, immediately grabbing Sherlock and pulling him onto him.

They are lying close, embracing each other, and neither of them is able to say a coherent word.

Sometimes words are just not necessary.

Chapter Text

“Semmeln?” Mycroft asks, smiling.

“There're great!” Sherlock says, sitting down opposite of him at the fragile table in his hotel room. He has gone downstairs and fetched their breakfast while Mycroft was under the shower. The tray contains jam and cheese and strong coffee along with the bread rolls. A typical German breakfast, and they both enjoy it. The rain is pouring against the window and Mycroft is fine with it; they can't go outside together. It just feels wrong. Nobody here knows who Sherlock is, let alone knows anything about Mycroft but this isn't a game and it's a romance that forever has to bloom in the dark. They'd better get used to it at once.

They woke up in a pile of arms and bodies and shared a rather chaste kiss before getting up. Neither of them felt comfortable with sweaty bodies and morning breath. They have all day, and the next night, and part of the next day.

So short, Mycroft thinks. He knew it would make it even harder to part but he had to come to see him.

They don't talk much during their simple but satisfying meal. When they're finished, Sherlock disappears to bring the tray back downstairs and Mycroft opens the window to smoke a cigarette. He has never seriously smoked before Sherlock's 'death' but he's been catching himself getting attached to it.

“Do I get one?”

Mycroft offers him the package. In the long run, it's the least they have to worry about.

They smoke, side by side. When they are finished, Mycroft closes the window, barring wind and rain, and they sit down on the small couch that has seen better days.

They share a rather shy look. “I'm glad you've come,” Sherlock says then, reaching out for his hand.

Mycroft takes it, entwining their fingers. “Me too. I just couldn’t wait until you're back. Sherlock… How long?”

Sherlock shrugs. “You know how big this network is. It's impossible to say. A few months at least. Believe me – I can't wait to get back! I miss all of it. Even the London rain.” He looks at the window and smiles wryly. “Not even the rain is the same.”

Mycroft nods, smiling. “What do you miss the most? Apart from the rain?”

Sherlock snorts. “Really, Mycroft?”

“Really, Sherlock?”

“Of course! How can you ask me that, especially after last night? I still walk funny…”

Mycroft can't stand the idea of having hurt him. “I'm sorry, I knew I should have been more careful…”

“Nonsense, brother. You're hung like a horse, that's why. Nothing you can do about it. And I wasn't complaining…”

Mycroft is torn between feeling flattered and embarrassed. He has known his penis is impressive but it's a different matter to hear that from Sherlock, let alone in such an appreciative tone…

Sherlock eyes him with a mocking but affectionate sparkle in his blue-greens. “Of course I miss you the most, Mycroft. But I do also want to be at home. Baker Street follows me into my dreams.”

“I've made sure the rent gets paid so you can move back in without a problem.” He sighs when he realises his mistake.

Sherlock stills for a moment before his shoulders slump down. “John has moved out?”

“Yes. A couple of weeks ago. Said he can't be there anymore. It… hurts him too much…” Mycroft presses his brother's hand. “I'm sorry. I should have told you at once.”

“Well, wouldn’t have changed anything, would it? He can come back anytime then when it's all over.” But Sherlock sounds hurt even though he must know he's being irrational. Why should John Watson wait for him to come back? He has seen Sherlock 'die'…

“I'm sure he will,” Mycroft says even though he's not so convinced. He knows John is devastated, still. And when Sherlock just pops up and grins and waits for applause, nobody can say how the doctor will react. Of course he'll be glad that Sherlock is alive but then – Sherlock has deceived him in a rather nasty way…

Sherlock scrutinises him, certainly deducing his thoughts.

“Molly Hooper came to Whitehall,” Mycroft changes the subject. Not that he wants to talk about her…

Sherlock lifts his eyebrows. “Don't tell me you're jealous of her.”

That is a low blow. “Of course not.”

“So you are. There is nothing, has never been and never will be anything between us. She might want that, yes, but do I seem very heterosexual to you?”

“Well, no. But there was still Irene Adler… And before you say anything – I know you saved her. You've been under surveillance and I know when you leave the country…” Towards John he pretended to believe in her second faked death, to find out about Sherlock's motives. Not that John would have known anything... And he realises only now that his feelings for Sherlock had already changed at this point...

“I knew you know that. She's fine, somewhere out there. Sometimes she texts me. I never answer. That's our complete 'relationship'.” After mimicking quotation marks, Sherlock's free hand moves to Mycroft's head and he cards his fingers through his fine black hair. “She did confuse me, I give you that. She's got this 'I take what I want' attitude I'm quite fond of.”

“And she wants you.”

“Well, you were there. I handed her over to you. But I couldn’t let her get killed. She's my only equal in recklessness. And only in that.”

“So if she came back…” He wonders why he keeps insisting on it. Sherlock has been already very clear. He hates this. This stupid jealousy… Is there really any doubt that Sherlock is his? But being so far apart for such a long time obviously lets all kinds of insecurities bloom…

Thank God Sherlock isn't annoyed. “I'd shake her hand. She'd see at once that I'm taken now. That I'm having sex with someone. Women like her always sense that. And I'm very sure she knew that I'm gay. It was just an extra challenge. The brilliant gay virgin.”

“Not anymore,” Mycroft says, feeling lighter now. A bit… This entire situation is none of lightness.

“Still gay and still brilliant!”

He smiles. “Very true. But not so virgin anymore.”

“We'll have to make sure you're not either when you leave…”

The heaviness comes back fully in an instant. “Yes,” Mycroft agrees. “We will.” He gets up abruptly and walks over to the window. He feels like a cliché in a film but he has to move now.

Sherlock follows him at once, bringing his arms around his waist from behind, putting his head on Mycroft's shoulder. “I don't want it either,” he whispers. "Let you go again... Look how sappy you've made me..."

Mycroft doesn't match his deliberately light tone. “I wish… If nobody knew…” He breaks off, feeling silly to bring his pointless elopement fantasy up.

Sherlock nods against his shoulder. “I thought about it, too… But…”

“I know. Your roots are in England. All your friends. And too many people know you're not dead.” A slight threat is lingering in the air. Would he do that? If it didn’t include his own parents… Yes.

“Mycie… Dangerous man…” Sherlock breathes into his ear.

“Yes, yes.” Suddenly he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. It wouldn’t work anyway. What would they do? Sherlock would get crazy if he had to sit around all the time, just reading or doing experiments wouldn't keep him entertained. They can't fuck all day. He would eventually either turn back to his drugs or to solving cases; Mycroft knows he's already been doing the latter even though it's a risk. He might get recognised and then what? And what would he, Mycroft, do all day? He could become a lawyer or something but… No. They have to stay what they are. The Brothers Holmes – the detective and the string puller. The adventurer and the manipulator. In love in the dark…

He turns and wraps his arms around his brother, his mouth searching these lips.

Sherlock's eyes get dazed and dark and he kisses Mycroft, urgently, fiercely, and directs him to the bed.

*****

This time Sherlock takes his time with exploring his brother's body; in fact he takes him apart. He doesn't leave an inch of his torso unkissed, unlicked or untouched, mapping every bit of skin, hairy or smooth, cataloguing taste and texture to store in his mind palace forever and he knows he will search for it when the longing becomes too hard.

It could be the last time and it's already more than Sherlock expected. He knew he couldn't risk coming back to England again before it's all done and he's deeply grateful that Mycroft has come to him instead. He hopes he will do it again but he knows it's a risk as well and Mycroft will not risk too much to not endanger him any further. So far they have got away with it but it will do no good to push their luck.

He stores every tiny reaction that Mycroft gives as well - every heavier breath, every little sigh, every twitching of his lips or hands, and every deep moan. He witnesses his brother getting overall boneless under his administrations while one part of him gets stiffer with every minute, and Sherlock's cock matches this reaction without being touched at all.

His senses are filled with Mycroft and he wishes this never had to end. They gaze into each other's eyes, both exposed to the other one in every sense of the word. This isn't just exploration, not just physical pleasure, spent as comfort and bonding – this is love even though none of them has spoken it out so far.

Eventually it's Mycroft who breaks the spell by reaching for the lube and handing it over to Sherlock. The ultimate proof of trust. He trusts Sherlock with handling him carefully and Sherlock is nervous. His own bottom is still sore from their sex and he likes it but he doesn’t like the idea of hurting his brother. Sherlock is not quite as hung as him but he estimates he's over average, too, and completely inexperienced.

None of them has broached the topic of safety and Sherlock knows there is nothing to fear from his brother. Mycroft is certainly being checked through regularly and he would have never taken Sherlock unprotected if there was any doubt about his health. Sherlock has no doubts either. He has never shared his syringes and there has been a test after a rather severe injury on one of his first cases for Lestrade. He's clean as well.

Mycroft scrutinises him, smiling. “It's fine. Don't be nervous. I will tell you when it gets painful even though I suppose a little pain is inevitable.”

“Guess so, too. Well… Get on your stomach, would you?”

“You don't have to…”

“Mycroft.”

“Apologies. I'm all yours.”

“I should hope so.”

“Nobody ever wanted me,” Mycroft says with a rare hint of humour and a twinkle that makes Sherlock's heart dance.

He doesn’t show it but answers with the sarcasm that comes so naturally to him but has no sharpness in it anymore. “Sure. Only your ugly brother can be bothered with filling up your arse.”

Mycroft chuckles. “How rude!”

“Get used to it.”

“I want to.”

They share a long, deep look and then Mycroft rolls onto his stomach and preps his bottom up on a pillow, waiting for Sherlock to do his best.

*****

“I want to see your face when we do it.”

Mycroft smiles. “I hope that will work. I don't like my balls getting crushed.”

“I have no intentions of crushing them. They'll be needed for a long time.” Sherlock helps him find a comfortable place on the bed with his head resting on a pillow and his arse being lifted by another one.

Mycroft still feels dizzy from Sherlock's oral efforts. His rear end is tingling from being thoroughly explored and prepared. He will never forget this picture of Sherlock's flushed face and dazed eyes, his mouth teasing and caressing him, his tongue invading his intimate space in a way that had his brain shut down almost entirely. It should have felt so wrong but in fact it just felt fantastic. He is not willing to be ashamed of something that makes them both vibrate with arousal.

And now he's ready to take the next step. Never before has he even considered it. No other man has ever appealed to him so much that he would have allowed him to do this. And he's glad he's a virgin in that sense as much as Sherlock was. This is something that only belongs to them.

It's a strange feeling of giving up power to a man he has always tried to overpower. Not for harming him but to save him from himself.

But now he gives himself to his little brother as if it was the most natural thing in the world. His legs are draped over Sherlock's shoulders, which is not an exactly comfortable position but they can look into each other's eyes like this, and Sherlock holds onto them while he's pushing into him, quietly moaning every time he slips back in completely, and they keep eye contact all the time.

It does burn and it's not an entirely pleasant feeling physically but it feels like sealing their more and more strengthening bond. This intimacy that has never meant to happen between them will be imprinted on their souls forever. It's like time itself has stopped. A bubble of emotion and closeness is encircling them and Mycroft wishes nothing more than to never have to leave it again.

He wants it to last forever but he can feel Sherlock is close. His own hand has been loosely wrapped around his half-hard cock – if he's not a man who can come from penetration or if it's just because it's so new he doesn’t know – and now he pumps it roughly to hardness and, eventually, completion. He comes just seconds before Sherlock and it's a strong eruption, soiling his hand and his stomach.

Sherlock cries out and paints his insides with hot come and at the same time rubs the mess Mycroft has made into the hairy skin of his stomach. And then he pulls out, lowers his head and licks at it.

“Always the scientist,” Mycroft teases him.

“I did taste it before,” Sherlock reminds him. “From the source, if you may remember.”

“As if I would forget that…”

“I don't want to go on, Mycroft.” Sherlock suddenly sounds desperate.

He is shocked at first but then he realises that Sherlock has not meant this, not their relationship. “Oh, brother…”

Sherlock slumps down on his chest and he cradles him at once. “I don't know how I…” He breaks off but the message is clear.

“We both know there's no choice…”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispers, sounding broken.

“You want your friends to be safe.” It feels so utterly wrong to encourage him to go on with his mission when all he wants Sherlock to do is coming back to London where he can watch over him, where he can love him. But then he will always wonder if someone of Moriarty's circle will come back to haunt him and harm the people he cares for, or, much worse in Mycroft's eyes, Sherlock himself.

Sherlock lifts his head and looks into his eyes. “I know this. I know I have to go on. It just… I hate it! I hate to be alone!”

“You never minded being alone…”

“No. All my adult life I was fine with it. Then John came and I got friends with Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Molly.”

Mycroft nods, feeling miserable too now. “You have to do what you have to do and then come back and be with them.”

“Mycroft… It's you. Not them. It's you I'm missing…”

“Oh Lord, I miss you so much it… kills me!” he blurts, not even ashamed of this outburst of emotion.

Sherlock nods, his eyes are tearing up now and Mycroft can't remember when he has seen that the last time. “I…” He breaks off and Mycroft realises this is the moment. And Sherlock struggles, is afraid of his own courage.

So Mycroft, always the older brother, helps him. “I love you, Sherlock.” It comes over his lips so easily. They are past any attempts at denying what they feel.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispers, looking like a little boy now, his eyes are red, and Mycroft urges him to close the distance and a moment later they are kissing – desperately, urgently and tenderly.

And Mycroft knows it will break both their hearts to part again but they will have to, and it will be bitter but they won't be separated forever, and the bitterness of being apart will be wiped out by the sweetness of being in each other's arms again.

Chapter Text

“Hello Mycroft. Great you could come,” Greg Lestrade, dressed in a slim grey suit, greets him, and Mycroft shakes his hand and nods towards the others that are sitting at the large table in Angelo's restaurant. Molly Hooper, in a surprisingly attractive red dress, bites her lip and narrows her eyes, certainly remembering their last unpleasant meeting, Mrs Hudson gives him a look between reluctant compassion and disrespect, Philip Anderson avoids his gaze, the guilt obviously still lying heavily on his shoulders and his ill-fitted, not exactly clean clothes matching his condition, and John Watson returns his nod with his thin lips pressed together. He wears his usual uniform of dark jeans and jumper.

It's exactly two years since The Fall. Two years since he has bidden his brother goodbye and they have met exactly two times during this period.

He has made it possible to meet up again, three months ago. A conference in Vienna while Sherlock was taking care of Moriarty's network there. They met in a cheap little hotel, making love until dawn, and both of them were blinking rapidly when they had to part.

And now there are only two more targets to take care of; in Croatia and Serbia. And then Sherlock will come home.

“Why don't you have a seat here,” Greg says, pointing at the chair between two women – Mrs Hudson and the blonde, plain faced woman John Watson has apparently chosen as his future wife.

He didn't come to the first gathering a year ago, excusing himself with work but now that it's almost over, he has decided to pretend joining the others in their grief. Well, they are all grieving except for Molly Hooper – who has find herself a boyfriend who looks like an ugly, scrawny version of Sherlock, complete with coat, scarf and curls. Mycroft smirked when he saw the man on a picture and it's almost a pity she hasn't brought him. If this caricature helps her to get over Sherlock, he's fine with it.

The others are still devastated, even John Watson, whose face is like granite even though he's holding hands with the nurse who works in the same hospital; that’s how they have met.

They order their meals, most of them quietly talking. Mary is talking to John and Molly is whispering with Mrs Hudson. Anderson has slumped in his chair, staring into nothingness. Greg Lestrade is speaking with Angelo but keeps on looking at Mycroft – who is sitting in silence – as if he wants to make sure he won't leave even though he gets rather ignored. It's almost touching.

They are halfway through with their dinner – simple spaghetti al pomodoro for Mycroft, who does enjoy eating in posher restaurants but can very well live with the basic ambience and the spicy food – when Greg Lestrade speaks again. He seems to be the organiser of this event, not John.

“While we're eating… I thought each of us could think of an episode with Sherlock that comes to mind first when we remember him, and share it with all of us.”

“Just one?” John asks quietly, and the others smile a bit.

Mycroft is close to asking which wonderful moment Mary is recalling when she thinks of Sherlock whom she's never met but of course he refrains from it. He's here to see how Sherlock's dear friends are doing and to try to anticipate how they will react to him coming back even though he knows it's not so easy to deduce. But he didn’t have anything better to do tonight. Sherlock is tied up in his preparations for Croatia and Mycroft has finished organising the whitewashing of his brother's name so when he returns, there will be no doubt that he's innocent of all the accusations that preceded his faked death.

When they've finished eating, Anderson clears his throat. “Can I… can I start?”

“Sure,” Lestrade encourages him with a fond smile.

“Well… It's my first day of working with him. He stalks over to me and goes, 'Who the hell are you idiot and how did you get on my crime scene?!'”

The others chuckle and Mycroft allows himself a brief smile. Yes, that sounds like Sherlock. He wonders though why the others keep up with Anderson, who along with his thankfully absent girlfriend (or is it ex-girlfriend now? He hasn't bothered to keep himself informed about their relationship status) Sally Donovan was one of the people who apparently caused Sherlock's 'death'.  How can Lestrade, who never believed in Sherlock's guilt, want him here? Let alone John or Mrs Hudson? But Anderson is guilt-ridden so perhaps they have forgiven him. It does annoy Mycroft. And it seems quite rude that they invited both of them here…

“Well,” he slowly says, “seems you've proven my brother right in the end.”

Silence follows that calm but cruel statement. Then Anderson starts to sob and he almost feels guilty about his cold remark. In the end he knows Sherlock is alive. But this man behaved like an inquisitor and believed Moriarty's stupid lies and he deserves it, Mycroft decides.

Molly Hooper shoots him a deadly glare and pats Anderson's back.

Mycroft takes a sip of his wine which is rather lacking in bouquet but is drinkable.

“Well,” Lestrade mumbles. “He was a handful, that's for sure… I loved him,” he bluntly says, and Mycroft winces. But of course the inspector didn’t mean it in a romantic way. “If I had a younger brother, I wish he would have been like him. He always said what he thought, no matter how rude it was, but he was always honest… and in fact he was almost always right… And I'll never forget our first meeting. I arrested him because I thought he was the murderer and two hours later he handed the real killer over to me and I grinned like an idiot and slapped his arm and he looked totally offended.”

There is genuine affection in his voice and his eyes are wet, and Mycroft is sure he will just hug Sherlock to death when they meet again – while Anderson will probably throw himself at Sherlock's feet and shower them with tears. Mycroft muses that Sherlock will like this reaction better… He is not fond of being hugged – by someone else than Mycroft.

“My Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson says, her voice heavy with tears. “He was like my son. Oh, his nasty experiments! The whole house was reeking from foul acids and then all these body parts in the fridge! I remember when I came to his flat to put a piece of cake into it and a head was staring at me! Oh, what I wouldn’t give to experience it again!” She is sobbing uncontrollably now and Molly turns to comforting her now, leaving Anderson to his inconsolable misery.

She will be over the moon when Sherlock comes back and for the first time Mycroft feels a bit of sympathy for her. She always had his brother's back in a non-intrusive, selfless way. He realises she speaks of 'his' flat – and she has hardly looked at John and Mary so far. She is resenting John for having moved out and found someone else and probably neglected her in the go. In the end she always thought Sherlock and John were more than friends and flatmates. Mycroft wonders why. John has always fooled around with one woman or the other, and probably often enough with more than one. Has she seen more than he and Sherlock? Was John interested in Sherlock in a romantic way? Mycroft doubts it. John just oozes heterosexuality. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking. Some women are like that… It's too far from his own mind set to be able to say for sure.

“Sherlock,” John says now, his voice as dark as his face. “My Sherlock…” Everybody stares at him now but he doesn’t even seem to notice. “He's… my best friend. Never had a better one.” Mycroft relaxes. “He is… He was… my stimulation, so to speak. I was dead inside when I met him and he brought me back to life. And when he died… so did I…” He breaks off, and Mary looks a tad disturbed. But then John turns to her and presses her hand. “I'm glad I found you. You worked wonders with me…”

“Hear, hear,” Lestrade says, and everybody smiles.

Everybody but Mycroft, of course. He supposes he rather looks a bit annoyed…

Mycroft has still no idea how John will react to Sherlock's return. It can be any kind of reaction, actually, from a kiss to a blow. Mycroft knows what he favours and he is ashamed of that thought…

“I have of course never met Sherlock,” Mary says to Mycroft's surprise. He hasn’t expected her to say anything to it at all. “But from all I've heard about him, I know he was a very special man. I would have loved to know him. I'm so sorry for your loss.” And she looks at Mycroft when she's saying these words.

He sort of likes her; he has to admit it. Apparently the nurse was a good choice for John Watson. She appears like a tough but good-hearted woman. She has to be to keep up with John…

Then it's Molly Hooper's turn. “I once asked him if he wanted coffee and he said 'black, two sugars, please; I'll be upstairs.´” It brings a wry smile to everybody's face; only Mycroft doesn’t show any reaction. He can imagine this situation so well… He does admire her to some extent to make fun of her own feelings for a man she knows will come back eventually… Molly nods. “I was pretty much crazy for him. I'm missing him. Always will.”

And Mycroft realises she's never stopped longing for his brother. Even with the poor copy of him she's dating now and knowing about Sherlock's sexuality she still wants him. He doesn’t like it even though he knows it will never happen.

He plays with his glass. “My little brother,” he says, “was a man who could bring everybody to do anything he wanted. He was honest, yes,” he nods at Lestrade, who's watching him closely, “but he was the biggest manipulator of all times. We did have some problems in dealing with each other but I'd do anything to have him back. Nobody ever meant nearly as much to me.” How great it feels to say these very true words. How strange that he can be so open about loving Sherlock as long as nobody knows the nature of this love…

Everybody gazes at him, and then Anderson starts to sob loudly again. Mycroft ignores him and orders a dessert.

This was rather entertaining but he will go after eating his chocolate mousse. Sherlock will certainly call him later and he's not going to miss that.

Mycroft is counting the days until he comes back.

*****

“Hello Mycie.”

“Hello, brother mine. How are you doing?” Mycroft is lying on his bed, a glass in his hand. He deserves a bit of reward for keeping up with those people.

“Fine, it's fine. Everything's ready for Croatia. How was my party?”

“Amusing. I made Anderson cry. Twice.”

Sherlock laughs. “You're evil!”

“I know. I'm the Iceman after all.” He lazily tugs at his cock. How often they have done this now… So far apart and yet so close after all this time. So easy around each other. It's not like being in each other's arms but it's the next best thing. A dance without touching but still touching each other's souls.

“Yes. To the world you are. Not to me though, right?”

“No, little brother. You melted my heart and took it with you.” He doesn’t even hesitate saying such things now. It's the absolute truth. And soon Sherlock will be back but Mycroft wants his heart to stay with him for once and for all.

“I love it when you're tipsy and sentimental.”

Mycroft smiles. “I'm not tipsy.” He takes a sip of his scotch.

“Even better. So… Are you naked?”

Chapter Text

Mycroft is not known to be panicking easily. He has dealt with all sorts of catastrophes in his long career. But now he is feeling as if his world has crumbled. It can't be! He can't have lost his brother!

No word from him for two almost days now. Mycroft knows he has infiltrated the ranks of Moriarty's Serbian network. He has been sneaking his ways around Baron Maupertius, boss by the grace of the late consulting criminal. An old man, cunning and cruel, hated by his own men.

And then Sherlock obviously got in too deep. Perhaps he just doesn't have access to a phone signal. But Mycroft is worried to bits. He has sent out two agents – more of them are in position and awaiting orders – and is waiting for their answer. He's as tense as never before. Sherlock got injured before in the process of bringing the network down but he was always able to escape and contact him.

If he's dead… Then he will be, too. There is no life without Sherlock. It's as simple as it is devastating.

He grabs for his phone at once when it rings. Agent Mallohan. Mycroft listens and simultaneously relaxes and tenses. The baron is dead. Sherlock is alive but in dire need of help. He thanks the young man and gets up. He is already prepared, has learned a new language during the morning – he has learned the languages of each country Sherlock had to go to if he wasn't familiar with them already, just in case. The private jet is ready. Everybody is awaiting his instructions.

He could have left dealing with the task to his agents; they are capable of freeing his brother, who has finally succeeded at getting himself into serious trouble during the last part of his mission. But it could go wrong and he won't take the tiniest risk.

Some things are too important to not do them oneself even though of course he will have backup. It's time to do legwork. It's time to bring baby brother back home.

*****

Sherlock has never felt worse in his life. Not because he's hanging in chains, his back a mess of blood and bruises. Not because if his brain doesn’t finally start working, he will die here.

No. It's because he will die with Mycroft thinking he's an idiot. He slipped, right before the end of his mission, and got caught like a fool. They don't know who he is though, only that he killed their boss in self-defence.

Baron Maupertius was too smart for him. One wrong word and he understood that Sherlock was not what he pretended to be. He was so quick for an old man but thank God Sherlock was quicker. He broke the man's neck and shot the other guy who stormed into the room, a man known as 'The Torturer', with his own gun. He managed to run from the building but they caught him in the forest, and they locked him away for a full day, showering him with ice water every hour; they didn’t let him sleep all night, and now this man is trying to break him with whipping the flesh off his back, and Sherlock knows it's only the start. And all he can think of is Mycroft and how devastated he will be and how disappointed.

All his adolescent- and adult life Sherlock has tried to compete with Mycroft, to make him proud, to impress him. And now he will die like the idiot he felt he was when he was a child.

“Who do you work for?!” the man spats out for the two-thousandth time. He speaks Serbian and he stinks worse than the canalisation. He seems disturbed. They all are. Their leader is dead and they are shaken and confused, which is probably why Sherlock is still alive; there is nobody who's good enough to torture the truth out of him – probably Maupertius' right hand, the other man Sherlock killed, would have taken care of that with pleasure. But eventually someone with more skills will come.

Sherlock doesn't answer. He knows he should talk his way out of this. But there are other voices out there. Even if he somehow escapes this filthy piece of garbage, there is no way out. And for the – literally – life of him he can't think of anything to say.

And then the door opens and his tormentor turns to a tall man, dressed like a soldier, whose face is hidden in the shadows. They whisper in Serbian and Sherlock can barely hear the new man's voice.

But he doesn't have to. He would recognise his brother everywhere, under every disguise and every circumstance. Mycroft has come to rescue him.

It should shame him that his big brother, who despises legwork more than anything, had to come all the way from London to get him out. But Sherlock is only feeling grateful and his heart pounds in surreal happiness. Surreal because they have not escaped yet! Mycroft could get harmed, and that would be much worse than Sherlock's own death. But his faith in big brother is endless. He will bring them out and Sherlock will do anything to work with him doing it.

Mycroft sits down in a chair, crossing his arms, and the Serbian comes back and continues the whipping, and his brother doesn’t do anything. Sherlock knows why. He can still hear people outside this building. Mycroft will not have come on his own; his agents will be everywhere around. But he can't risk just overpowering the man and free Sherlock and run with him as long as they are surrounded by enemies. But in the end, it will be all good.

And his brain sets in again and he deduces the man who beats him relentlessly and finally he starts to talk.

*****

It's the worst moment of Mycroft's life. He has found his brother with almost lethal overdoses in crack dens. He has been sitting next to hospital beds, not knowing if Sherlock would ever wake up again. But this… This is the most horrible situation he's ever been in. He's wearing an old, heavy, nasty coat, the gun in his pocket feeling heavy and foreign. With a stoic face, he has to watch his brother getting beaten and injured, and he can't do anything. He knows the torturer is in contact with his people outside and there is someone right in front of the building. He couldn’t take care of him before he entered this bunker because there were others, way too close to them, and the man inside would have heard and probably murdered Sherlock.

So he has to wait for the right moment and it's killing him. Everything in him screams for saving Sherlock at once but instead he must watch the beloved body that he has caressed with his hands and mouth being manhandled in a vicious way. His blood is boiling in the same measures as his heart is aching.

Sherlock has to do something! He has to start thinking!

And eventually, his brother does. He knows Mycroft is here – Mycroft saw him realising it – and it has given him hope.

Mycroft witnesses the conversation between the two – whispers from Sherlock he can barely understand and outraged barking from the torturer – and he can see the impact it has on the man. His wife cheating on him with the coffin maker - what a disgrace!

With a wild look, the man storms off, and he doesn't lock the door behind him. Not that it would have mattered if he had.

Mycroft is at Sherlock's side in an instant. “Sherlock,” he whispers, cupping his cheek. His brother smiles at him and his heart makes a jump of relief and affection. “One second.” He takes out his phone and contacts the leader of his team. “Operation Dove is go.” They will take care of the men outside now.

“Dove?” Sherlock croaks.

Mycroft hurries to open the handcuffs. He has to try three keys but then Sherlock is free and falls into his arms. “Yes, brother dear,” he answers then. “My beautiful, reckless dove.”

This is not the moment and they don't have time for it, but they kiss. Sherlock is dirty and bloody and bears almost no resemblance to the neat, clean man Mycroft is used to, but he has to feel him, taste him, make sure he's real and he's all right.

He breaks the kiss soon though to glance at Sherlock's back. “Oh, dear!”

“It's fine. Just some welts. They'll heal.” His voice sounds much better now.

“My brave boy.”

“Brave, silly boy,” Sherlock mumbles. “I was careless. Too arrogant. Thought I'd won already.”

“Are you voicing what you reckon I'm thinking?” Mycroft deduces.

“Yes…”

“I don't. And you made it, Sherlock. The network is in pieces.”

“Until the next one builds it up again…”

“There will always be a next one. But the threat against your friends is gone. You can come back now.”

Sherlock gets up with his help, smiling so brightly it makes him dizzy, and then the door behind him opens with a bang.

The man is huge and dirty and barks something in Serbian, and then there's a big, ugly rifle being pointed at them and Sherlock gasps, his hand clamping into Mycroft's shoulder.

And Mycroft lets his brother go, pulls out his gun and shoots the man right between the eyes, all in one smooth movement. He falls backwards like a tree, twitches, and dies.

Mycroft turns to Sherlock again, whose eyes are widened and whose jaw has dropped almost comically.

“That was close,” Mycroft says. His hand is shivering. He has tested the gun before, of course, but he hasn't shot anyone for fifteen years. His phone vibrates and he listens. “Yes,” he says then. “Cleared the situation. We'll talk about that.” He ends the call. “It's all done now. We can go.” Sherlock says nothing; he's still staring at him, and it worries him. He reaches out and strokes Sherlock's messy, long hair. “Please, brother. Don't tell me that shocked you.”

“You… shot him. For me.”

“Well. He had a rifle, in case you didn’t notice. It was us or him.” And then Sherlock is clinging around his neck, and he closes his eyes and presses him close, carefully avoiding touching his back. “Come, little brother. Our jet is waiting. Time to go home. I even might have a case for you!” Like all the cases he has given Sherlock over the years, his agents could have taken care of it if he didn’t want to do it himself. But it has always been his way to say, 'I need you, brother, and I want you occupied and busy so you don't do anything stupid.' He doesn’t need that anymore of course but the sooner Sherlock gets back in the saddle the better. He can sleep in the jet, clean up in his house and then he will want to do something. Probably see his friends first though. And tomorrow he can take care of the terror organisation if he wants.

They slowly walk to the door until Sherlock stops. “What about people thinking I'm a fraud and a criminal?”

“Ah, you've been rehabilitated since this morning.” It has been all over the newspapers. And neither of his friends have ever believed this crap.

“Good. God, Mycie, I missed you so much!”

“Ask me, little brother. Never do that again. Never leave me again.” He doesn’t give a toss about sounding sentimental anymore. These times are over.

“I won't,” Sherlock says seriously. “I love you, Mycroft.”

“I love you, Sherlock. And now let's get you home. Oh, and no funny business in the jet. A doctor is waiting for you.”

Sherlock stops again. “John?”

“Oh. No. One of our lot. John has no idea so far.”

“Oh. Yes. I will tell him in person, it's better.”

They will certainly find out if it is or not, Mycroft thinks.

Chapter Text

“Careful, brother.” Mycroft helps his brother step out of the shower.

Sherlock gives him a teasing smile. “I'm fine, Mycroft. Not an invalid.” He holds onto him nonetheless, probably just to humour him.

Mycroft smiles back but he grabs the huge bath towel and dries Sherlock off first. They have showered together and he has – interrupted by several kisses – washed Sherlock cautiously so the fresh bandages on his back don't get soaked. They do seem fine though. The welts are ugly and some of them deep enough to leave some scars; he has had a proper look in the jet. But the doctor has done a good job, cleaning and nursing the wounds before applying waterproof bandages on them.

Sherlock cards his fingers through his wet, long hair. “That has to go off.”

“I'll make appointment with my coiffeur for tomorrow morning.” He should have thought about it before.

“No. You do it. Now.”

“Me?!”

Sherlock smiles. “Remember the times when I just refused going to a barber? You did it then, too.”

“You were five!”

“You'll manage. I've got curls if you remember. They are easy to cut. I would do it myself but… I want you to do it.”

There is nothing to say against this, and soon Sherlock, dressed in a robe, is sitting on a chair, and Mycroft is playing coiffeur and he will never tell anyone that he likes it. Nobody but Sherlock, who knows it of course… It has a different kind of intimacy to have his brother at his mercy like this, trusting him to not to cut his ears or turn him into a scarecrow. Not that a bad haircut would really distort him. His brother's beauty is angelic, no matter how his hair looks.

It's almost seven pm and Mycroft has not returned to the office. Anthea has taken care of the reports about their mission and there is no need for him to go there until the morning. He will glance at the results then but trusts them to be fine like everything Anthea does. He wonders if Sherlock will stay overnight or go back to Baker Street after saying 'hello' to his friends.

“I need to talk to John,” Sherlock says, easily deducing his thoughts. “And I don't want the others to wait any longer either. But then I'll come back. If you want me to, that is…”

Mycroft ruffles his hair up. It looks surprisingly good. “Finished! And yes, little brother. Of course I want you to. John is in a restaurant, 'The Landmark', tonight, with his… girlfriend…”

“All right. Thank you. Thank you, Mycie. For everything.”

He gets up and Mycroft throws the scissors onto the table and then Sherlock is in his arms, and they kiss, and Sherlock tastes of toothpaste and body wash and hope and warmth, and Mycroft is holding him and touching him and wishing he would never have to let him go again. And he hopes his brother won't get hurt any more.

*****

It's strange to watch them. Standing ten metres away, Sherlock is observing a John with a moustache that doesn’t suit him and a woman he has never seen. It's serious, in opposite to John's previous affairs; Sherlock can see it. And there is a little box on the table in front of his flatmate. John is about to propose.

He looks like a stranger. And still he is his John, the man he went through so much with. The man who has killed someone to save him on the first evening. His adrenaline-searching ex-soldier who can endure being bored as little as he can. Will it still be the same? And how will he react?

Sherlock is close to turn around and leave but that would be cowardice. In the end he has to face John. His return will be all over the news the following day and that's no way for his friends to find out he's still alive. And Mycroft has given him a rather interesting case and he wants to have John by his side when he solves it.

He has watched John ordering wine and now the waiter approaches from the kitchen with the bottle and two glasses on a small tray. Sherlock makes a decision and hurries to block his way. “I'll give you twenty pounds if you give me this bottle so I can bring it to their table.”

The man, all neat, clean mediocrity with big blue eyes, looks confused. “But why? Do you work here now?”

“Oh, and lend me your bowtie, will you? I promise you will get it back in a couple of minutes.”

“Um, I don't know…”

“Please. I'm undercover and this is important.”

“Oh! You're an agent then?”

Sherlock nods with a serious look. “Yes. The success of the operation depends on you doing me this favour.”

The man puts the tray onto a free table and takes off his bowtie.

“Much obliged,” Sherlock says. “And now please go back into the kitchen.”

“Will there… Will there be shots?” He sounds as if he hopes for a positive answer.

All these young people, addicted to television-action. “I do hope not,” Sherlock says darkly, suggesting that it could very well happen.

The man retreats with flushed cheeks, and Sherlock steels himself and walks over to John's and Mary's table. On his way he sees an open purse and reaches into it with a smirk, borrowing an item which use will hopefully lighten up the atmosphere.

*****

“Oh my God!” Molly covers her mouth with her hand.

“Hi.” He has slipped into the silent autopsy room when nobody was looking.

“Poor Sherlock! They tortured you?!”

He grimaces and gingerly touches his still bleeding nose. The bowtie didn’t look so good anymore when he gave it back… “Well, yes, but…”

She steps closer and he reluctantly allows her to touch his face. “This is too fresh. It didn’t happen before you came back.” She is a doctor after all.

“No.”

“Did any of them follow you?!”

“No, Molly. It's all over. I dismantled Moriarty's web. You are all safe now.”

“But who…”

“It was John, Molly. He… didn’t take my return very well…” And Sherlock has come to the morgue right after it because he knew he would be welcome here. And after all Molly, part of the conspiracy, couldn’t be surprised that he's still alive.

“What?! How could he!”

Sherlock smiles wryly and regrets it at once as it hurts his swollen lip. If Molly gets so angry about John's violent reaction, what will Mycroft say? He can only hope his brother hasn't watched it. Who knows if he doesn’t have eyes on this restaurant, knowing John would be having dinner there with Mary and Sherlock certainly wanting to see him? He wonders if John is already sitting on the backseat of a black limousine with a destination nobody comes back from… He shrugs that nasty thought off for now. He will deal with Mycroft's wrath later and he hopes his brother hasn't witnessed it.

'I could come with you,' Mycroft suggested before Sherlock left.

'Thank you but you know that would look strange. And… I have to deal with them alone.'

Mycroft didn’t look overly offended, clearly expecting this answer. Has he expected John to react with a fist to Sherlock's face? A head butt later on? Probably not. Neither has Sherlock. He did expect shock and disbelief and lack of understanding about having been left in the dark. But this…

“He was… exasperated,” he mumbles. It took John a full minute to recognise him, to figure out that this waiter was not really a waiter but the man he thought he had seen die two years ago. His best friend… Back then…

“He has no right to hurt you!” She produces a pack of wet wipes from a drawer and hands a few to him.

Sherlock thanks her and cleans himself up, wiping the rest of the improvised moustache along with the dried and the fresh blood. “It's difficult for him. I do hope he will understand. Mary… She promised to talk to him.”

“I like her. She's good for him.”

Sherlock nods. He likes her as well. It was an instant mutual sympathy. She laughed about the pencil moustache. John not so much. She did try to keep John from hitting him but there was no chance. “Well, I better go now. I still have to visit Lestrade and Mrs Hudson.” Hopefully they would be happy about his return… He has too many sore spots already…

“What will you do then?”

Sherlock suppresses a sigh. She's not coming on to him now, is she?

She blushes. “I just meant where you will go for the night. If it's too lonely in Baker Street after you've been alone for so long, you can stay at my place if you want. But of course Mrs Hudson will be around.”

“Thank you but I'll stay with my brother.” He has made this decision to just be open about this within an instant. “He wants to hear every detail about my mission and he gave me a really important case.” A good explanation. It makes no sense to pretend they still don't get along when they will spend so much time together in the future.

She nods. “And of course he'll want you to stay with him because he missed you and is glad to have you back.”

He tenses but dismisses his suspicion at once. Nobody will jump to this conclusion. “Yes. We were rather estranged for a long time but we did get a little closer while I was away. Via phone, I mean.” His face doesn’t show his delightful memories of juicy phone sex and their two wonderful meetings.

“Sometimes distance can make that happen,” she says thoughtfully. “We realise how much we have in common and how much we share with the other one and how much they mean to us because we are inevitably more open with each other and probably ourselves.”

He wonders if she had hoped it would be like this for him and her before it turned out that they would have no contact at all. Not that this would have worked… They had, in fact, nothing in common. But then he thinks he's being unfair. Not everything in Molly Hooper's life has to do with Sherlock Holmes… “Yes,” he agrees. “It was like this. We were rather close as children and… it's nice to have that back.”

She smiles and he can see she doesn’t have a clue. “I can imagine.”

No, you can't. “You're engaged,” Sherlock changes the subject, glancing at her hand. “Congratulations.”

She blushes. “Oh, thank you. He's nice…”

“Is he now? Is he working in IT?”

She gasps and then she giggles, and he joins her with his low chuckling. Yes. It is good to be back…

But when he has said goodbye and leaves, his heart is heavy because of John.

*****

He is waiting outside the Yard, leaning against the building. With his shoulder, not his back. It hurts. He knows he will need some painkillers later. Being thrown onto the concrete floor by Joyful John has not helped, either.

He can feel depression crawling into his soul. As much as he is about to enjoy being with Mycroft, his days will be lonely. Mycroft will be at work all day and Sherlock will solve his cases. And it looks as if he will have to solve them alone.

A few cops leave the building, chatting and lighting cigarettes as soon as they are outside, and then Lestrade comes out alone, the cigarette already in his mouth, and he inhales deeply after using a match.

Sherlock follows him, closing the distance between them more and more, until he reaches him at a red light. “These things will kill you,” he rumbles, directly behind him.

He can see the older man tense and straighten his back. And then he whirls around, the cigarette falling on the floor. “Oh you bastard!” he shouts, and Sherlock winces at the tone, preparing for the next blow.

But he should have known better. He gets pulled into a bear hug that makes the pain in his back flame up, but he doesn’t mind. He returns the embrace and notices the spicy aftershave on the DI's cheeks.

Then Lestrade pulls back. “Where have you been? How…? Why…?”

“That's a long story.”

“I bet! I've got plenty of time!”

Sherlock grimaces. “Well…”

“No worries! Tomorrow? Lunch?”

“Yes, that would be fine.” Tomorrow he will be dealing with journalists who will get to know about his return and go mad. It will be nice to escape the fuss for a while.

“I'll bring Anderson who will just die of happiness!”

Sherlock grins. “He was so convinced I'm a killer…”

“He changed his mind! You should have heard him - all those theories about you solving cases all over Europe.” Sherlock winks and he laughs. “You did? Damn! Can't wait to hear everything about it! And bring John, would you?”

Sherlock bites his lip.

“Oh, don't tell me you didn’t go to him first!”

“I did…” Sherlock involuntarily touches his cut lip.

The grey haired man narrows his eyes. “He didn’t!”

“He did, Grant.”

“Greg!”

“Sorry, of course.”

“No need to say sorry, you listen?” Lestrade's face is serious, and his hands are clamped in Sherlock's shoulders. “You had your reasons to let us believe you're dead and I bet they were good ones. And if you couldn’t remember my name before you left, well, I guess two years of absence didn’t help in that regard.” He winks and Sherlock feels deep gratitude and he knows he will never forget the name again.

He clears his throat. “Thank you, Greg… Well… I got to go. Mycroft has a big case for me and I need to drop by at Baker Street and greet Mrs Hudson.”

“Oh, be careful, we wouldn’t want her to suffer a heart attack!”

“I will. And… no word to John, please. I hope he will… overthink his reaction…”

He can still hear John's words and see his almost hateful face in his mind.

'How could you do that to me?' 'Who knew?' 'You seriously think you can just waltz in here, disguised as a fucking waiter, making jokes about my bloody moustache and everything's fine?!' 'You let me grieve for two fucking years! Did you have a good laugh?!'

John asked so many questions but he didn’t want to hear Sherlock's answers.

Sherlock has to face the fact that their friendship is over.

*****

It feels strange to enter 221B. He has climbed the stairs on silent feet, and now he is standing in his living room. Their former living room. Everything looks the same. But it doesn’t feel the same. So much has changed and happened since he's left this flat for the last time.

There is dust everywhere. And footsteps on the carpets. Mrs Hudson was here, walking around, just looking, not cleaning anything up. The skull is still there, the smilie on the wall welcomes him with its silly face. It's as if no time had passed and yet…

He knows he should get a few of his everyday things. Mycroft has bought him clothes and everything else he needs and the stuff is waiting for him in his brother's house but he wants his own familiar clothes as well. Still he can't be bothered with packing anything.

He turns and goes back downstairs. He can hear the television from Mrs Hudson's flat. Remembering Lestrade's, no, Greg's warning, he hesitates for a moment and then he just rings the doorbell. Not much else he can do as breaking into the flat won't make it better, will it? His appearance will shock her, no matter how he approaches her.

It takes her a while to come to the door, and she opens up only a bit. And then she screams so loudly that his ears are ringing.

“It's me! Not a ghost! Not an imposter!” he assures her, and then the door gets opened wide and he has an armful of sobbing and laughing landlady, and somehow it almost makes him cry.

Finally she has recovered from her shock and she urges him to come in. “My dear Sherlock! How are you?”

Sherlock sighs. “Good. Mostly. Got some… wounds on my back and…” Again he reaches up to his face.

And she understands at once. “Oh my God! John?”

“Yes. He was… a bit… upset.”

“I will have a word with this man!” she spits out and he hurries to soothe her.

“No, not necessary, I understand him.”

“Well I do not! And now sit, if you can with your back? Do you need medication?”

“No, a doctor took care of it and Mycroft… I will go back to him. Need to talk about my mission.”

“Of course. He missed you so much.” She does seem surprised about it.

Sherlock smiles. “I… missed him too, believe it or not. We were in contact though.” Again he thinks that it's better to just stick to as much of the truth as he can. There's no going back to bickering and being nasty to each other around others. It will make things so much easier if everybody knows they are close now, just of course not how close exactly.

“Oh, I do believe it. And I'm glad he was having your back. What I once said to him goes for you as well: family is all we have in the end. Not only family by blood of course, friends count too, but family… siblings… They need to stick together.”

“Yes. I finally realised that, too…” And I had my brother in my end and plan to have it there a million times more at least… And you can bet we'll be sticking together whenever possible... He can hardly suppress a grin but she doesn’t notice.

“I could just recently see that he cares about you a lot, only that of course I had no idea that he has no reason to mourn you. Well, you stay here for as long as you have time, and I'll make tea for us, all right?”

“That would be nice. Do you have…”

“Of course I do! Bought fresh ones just today! As if I'd known!”

Sherlock smiles and he presses her fragile hand carefully when she reaches out for his. Tea and ginger nuts and caring Mrs Hudson. Not everything has changed after all.

Chapter Text

When he leaves the building, the sight of the black limousine waiting in front of it doesn’t surprise him in the least. He has looked out for it and it makes his heart get warm. He doesn’t feel controlled or observed. He feels cared for, and he knows he has always been. It took him a ridiculously long time to being able to cherish it.

He opens the door and slips onto the back seat, immediately reaching for Mycroft's hand, and his brother presses his one firmly. The privacy screen is up so they are safe to be close. In the pale light Sherlock can see the expression in the icy blue eyes, and it changes between affection, sympathy and barely concealed wrath. The finely shaped lips are pressed to a thin line.

Sherlock smiles wryly. “Did you see it?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “No. I could have but…”

“Well, probably for the better. Wondered if you brought the gun from Serbia.” He's only half-joking.

“I don't need a gun to make your so-called best friend disappear.” His voice is cold and without a hint of a joke.

“No, certainly not.” Sherlock snuggles against his shoulder and Mycroft carefully cradles him. “Don't do it, Mycie. I kind of…”

“If you say now you deserved it…!”

“I was about to… He's hurt. I kept him in the dark, and then I had to admit to him that more than a dozen people knew about it. And I didn’t even tell him about our parents…”

Mycroft sighs. “No need to find apologies for him. I know how sentimental you are about this man so I won't take care of him.” 'No matter how much he deserves it' was left unspoken. Sherlock smiles and Mycroft narrows his eyes. “What's so funny about that?”

“Oh, it just reminded me of something Moriarty said about him.” 'But then people do get so sentimental about their pets.'

“Never said your nemesis was wrong about everything,” Mycroft mumbles and Sherlock kisses his neck.

“Let's go to your house, please.”

“Yes, of course. You didn’t pack any clothes?” He gives the driver a sign and the car starts to move.

“Nah. Wasn't in the mood…”

“I can't blame you. And then… I guess…”

Sherlock nods. He has pushed the thoughts about the realities of their relationship away so far but he has to face them. He can't exactly move in with Mycroft. He did let his friends know they get along better and have to talk about a lot of things but this excuse won't work forever; not for staying over at night. And he will have to deal with curious journalists at least for a while so they will be very careful when they meet… His mood darkens even more.

Mycroft doesn’t miss it of course. “The next two nights should be fine, Sherlock. And we will meet as often as possible. That you will be living on your own does help after all.”

“Sex in Baker Street?” The thought does bring a bright spark.

Mycroft smiles. “If you think Mrs Hudson won't hear us?”

“Ah, she doesn’t hear that much anymore. Her television was awfully loud when I visited her.”

“So how did she react?”

“Didn’t make use of the camera feed here either? Well, she was happy.”

Mycroft nods. “Lestrade?”

“Hugged me.” Mycroft gives a satisfied smile and Sherlock knows he silently and successfully predicted their reactions. “Did you also think John would…?”

“I was very unsure about him,” Mycroft admits. “I was never really able to read him. He's a complicated little man.”

Sherlock can't help but grin. Mycroft has never liked John. But he's not exactly wrong… He pushes the thought away and snuggles even closer to Mycroft, breathing him in, rubbing his forehead against his neck, and Mycroft indulges him and rubs his thigh. It makes Sherlock get aroused and he can't wait to be allowed to get really tactile.

A few minutes later they reach Mycroft's house and hurry to get inside. The door has just closed behind them when Sherlock claims his mouth in a kiss.

They kiss, tenderly and cautiously thanks to Sherlock's injured lip, and then Mycroft frees himself gently. “A light dinner first, Sherlock. And what about your back?”

“Fuck my back!”

“Well…” Mycroft grins and Sherlock giggles.

“Naughty brother,” he says, smirking, and Mycroft nods.

“Very. Come on. I've prepared something and then we'll see what you're up to.”

“I will most certainly be up,” Sherlock assures him, and then they go to the living room.

Mycroft serves salad and bread and they eat, and Sherlock starts to relax again. He lived alone and solved cases before John came into his life and he can do it again. But he can't deny the hurt his friend's reaction has caused him. That's a wound that won't heal so soon.

They have finished eating and cleared the table and are about to retreat to Mycroft's bedroom when the doorbell rings.

They share a look and none of them has any doubt about who this is.

“Tell him I've got a gun,” Mycroft says, and Sherlock is glad he wants to give them some privacy.

“No need for it. You'll kill him with your deadly glare.” He winks, feeling stupidly happy. And then Mycroft kisses him again and disappears upstairs, and Sherlock leaves to let John in.

*****

He takes a deep breath and opens the door. “Hi.”

“Hi, Sherlock.” John seems to try to smile. It looks like a grimace. But Sherlock doesn’t see any wrath. He sees sadness and guilt.

“Come in.”

John nods and steps into Mycroft's house. He has been here once before when Mycroft has summoned them late in the evening for discussing a case. It seems like ages ago.

“Who told you I'm here?” Sherlock asks while hanging up his friend's coat.

“I went to Baker Street and Mrs Hudson almost exploded. She refused to say where you went so I called Molly, and she told me after calling me a damn idiot. Just like Mary did a dozen times on our way home.”

Sherlock smiles sadly. “So united women power brought you here.”

“Not only.”

Sherlock nods and leads the way to the living room. There is no sign of his brother but he knows if John makes any attempt at hurting him again, he will be there and he wonders if John will leave this house on his own feet then…

They sit down in opposite armchairs and John shakes his head. “I'm… sorry, Sherlock. So sorry. I did overreact, like you two said… But…”

“I know,” Sherlock says, nodding. “It was a mean thing to do. Letting you grieve for two years.”

“Really, Sherlock, you could have told me! You had to! Or Mycroft, anyone!”

“Yes. We just thought… you need to be convincing so…”

John sighs deeply and rubs his face with both hands. “I've gone mad, Sherlock, without you. I almost… You have no idea how much I… missed you…”

“I missed you too.” He did but he knows he would have missed him way more had he not got together with Mycroft. And he knows he can never share this secret, not even with John. It will be just one more thing that will stand between them. The distance, John's new life with Mary, his work, and on Sherlock's side the forbidden relationship with his brother. It will never be the same.

“So this was all about Moriarty?” John says, returning to safer ground.

“Yes. He threatened you all. I had to go and take down his web. It was spread all over Europe. Sometimes even outside of Europe. It took me all this time to get it done. And I… almost died right before I was about to return.” He would have if Mycroft hadn't come for him. He knows that.

“Fuck! How did you get out?”

“My brother… came to rescue me.”

“Wow. Never thought he would do that.”

“What?!”

“No, I mean, not personally! He just doesn’t seem like the type who really takes over and… You know what I mean.”

Sherlock smiles. “I do. But sometimes he's quite capable.”

“It shouldn’t surprise me. I always knew he'd do anything for you. He's obsessed with you.”

Sherlock's smile freezes. “That's a bit exaggerated.”

“Is it? Kidnapping me even before I moved in with you, making sure I was good enough? Popping up in Baker Street all the time for strange cases he could have solved himself as he's so clever? Even summoning you to the Palace, knowing you wouldn’t behave?”

“Ah, that was fun,” Sherlock leads the conversation away from his brother's potential obsession with him. Is it true? Probably, yes. Does it matter? No. Quite the opposite, actually… Because Sherlock is not a bit less obsessed with him… The thought does funny things to his brain. And other parts…

John smiles. “Yes, it was. Your naked arse and his look, a sight to behold…”

Sherlock swallows. He has never given thought if and how Mycroft looked at him back then. But yes, he very obviously did look and appreciated the sight. His feelings for Sherlock must have changed a long time ago; it has only taken Sherlock ages to realise it. And to realise that he shares them. “We did have lots of fun, John,” he says.

“Yes. So… You're back for good now? Mission completed?”

“Yes. No need to look over your shoulder. The threat is gone.”

“I didn’t mean that. Even though that's good to know of course! But… You'll stay now?”

“Oh, yes. Sure. Mycroft has a case as I tried to explain earlier… I know you're busy now at the hospital and you have Mary but…”

“Someone trying to blow up London? I'm in.”

“Great! There are these markers… We'll need to check out what they're doing. The attack will come soon, Mycroft says.”

“Well then. I'm free tomorrow morning.” John gets up.

“Great! Said that already… I'm glad, John. I… never meant to… hurt you.”

John smiles wryly. “Didn't quite work, huh? But… I can only say the same. Sorry for hitting you.”

“Forgiven already.”

He accompanies John to the door, and they shake hands.

“There will be some big fuss tomorrow,” Sherlock warns him. “The media will be told I'm back.”

“That's why the papers were full of your rehabilitation today! God, I'm really an idiot…”

Sherlock grins. “No, you're not. Mycroft took care of clearing my name.”

“This was all just a ruse. Moriarty and these accusations. God, you planned that for quite a while!”

“Yes.”

“Lying in my face for months…”

“Sorry, John, I…”

“No, it's okay. Forget about it. I just wish you had trusted me.”

“I did! I do! I always trusted you! But we…”

John shakes his head with a grim smile. “Let me guess – it was indeed Mycroft's idea, all of this. And he told you to keep me in the dark about it.”

“He didn’t do that because…”

“Ah, it's fine. It's past. Ancient history! Off to a new beginning, right?”

“Yes. Definitely. And… I like Mary… She's great.”

A genuine smile appears on the doctor's face. “Yes, she is. And she's totally fond of you. She even said I should shave my moustache and paint one instead like you did… I'm surrounded by crazy people.”

“That shouldn’t surprise you anymore…”

“No, it really doesn’t. And yes, I will shave the damn thing off as nobody likes it! So… You're staying here tonight?”

“Yes. We have to talk about a lot.”

“I reckon. Give me a call when you need me tomorrow, okay? Oh, you still got your old number? I didn’t want to call you, thought I should do it person.”

“Yes, I do. And I'm glad you came. See you tomorrow.”

“Yes. Goodnight. My regards to your brother, even though he hates me.”

“He doesn’t!”

“He always did. But perhaps he was always right – I'm not good enough for you.”

“How can you… No, John, please…”

“Ah, self-pity, just ignore me. I'm glad you don't resent me for hurting you. I know he does.”

“Well…”

John nods. “Can't blame him. I'm surprised I wasn't pulled into a black car after it…”

“He knows I still need you.”

John grins. “Lucky me!” And then he surprises Sherlock with hugging him, and he winces. John pulls back. “Sorry, spur of the moment. You don't like it.”

“No, it's just… My back… I got whipped. Today.”

“What?! Show me!”

“No, it's fine, it's just…”

“Show me!” John closes the door again and crosses his arms until Sherlock obeys.

He takes off his shirt and turns around. “Not much to see. All bandaged.”

“God, there must be a dozen at least!”

“Well, yes.”

“And I punched you and made you fall on it! God, I'm such an arsehole!”

Sherlock puts his shirt back on. “You didn’t know it.”

“I had no right to do that. And I didn’t even ask if you were injured. I'm so fucking sorry!” John is almost crying now.

“It's okay, really. It will heal soon.”

“I will never get over that. Being so violent to the only man who means something to me. I… was at your grave. I asked you to stop being dead, and then you come back and I do this!”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Sherlock jokes. Then he gets serious. “I heard you, John. I was there. And I wanted to go to you and tell you I'm alive. But… I didn’t dare. I feared for your life, and for Molly's, and Lestrade's, and Mrs Hudson's. I just couldn’t tell you…”

“I understand. But just out of curiosity – why did you confide in Molly but not me? She is very fond of you as well.”

“I needed her for faking my death. And… Yes, she is very fond of me but she's also sad she, you know, can't have me. Didn’t have to fake that… But you… You would have given it away involuntarily, we thought, because we're so close and… you just needed to really mourn. I'm sorry…” Sherlock whispers and his eyes are wet, too.

And then he is in John's arms, and the doctor is gentle and avoids touching his back, instead pats the back of his head, and when they part, they smile at each other, and Sherlock knows it's fine again. This man is his best friend. Even though he has to hide a big part of his life from him and even though they will not spend nearly as much time with each other as before, he will still be. Mycroft is his brother and his partner and yes, his other best friend. But John will always have a special place in Sherlock's heart, in a completely different way than Mycroft.

John leaves to go back to Mary and Sherlock locks the door behind him. When he turns, Mycroft is standing at the foot of the stairs, and he's smiling, and Sherlock hurries to go to him and all he wants now is to be cuddled up with him and feel him, and kiss him, and a few minutes later, that's what they are doing and it feels wonderful.

Sherlock is sure they will work it out, they will make their love last. He will return to being the clever consulting detective, solving cases with his friend John Watson, and his life will be as exciting as ever. But this is the place where his heart belongs, where the man Sherlock Holmes belongs – here in his brother's arms, under his brother's caressing hands, his tender lips, and he knows he will forever be Mycroft's and Mycroft will be his, and that's how it should be.

They kiss and touch and then Sherlock decides he wants even more. Needs even more.

He frees himself from Mycroft's embrace. “Fuck me, brother.”

“We really shouldn’t do that – your back…”

“Ah! I've got a solution for this minor problem!” And ten minutes of thorough preparation later, he straddles his brother's lap and then they are connected even more intimately.

“Are you all right?” Mycroft asks him when he starts moving.

Sherlock looks down on him with a smile. He looks so vulnerable down there. Spread out on the bed, his expression a mixture of arousal and worry, his hands on Sherlock's hips to stabilize him. “Very. Perfect position.”

“True. But it must still sting when you move…”

“I'm not made of sugar, brother,” he says with a wink, touched by his concern.

“Then why are you so sweet?” Mycroft breathes, and Sherlock laughs.

They make love, carefully at first, until Sherlock decides that he doesn’t give a fuck if his wounds open up again, and he rides his brother relentlessly until they both come apart with a loud cry.

Mycroft urges him to come down and drape himself all over him. “You know,” he says after a minute of companionable silence, “if anyone, no matter who, hurts you again, I'll make them pay.”

Sherlock smiles against his neck. “You'll punish them, yeah?”

“Oh yes. They will regret the day they stumbled into your life.”

“Damn… I love it when you're the Iceman. He's hot as hell.”

“I thought rather cold.”

“Both, Mycie. Definitely both.”

*****

A few months later John and Mary get married, Mycroft accompanies his brother to the night do, and they steal away when the others are dancing, and right next to the building, they have a little dance of their own, and when they go home to Mycroft's house, where Sherlock stays over twice a week, they dance a little more, and they don't even put on music.

And when a man named Charles Augustus Magnussen threatens Lord Smallwood with his long forgotten affair with a young girl, his concerned wife talks to her dear colleague Mycroft, who she knows is working with the blackmailer to some extent, and he says she should not worry, and two days later, a robber kills the media man but leaves his two bodyguards with nothing more than a headache. He will never be caught.

Sherlock and John are best of friends again, and they solve the most exciting cases together, and John never raises a hand against Sherlock anymore; instead he saves Sherlock's life twice within a few months. Sherlock and Mary get along very well and she's like a sister to him. Rosamund Watson is born, and Sherlock and Molly become her godparents. Molly has married her fiancé in the meantime and a few months after Rosie's birth, they become parents to a little boy, and his name is William, called Billy.

Sherlock rescues a little red dog during a case and 'Louie' takes a strong liking to his brother, and often they sit on his couch, the puppy on Mycroft's lap, and they talk about their days and then they go upstairs and make love and sometimes they tell each other they would be the lost without the other one but they won't have to face this for the next fifty-five years. And whenever Sherlock needs a haircut, he turns to big brother who lovingly takes care of him like he does of each and every one of Sherlock's needs, and vice versa.

The End