Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mycroft and Sherlock had an unhealthy relationship, even before Sherlock first drank from him. They were so alike yet so differentiated, they attracted like the sea to the shore, but like the tide, they would always fall away from one another. Always.

But Sherlock didn't do well on his own. Not at all, and Mycroft would try to pull him closer but it just caused Sherlock to push him away. It was a conflicting love-hate relationship, but the hate was only conjured by the type of love they held for one another. Two siblings who wanted more from what they had as brothers.

Mycroft's vampirism never affected Sherlock until he saw it as his gateway. His opportunity to have a connection to Mycroft in some way. To drink his blood. If a human drinks from a vampire, the blood of the vampire would act like a drug for said person, inducing them into a high. It was highly illegal, taboo above Class-A drugs, it heightened senses and made the body release many endorphins and serotonin, it was blacklisted socially as it caused erratic and uncontrollable lust. A lust that Mycroft was never willing to satiate for his little brother.

Sherlock first drank from Mycroft when he was fifteen and Mycroft was twenty three. It occurred by accident, Sherlock tentatively licking a wound on Mycroft's finger that lead to the younger Holmes tonguing Mycroft's wrist and straddling his hips. What Sherlock never realised at the time, and what he would never admit to aloud, was that he was attracted to Mycroft. Even before the blood induced arousal became a shroud for such deep subconscious admissions.

Soon after, Sherlock became hooked on sucking at his brother's veins, and the lust became too much, but Mycroft wouldn't allow it. The elder brother felt the guilt well up inside him that he let Sherlock drink in the first place, but he would be damned if he would ever allow his brother that type of satisfaction. The blood drinking was bad enough.

When Mycroft began refusing him his drink as well, Sherlock became erratic and unreasonable. He turned to crack cocaine at the tender age of seventeen and since then was up and down on addiction and rehabilitation.

He scorned his brother at every opportunity, craving him so much that he hated him for pushing him away. Finally breaking their vicious cycle of attraction. Finally detaching himself.

John was a good distraction for the time he was at Baker Street. He adapted Sherlock's resentful tone towards the elder Holmes at times, even rolled his eyes when Sherlock received a text from Mycroft. Sherlock managed to latch onto the good doctor's addiction, the adrenalin, the excitement of chasing death. He even considered his affections for the ex-soldier, but he noticed that anything he felt for John was just the natural reaction to someone showing they cared. A natural reaction to someone as nice and caring as the ex-army doctor.

But John Watson was long gone, married off to normality, a woman named Mary. No longer did his stiff shouldered companion accompany him on dangerous runs through London. Sherlock was alone. He had the odd visit from Mrs Hudson, to take away his mouldy bread and replace it with a fresh loaf, to just make sure he ate at least once every other day, and other than that, he was all alone.

So now, what was Sherlock supposed to think? When his elder brother had the nerve to stand in his sitting room at 221B as he was high, staring down at him like he was dirty and weak? perhaps that was just how Sherlock perceived his brother's stare, or perhaps Sherlock was suddenly self conscious. Sherlock wanted to be left by himself. He wasn't willing to be cared for only when it suited Mycroft. He didn't care when his baby brother was sober and upset, so why now, when he had finally injected his distraction?

“What do you want?” Sherlock didn't make eye contact as his hoarse baritone broke their silence.

"High, again?" Mycroft sounded bored.

"Yes, no thanks to you." Sherlock absent mindedly shuffled his left sleeve down past his wrist. The first mistake.

"What is that?" Mycroft asked eyes narrowing at the cotton that was being pinned to his brother's wrist.

"Nothing." Response was too quick, mistake number two.

"Answer me, Sherlock.” He began, “Without being a child," his tone switched, it was darker and his eyes flashed with that give away yellow sheen from his vampirism.

"Piss off!" Sherlock was on the defensive, mistake number three. His brother uncharacteristically dived on top of him, prying away the material and what he saw made his insides bubble and his lip snarl. He stood up and stepped backwards.

"What is that?" He snapped in disgust. What Mycroft saw was worse than the track marks from the countless needles Sherlock had been penetrating his body with. Two definite puncture holes were at that pale slender wrist. Sherlock responded by curling his knees to his chest, and glaring.

Vampires were a rare breed, out of every fifty people, two were vampires. Mixed bloods occurred, but usually never carried enough traits of the vampirism to be labelled as one. Usually they kept themselves to themselves, many of them were in the black market of selling their blood, usually pure blood as theirs was of more value. Theirs had more beautifully addictive toxins in.

Selling blood was a good and very easy way to earn money. They were dangerous and typically selfish because of the way people resented them. In some cases, they basked in their rich history of legendary and powerful figures, Nosferatu, Count Dracula, and rumoured even some historic famous serial killers such as Jack the Ripper were vampires. They were frightening, very much out for themselves. They just wanted their blood, there were blood banks, but of course nothing would match to the warm freshness of punctured flesh and a squirming body.

Mycroft was a very rare exception to the behaviour of vampires, but he had to use a ridiculous amount of will power. Vampires were manipulative, hypnotic and selfish, manoeuvring humans to do as they liked, spiking them with their blood so they could have sex with them, bargaining human blood for their own.

But Mycroft had never drank from a living person before, he had never taken advantage of his heightened senses, even when Sherlock begged Mycroft to take him. Sherlock huffed, rubbing at his wrist with his fingers, avoiding Mycroft's eyes.

Sherlock caved to the look, because he knew that Mycroft wouldn't leave without an explanation and he couldn't look at his face for too long without a strange straining sensation in his throat.

"I tried to make a deal, my blood for theirs," Sherlock explained. "But obviously, they didn't go through with it once they drank from me." His voice grew quiet. He was a victim to his addiction, and only now did Mycroft see just how bad this was.

"What if you did get your fix? And what if your body became insatiable for sex, then what? Catch AIDs? Blood loss? Tell me, Consulting Detective, what your plan was?"

"I DON'T KNOW!" He yelled, sitting up and knotting his hands stuck in his curls, he was breathing heavily. What could he say? Anything to stop the cravings? The itching? Anything to make him feel needed? Anything to take away the fact that Mycroft could hardly be around him? Anything to deal with the fact that Mycroft would rather forget about him than touch him?

"I'm submitting you to Recovery again." He stated simply. Adjusting his cuff links and not making eye contact.

"It didn't work the first seven times so why would it work the eighth?" Sherlock hissed.

"You obviously don't want help then, do you? Are you trying to send yourself to an early grave? Or do you just like to watch me worry?" Sherlock scoffed at that, Mycroft was being patronising now, and it ground at Sherlock's thin patience.

“I don't need help, I don't need doctors and nurses to baby me! I just need it! Something to fix the itch. I'm itching from the inside Mycroft and nothing can scratch it!” He was angry now, standing up and walking over to Mycroft, fists clenched, jaw tight. Mycroft glanced down at him with a scrutinising gaze.

“Now that you are standing, what do you plan to do?” He narrowed his eyes slightly. Sherlock shook his head in disbelief. He snatched Mycroft's wrist and twisted his arm behind his back pressing him into the doorframe of the sitting room.

“Don't appal me when I'm high, brother mine.” Sherlock seethed, jaw tight. Mycroft's mouth fell open from the sharp pain but he resumed his unphased posture soon enough.

“Look at you, you don't even care about me. I see that now. And this is all your fault.” Sherlock growled, pressing him into the door frame harder before he released Mycroft's arm and stormed to his bedroom.

Chapter Text

Mycroft Holmes was otherwise known as the 'Iceman'; and for a good reason. He made quick and clever decisions, regardless of who was crushed. He was the definition of efficient, a shadow beneath Big Ben, the ever watching all knowing London eye. He could run the country, he could protect it, he could do anything. Anything besides keep Sherlock happy. 

It had been wracking his brains. All that meant was he was quieter than usual at meetings and he forgot to eat. Anthea noticed. Mycroft kept her around for a reason. She came in with a pot of tea as opposed to the usual cup, a tray set out with sugar cubes and a small jug of milk. The small things that will help him when low on blood sugar.

"Thank you," He murmured, staring into the pot with his hands hovering over his keyboard. 

She nodded politely. He knew if he ever needed anyone, he could speak to her and the two second pause she purposely left as she vacated his office was her invitation for him to talk. He couldn't do it. He couldn't 'open up' to anyone, the idea of anyone knowing him, really knowing him, made the elder Holmes feel quite sick. 

He almost hated himself. It was no wonder he swamped himself with work and dismissed Sherlock. He was trying to mask it all, hide his past, but it haunted him each day.

He rubbed at his temples and sighed, only when he opened his eyes he saw it like it was yesterday.

He and Sherlock were always close, their mother and father ran quite busy schedules and Mycroft wouldn't have Sherlock on his own or with some babysitter, so he began working from home for University for his third Masters degree, he needn't acquire all of these qualifications but he wanted to be fully equipped to climb to the top when he left home. It was simple enough for the elder Holmes to work in their home, he just requested his lecture notes to be sent to him. He tended to work in their study and library, and Sherlock would join him and learn a new book he hadn't read before. Most of the time they distracted one another, but Sherlock knew when Mycroft was close to a deadline. 

They played games, deductions, they played with their dog, it was a perfect life for the most part. Sherlock reminded Mycroft that life wasn't all work, he grounded him to the reality that love is what is worth working for. A family. Someone to treasure and protect. He always felt a glow of pride when Sherlock learned something new, it always warmed his heart when Sherlock was excited to see him.

This particular day, they had been conducting simple chemistry experiments. They had been doing so for hours and then Mycroft realised he had a small assignment due the next day.

"We will have to continue with this tomorrow, Sherlock, I'm sorry." He apologised, taking his goggles off and looking down at his teenage brother. 

Sherlock shrugged and took them off. "That's okay, brother mine. You have an assignment." He smiled with a small quirk to his lips. 

"You knew?" He asked, eyebrow raised.

"Of course, I always memorise your deadlines."

"And you distracted me." He put his hand on Sherlock's curls and gently rubbed them. "Well done." He praised.

They sat in the library, Sherlock in Mycroft's lap and the elder Holmes reading a book in preparation for his presentation. Both of them knew that this was not normal behaviour for brothers, but neither cared. Sherlock was fifteen now, almost sixteen, and this was considered laughable behaviour to other boys his age. But they enjoyed it. Sherlock curled, resting his head on Mycroft's collar and playing with his hand that held the book as Mycroft read comfortably with the gentle weight of his slender brother in his lap.

Sherlock shuffled as Mycroft turned the page and the elder Holmes sliced his finger on the page.

"Ow," He mumbled, inspecting his finger to see the damage. The blood started to bead from the cut and he saw Sherlock grab his wrist and pull the finger to his mouth.

"You can't. You know you can't." Mycroft stopped his hand from moving any closer.

"I don't care that you're a vampire." Sherlock sighed.

"It will affect you in ways you don't understand." Mycroft argued.

"I understand perfectly, I'm not stupid." Sherlock shuffled in his lap and drew the hand to his mouth again.

"No," He pulled his hand away firmly and sighed. "It will make you aroused. It will make you... lust after me."

"I know." Sherlock looked directly in Mycroft's eyes as he said it, a few moments passed before Sherlock's tongue reached out and licked the blood, his eyes keeping to Mycroft's the entire time.

Mycroft knew his will was weak, he knew that he wanted this, and he was ashamed but not as much as he was needing this intimacy with Sherlock, not as much as this had been building between them. It was noticeable to only them that there was a tension, Mycroft tried not to deduce his brother's bedroom endeavours. He knew his brother was curious and spilling over with testosterone, almost matching his height, his jaw and deep voice something Mycroft had never considered properly. Of course he dreamt about it, of course the elder Holmes scolded his mind for venturing that way, but now that Sherlock was propositioning him he couldn't resist. 

Sherlock was mature, he was very aware, and Mycroft justified it that way. He knew he loved Sherlock.

Sherlock's mouth was wet and hot, he never truly realised how sensitive the tip of his finger was until it was against Sherlock's tongue. Sherlock was gentle and tentative, the air was still. Mycroft couldn't hear much but his own heartbeat, and Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut as a small sound escaped his throat.

The younger Holmes began pushing and pressing Mycroft's finger with his thumb to make his cut bleed more, and then his head rolled back and he blinked. Sherlock had never been intoxicated from anything before, so Mycroft assumed a few drops of his blood would have an affect. He brought his other hand to Sherlock's cheek and before he could ask if he was ok, Sherlock's eyes flew open as he gasped. His pupils blew wide, diminishing his iris to a thin rim around them, his lips were slightly parted and he leaned into Mycroft's touch.

"Your hand..." Sherlock closed his eyes again. "Feels amazing." Sherlock shuffled in Mycroft's lap as the elder Holmes touched Sherlock's waist, he heard the sharp inhale of air again. "Touch, feels..." He hummed as he felt Mycroft's fingertips gently stroke his side. "Is this what you feel when you drink from people?" 

"You know I don't drink from people, brother mine." Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement once, and moaned when Mycroft's hand had slid up his shirt and back to his waist. His bare hand against his soft flesh. "What do you feel?"

"Blissful..." He opened his eyes. "Everything is so bright. You're glowing. But you always glow." He smiled and pressed his face into the crook of Mycroft's neck. "I'm aroused." He sighed, his own hands coming to hook around Mycroft's neck. The elder Holmes exhaled a long slow breath as he touched Sherlock's side, his hand curling into his hair and gently massaging his scalp. Mycroft listened to the small sharp inhales and the small hums of satisfaction coming from Sherlock, who shuffled and stilled when he felt Mycroft's own arousal beneath him. 

"Sherlock..." Mycroft murmured.

*

Mycroft opened his eyes to find his office on a slant, he had drifted to sleep at his desk uncharacteristically. His dream taunted him. It was one of the moments Mycroft both cherished and regret. It was the single most blissful moment of his life, and then flashed the image of Sherlock on his chair at 221B, the dew making his hair stick to his head from a drug induced sweat. 

He picked up his phone and made a call.