Archive of Our Own ^beta

John whistles cheerily as he unlocks the flat door, dropping several bags of groceries on the ground. It’s a brilliant day – a few no-shows at the clinic and the ones that did show up were his favourite patients dropping by for a quick checkup and medication refills. 

There is finally a ring in his pocket, and he is beyond giddy – for he already has the perfect plan to propose to his girl tonight. She would say ‘yes’! They had spent quite a while dreaming up the future over the past months, and marriage within the next year or so had been amenable to both. 

Emily is his last love – he is certain! 

And more importantly, Rosie adores her too. 

Ah! Time! 

It really does lessen old wounds and bring about new blessings. 

It seems like a lifetime ago since those dark, tumultuous years; since Sherlock had leapt off Bart’s and his Mary… sweet darling Mary had passed. The years where he had been so lost and miserable. Hurt. Angry. The damage done had been so great that he still sees a therapist on a biweekly basis. Not that he had been in a mentally sound place before everything had happened! As he automatically divests himself of his toque, scarf and coat, he’s greeted by the unexpected (and shocking) scene of Sherlock packing. And not just to go off for some case or a jaunt – but rather, his flatmate seems to be packing his life away. 

There’s an enormous suitcase, and Sherlock is packing all sorts of clothes hastily into it. John winces when a few designer suits that easily cost more than his monthly salary get tossed in with indiscriminate care. 

Where is Sherlock going? 

It’s not a case. Gone are the exciting days where Sherlock would go dashing off trying to solve the most peculiar and most dangerous of problems at a moment’s notice. Sherlock now prefers to sit in his chair where he would ponder over Greg’s cases and order the poor copper and his lackeys about. The Work had gradually become regular old work for Sherlock over the years after he had recovered his missing childhood memories. John couldn’t even remember when was the last case Sherlock had solved for his Establishment of a brother! In fact, now that he thinks about it, he hasn’t seen the British Government since Sherrinford. 

And that is what? Two… no… three years ago now. It’s 2019 – no… but rather 2020. The birth of a new decade. The ‘Roaring’ Twenties. It would be fantastic! 

The careful placement of Sherlock’s Strad into the center of the nest of clothes brings John back into the present. It is more evidence that this… isn’t a temporary trip. 

John’s heart drops. God. He thought Sherlock and he had been good! That they had been the ‘happy’ Baker Street family that the press had once loved to write about (minus the physical intimacy!). But it’s evident now that the scars left after ‘THE FALL’ (which John continues to visualize in block capital letters) still remain between them. Well, unfortunately, his deductive capabilities fall short, and he decides to tackle the problem in the way regular people do.

“Sherlock.”

His friend turns around slightly, having finally noticed his presence. Sherlock shrugs and returns to his task at hand. 

“What… what are you doing?”

“You’ve been a scholar of the art of deduction for many years now, John – what does it look like I am doing?” 

Sherlock isn’t annoyed. Actually, that isn’t true. He’s annoyed that John asked him a silly question, but not ‘annoyed’ at the world or the people in it which could result in a week long sulk. But then again, the Sherlock of today rarely sulked. 

But he did… brood.

“You are traveling? Abroad? Yes?” John decides to solicit more information as he opens the fridge to put the groceries away. For once, the fridge is completely devoid of Sherlock’s experiments – which made this situation more real to John. The bastard had cleaned it for once! “For a… case?”

“Yes… for a case.” Sherlock huffs with impatience, carefully packing the skull away in a box cushioned with packets of air. God, he’s not taking Billy too, is he? Now… It's feeling really like a… breakup of sorts.

“You will be gone… long?” 

“To be honest, John – I have no idea. There’s something… something in the air. In the chatter. Something big is coming.” 

“Oh.” John exclaims, feeling something akin to the old excitement of the 2010s.  “Something big? Another Moriarity? Serial killer? Political intrigue? Can… can I help you?”

“John. I think I should come clean –”

“Oh – Sherlock – not the –”

“No, John. I haven’t taken any drugs.” Sherlock sighs deeply, offended that John would jump to such a conclusion. “I meant that I should just be honest with you. I have been thinking about it for awhile now. It’s time. I think. Time for me to retire.”

John almost splutters in surprise. Sherlock is barely forty! Leave it to him to try and sneak out and not tell anyone! He snorts. “Retire? You? Really? You are still young! And you will be bored! You will come crawling back in a week, tops!”

After a moment of quiet had befallen, as Sherlock does not deign to respond – John asks. “So then… where are you going?”

“The countryside.”

“Not to your parents?”

“Certainly not.” Sherlock makes a face. 

Hm… now that John thinks about it, Sherlock broods during the days (and even weeks) after John disappears with Em to spend some extensive alone time together. Sherlock never agrees to look after Rosie for long weekends and for the weeks where John goes away on vacation! And Sherlock had managed to escape the annual Baker Street Christmas Party and the New Year’s Bash. John had hoped to have a Christmas with everyone together for Rosie’s sake. With Mrs. Hudson, Emily, Molly, Harry and Greg. He had been sorely disappointed with Sherlock on that point and made it known (“Christmas is for family, Sherlock”), but Sherlock had (heartlessly) shrugged his shoulders and said “Sorry John, I’ve been looking forward to this trip for months!” and ran off without another word with his packed bag. 

Oh and how Sherlock moped after coming back! And… speaking of moping – there had been a strange mark (a bruise?) on Sherlock’s neck after he had taken off his scarf. If Sherlock hadn’t been the subject of deduction, John would have thought ‘hickey!’. 

But wait… that means… Sherlock had found someone? A girlfriend? A significant someone that John has never met? A special someone that Sherlock had been seeing for a while behind John’s back! 

And for the third time today, his heart plummets – this time straight down to his guts. Sherlock didn’t feel comfortable bringing them around then. He didn’t feel comfortable sharing his happiness with… him. 

His best friend. 

“You… you have someone.” John deduces. “Like… a girlfriend?” At Sherlock’s dubious look, John amends. “A boyfriend – whatever… a significant other of some sort. And that they live in the countryside.”

“Yes. John. I have a significant other.” Sherlock concedes, looking uncomfortable with the classification. “A boyfriend…”

“You… never… you never told me.”

“I am sorry, John. But it never seemed… convenient.”

“You two have been together… long?”

“Enough to know that it will last. Yes.” 

“Does… your brother know?” 

“I would imagine that there are very few things that Mycroft does not know.” Sherlock says with some amusement in his voice. “But my lovelife is not for him to stick his unusually large nose in.”

“Speaking of your brother, I haven’t seen him since… since well Sherrinford –”

Sherlock waves away John’s concern. “Big brother is fine. Been taking it easy since our sister went amok. I’ve seen him on occasion.” 

“Okay. So – you are officially moving out?”

“John. I wouldn’t say that. Not quite yet.”

“But Sherlock… you look as if you are… leaving. For good.” 

“I am going today to see my lover. And… he suggested that I stay with him till COVID-19 blows over –”

“Surely it wouldn’t be as bad as that! ” 

John sighs deeply. 

Yes, he’s seen the news. Everything is fine so far at the clinic and at the A&E. The only thing that has changed is that there are a few anxious patients here and there – worried about this new virus. John simply calms them down and suggests a bit of handwashing and staying away from people who are visibly coughing. It will be like its predecessors – SARS, MERS, H1N1 and Ebola – John muses – in the news for a few weeks, a few cases here and there, and it should go away. As he likes to say, everything will be fine. “So then…”

“I am leaving today. John… it’s not because of the virus. I… miss him. Terribly. And in the odd case that anything does happen, I’d like to be with him.”

Now John is truly shocked. For a man who had always spoken so uncharitably in regard to the softer emotions, these words are practically a love confession. And the softening of those eyes! 

Fancy that, the great detective in love! 

“I will still pay my share of the rent.” Sherlock stands up after zipping his suitcase. 

“Oh. Okay. So that’s that, then? You are going?” John really doesn’t know what to say. He just wishes that Sherlock had told him this beforehand. Given him time to prepare. All his future plans had Sherlock wandering about nearby. He had even talked to Em extensively about the importance of having Sherlock in his life! “I am going to propose to Em today. Stay another day at least, Sherlock – we should celebrate the engagement and your… your departure. 

“No. No parties.” Sherlock says with a vehemence. 

John raises a brow as Sherlock gets up after shutting his luggage. It is evident that Sherlock thinks that COVID-19 is something serious. Plus, Sherlock hated parties and gatherings – and is no doubt using this as an excuse to not attend.

“It will be fine you know. You will see.” John offers his reassurances as Sherlock dons his coat (the classic Belstaff had been retired) and blue scarf. 

“I certainly do hope so, John.” Sherlock remarks, giving one last look around Baker Street. His (best) friend looks wistful, as if quickly going through all the fond memories. “We had some… good times… together.”

“Yeah. Yeah. That we did, Sherlock. That we did.” John agrees readily, feeling like his heart is tearing a little. God. Sherlock had been such a fixture in his life over the past few years. And this is how it ends? Watson and Holmes? The darling family of Baker Street? He swallows his feelings and manages. “I… I guess… I will see you around?”

Sherlock gives the tiniest of nods and a wink before disappearing down the stairs. 

God. How is he supposed to go through with proposing now? 

John sits down on the couch, looking at the empty space that Sherlock and his suitcase had occupied just a moment ago. An old painful ache had been acutely reaggravated. 

He wonders for a while about the identity of the one who had stolen his friend away… again! What kind of a man would Sherlock find attractive? Must a special sort of sod to keep Sherlock enthralled and in…  love(?!). To lure him away from his beloved London. An image of Moriarty pops up, and John makes a face – shaking his head fiercely at his moment of nonsense.

But the ring had been acquired, the reservations to the first restaurant Em and he had gone to had been made and the weather is promising enough tonight for a little romantic walk to Em’s favourite haunt – it is what it is… 

Life must move on...

***

“Going already, dearie?” 

Mrs Hudson catches her favourite wayward son before that slippery otter of a boy could slip out the front door without so much as a goodbye. 

“Yes. I finished packing everything, Mrs H.”

“Wait! I have some food for you, Sherlock. For you and your sweetie.”

She smiles a little, seeing the pinched look of discomfort on Sherlock’s face. Always she has wondered if Sherlock used terms of endearment for his special man. He would. She had come to that conclusion. Sherlock is a private (but passionate) man. Exploding with love to give to a certain someone – especially after all that nonsense with his sister! 

“You shouldn’t have. And you did this all since the morning? We shall feast tonight!”

“Oh, dearie – I had to. I went to Tesco after you mentioned that you were going – and the food I gave you was supposed to be for Mildred’s party over the weekend, but I can always make her something else. The cake is German Chocolate – I know you mentioned that your boo liked that. And Sherlock – please do remember that Valentine’s is a week from today –”

“I am sure he wouldn’t care for –”

“That’s what they would say, Sherlock. And, you know what I would say – balderdash! Somewhere deep inside, he would care. I promise you.” 

“Alright. I will try my best then.”

Mrs. Hudson envelops him in a tight hug that her boy would not dare not refuse. 

They walk out of the building and onto Baker Street. There’s a shiny Jag parked out on the street which Sherlock walks toward.

“Take care, Mrs. Hudson. I will miss your heavenly baking! And – may I suggest that you skip the gatherings and the bridge games for the time being?”

“Oh – the virus? Don’t worry, Sherlock – it will all be fine. I will be fine.” She says firmly after all the goods are stashed in place. With good humour, she adds. “I bought several packs of toilet paper while I was at Tesco.” 

Sherlock’s brows shoot up alarmingly at the mention of toilet paper! 

Oh that darling boy of hers! 

Always worried about her health and safety. Especially after that nasty bout of pneumonia she had had a long while back! She might be old, but she certainly won’t let a few viral particles frighten her! 

But a sadness sinks into her chest after they stash everything away in the trunk. 

“We will keep in touch, Mrs H. I promise you that.” Sherlock turns to give her an affectionate peck on the cheek.

She watches stoically as Sherlock climbs into the driver’s seat and gives her one final wave goodbye. 

And she doesn’t go back in until Sherlock is long gone past the horizon. Even though Sherlock hadn’t been sure if he was moving away permanently, it certainly felt… final to the marrow of her old bones. At least, her dear boy would be with the one he loves, and that is something Mrs Hudson could take solace in.

***

The pitter-patter of the raindrops and the swish-schwump of the windshield wipers accompany the light Tchaikovsky playing from the Jag’s high-end speakers. It has been a long while since Sherlock has driven a car, opting to use public transportation and cabs whenever he possibly could – but there is something almost meditative about it. He had never driven over to Mycroft’s until today – having preferred to travel by train. 

When the city gives way to greener pastures – a pang forms in his chest. 

For almost two decades, London had been home. A city that he loves. Filled with criminal and human intrigue – where he had plied his trade and preyed on the wrongdoer. Where he had solved complex problems – and hopefully – helped make his corner of the world a better place.

London had taught him how to be human. Sussex had taught him about love. Or rather – Mycroft had taught him about love. All kinds of love. Fraternal. Unconditional. And now… romantic. 

What is big brother doing now? He wonders. Is he waiting for Sherlock? Walking Sadie? Curled up next to the fireplace with a good book in hand? Checking his hives for cold-related damage? 

They had conversed the previous night about their situation:

Brother mine. I think the time should be sooner rather than later. MH

There are hardly any confirmed cases, darling. You sure? SH

Positive. There is hardly any testing being done, Sherlock. The government is going to bumble this whole thing up. I can guarantee you that there is already community-transmission of the virus in London. MH

Eventually, when all the options are exhausted, and our countrymen are piling up in the intensive care units, a nationwide lockdown will be observed. MH

I see. SH

So… you want me to come to you. SH

Yes. I believe that would be the prudent course of action. MH

And I hope you haven’t taken up smoking again. MH

No. I haven’t fallen off the wagon yet, My. SH

Good boy. The virus seems to have a rather lethal affinity for men and if I may guess, those with previous insults to the lungs. MH

How do you know if I am not infected, My? SH

My guess is that there is already community-spread going on, little brother, but not enough on the balance of probability that you would have it already. MH 

Providing that you have not come into contact with anyone who has been to Wuhan. MH

No, I haven’t. Everyone I’ve been in contact with hasn’t left England recently. SH

Good. And. Sherlock. I miss you. Terribly. MH

I know. So do I, darling. I’ve been thinking of it. You know, Mycroft. SH

Of what? MH

Retiring. SH

It hurts too much not to be together. SH

Then come, dearest. Let’s see if we can live together without the homicide. MH

Unless… you would rather be in lockdown with Dr. Watson…? MH

God no. I will come today. Will rent a car and drive. SH

Darling. There’s a perfectly usable car at my place in London. Let me give my housekeeper a ring and she will drive it over to Baker Street for you. MH

Thank you, lover mine. SH

I will see you soon. SH

The pleasure is all mine. MH

There is certainly something in the air. If Mycroft is correct – a plague of biblical proportions. A little single-stranded RNA virus – in its quest to reproduce – that will lay humanity down to their collective knees. Well, it already did in Wuhan. Containment, according to Mycroft, had already been a failure. Sherlock had done a quick search online and found case reports of viral transmission in Germany and Italy in the New England Journal of Medicine. The seeds have already sown throughout the planet. 

Sherlock hardly needs to have Mycroft’s intellect to see that governments around the world will pussyfoot around – afraid to bring out the hammer (carry out extensive lockdowns) at the cost of the economy. In fact – they are doing so now. Turning a blind eye to the plight in China. But really – if it wasn’t an issue – why would such a superpower such as China bring its economic machinery to a screeching halt? 

The canaries are singing, but no one is listening. 

Sherlock isn’t worried about a few measly particles of ribonucleic acid, but he has been (for a while now) looking for an excuse to retire from his job. To try a long-term living experiment with Mycroft. They have been dating long-distance successfully for almost a year, but the long periods of separation have grown increasingly painful for Sherlock.

He wonders – will they be able to live together for a few weeks under the same roof? Months? The longest they had been together had been almost two weeks. From Christmas to Sherlock’s birthday almost a month ago. It had been heaven, and most importantly, it had left Sherlock wanting more. He hopes that they can make this work. It has to. 

There are too many factors at play – namely the competence of their not-very-competent government. His brother has shown him the modeling data and simulations that he had made in his spare time to aid him in making financial decisions; Mycroft had taken an interest in speculation over the past year, which Sherlock thinks is just a fancy word for ‘gambling’. 

Mycroft’s first (mini) project in that area had been constructing a football simulation to predict the Premier League table. How Sherlock had laughed when he had caught Mycroft making bets online and managing a fantasy team just as he had seen John and even Greg do! His brother; however – never enjoyed legwork, not even watching it – and the only games he would watch are the ones that he had significant monetary investments riding upon. But Sherlock cannot deny that Mycroft makes far more dough in his retirement than he had done at his job. 

Soon, the paved roads give way to bumpy countryside lanes – of sodden pebbles and dirt – with yellowed grass. He drives up and down a variable series of hills, before he finally catches a glimpse of the sea – the tumultuous waves crashing rigorously against the shore. 

The downpour comes down harder now, and in the distance – Sherlock could see a flash of jagged lightning, followed by a quiet but bone-rattling boom of thunder. He shivers, despite not being cold. As a child – Sherlock had never been a big fan of thunder. It makes him want to run and hide – to wait for the rainbows that come out afterwards. 

And where did he hide as a child anyways?

The familiar salt-corroded cottages finally come into view. It is a relief when Sherlock finally reaches Mycroft’s – the one isolated dwelling closest to a picturesque cliff that overlooks the English Channel. The worn whitish bricks are contrasted by brightly painted blue doors and window sills. He parks the car as close as he possibly could to the front door, without ruining any of Mycroft’s extensive lawnwork. He texts. 

Look outside, brother dear. SH

Does my damsel in distress need saving from the storm? MH

Hush. SH

Maybe… just a little? SH

Do you need my help unloading? MH

No. I can do it. Just open the door. SH

You sure? I am coming. MH

Sherlock gets out of the car, braving the winds and the rain. Why can’t it be bloody snowing in February? He first retrieves the bags of food that Mrs. Hudson had so generously provided, and brings them to the front door – which is already open. 

He freezes when he catches sight of his brother – dressed in a crisp shirt, a red tie(!?!), waistcoat, suit jacket and a pair of trousers. A tiepin in the shape of a sword holds the tie in position. Wow. Sherlock had forgotten how good Mycroft looks in his fancy garb. It’s very fucking hot, indeed! 

His brother smiles sheepishly (adorably) at him, while Sherlock simply drops the bags at the doorway and runs into his arms. 

Sherlock is finally home. 

***

“God, I missed you.” Sherlock buries his face against Mycroft’s neck, submerging himself in his lover. The expensive scent of bergamot and Breakfast tea. The faint aroma of food (oh dear, his brother had actually prepared dinner!). The softness of his skin. The prickliness of his stubble. And the exquisite feel of bespoke fabric. “How… I missed you.”

“As did I, lover mine.” Mycroft murmurs into Sherlock’s ear, not minding that his clothes are getting wet. “You were only just here earlier this month, but yet… it seems like an eternity has passed.”

Sentiment passes readily past their lips now. Perhaps it had been the long-distance nature of their relationship, having to compress weeks (and sometimes even months!) worth of love and intimacy into days, forcing them to be candid with one another. 

“I haven’t seen you with a tie since… well Sherrinford.” 

“Somehow, I thought you would approve…”

“You dressed up for me?” Sherlock grins. He had missed it – his brother’s ridiculously expensive wardrobe. When Mycroft had left London, his three-piece suits had disappeared as well. “I do… in fact, approve.” Sherlock purrs while he lets his fingers caress the silk of Mycroft’s tie with deliberate slowness – mm…

“I didn’t realize you had such a suit kink, little brother.” Mycroft says teasingly.

Their lips meet. A sweet kiss of Lovers’ Reunited. It didn’t matter that there is rainwater being blown inside by the wind or that Sherlock still had things left from the trunk to bring in. There is that (sexy) way that Mycroft draws breath – the way that he had done back in the day when he had used to savour ludicrously expensive cigars. There is a thump as Mycroft’s back hits a wall, and their kisses grow longer and passionate – intermingled with moans and harsh breathing. Clothes are disappearing somehow, and soon Sherlock has his hand against his brother’s bare (but oh so delightfully) hairy chest. 

“Fuck.” Mycroft pants, leaving one more wet sloppy kiss against Sherlock’s neck.

“I would like that.”

“You naughty perverse boy! This is how the night is supposed to end – mpph.”

Sherlock cuts him off again with his lips again. He ensnares his fingers into his brother’s short hair, pulling slightly – eliciting another tantalizing moan. 

Sex shouldn’t be a limited quantity; it should be an exercise practiced whenever and wherever. All permutations should be explored. And all good experiments should come with replicates. Besides they’ve long passed the part of their relationship where wining and dining were necessary requisites to get into the other’s pants. He grinds his groin against Mycroft’s – slow and sure is the ticket – feeling that slow burn of arousal that he had been longing for during the hours in his lonely bed back at Baker Street. 

“Mycroft…” Sherlock teases. “Mycie… tell me you don’t want this…”

“Bastard.” Mycroft mumbles, trying to stop his own hips from chasing Sherlock’s for more of this heady pleasure. “I hate you.”

“You love me.” Sherlock’s breath is hot against Mycroft’s neck, sending frissons down his spine. “God, Mycie. Look at you. See how hard you are?” He says just as his hand slips into his brother’s pants, giving him a teasing stroke. “Once you were the mighty British Government, and now… you are a slave… to the sins of the flesh. I missed you, my darling. My poor half-naked love.” Sherlock coos.

Mycroft is vaguely aware that the front door is still open. That the rain is still pounding away. But he’s too far gone. He’s missed having sex with his Lockie, and it’s actually hilarious (and annoyingly hot) how brazen Sherlock is these days. They are lip-locked again, in another breath-stealing snog, and he gasps when Sherlock brings their cocks together. His brother frigs them both leisurely, drawing an impatient sound from him.

“Tell me that you love me.” Sherlock says as he maddingly pumps them both. “That you miss me. That the only people that matter are the two of us. Everyone else is merely a distraction.” 

“God. Sherlock. Of course… I…” Mycroft manages as his brother’s mouth has decided to make its way up to his ear, and he unintentionally whimpers when his brother nips at a lobe. “I… missed you. Of course I love you.” The strokes are getting faster with each word he says. Positive reinforcement at its finest. His brother’s irises seem to darken, imploring him onwards. “You… you are the only one that gets to see me like this. God, Lock…” His brother spends some time putting some delicious pressure against his glans, and Mycroft staves off orgasm by flexing his pelvic muscles. “Wanna come with you…” He’s starting to slur his words. Sounding as drunk as he feels. “Lockie…” 

Mycroft abruptly spurts, feeling the wetness of his ejaculate hit his belly. On some instinct, he finds himself on his knees, and his brother’s long slim prick is in his mouth, and he’s sucking at it as if his life depended on it – his brain too short-circuited with potent chemistry to think coherently. He gags when Sherlock’s overzealous hips force him to thrust deep into his throat – and suddenly his mouth is flooded with hot salty cum; the fluid dripping all over his lips and chin. Something soft wipes away the seed after he coughs.

“Bollocks – Mycie, you alright?” 

Sherlock had slid onto his arse, and was tending to Mycroft’s face with a napkin that he had fished out. Somehow, getting his brother from three-piece suit to a mess on the floor is the greatest achievement of the year (so far!). 

“Yeah.” God… Mycroft sounds hoarse. He attempts to don his mantle of dignity. “Perhaps… you should go fetch the rest of your things. I will go… mop the floor and clean up.”

“You are a hot mess, brother mine.” Sherlock smiles, patting Mycroft’s cheek, before kissing it fondly. “A beautiful, most gorgeous mess.”

“Now you are being ridiculous.” Mycroft tries to stand up from the slightly wet floor; his cheeks reddening even further with embarrassment. He’s forced to sit back down on the tiles. “Good Lord, my legs feel like jelly.”

“As do mine.” 

Sherlock winks at him and they both burst out laughing at how utterly silly they are being; the pair of them blissfully fucked out of their common sense and reason within the first fifteen minutes of living together.  

***

“Your lodgings, Sir.” 

Mycroft says with the air of a pompous butler, opening the door to what he called the ‘tower’ room. 

It isn’t the largest spare room he has, but certainly, the coziest – with the most brilliant view of the sea and coastline. The cliff edge cannot be seen from the bay windows, giving the impression that one is high up in a tower. Of course, the skies are now grey and gloomy, and the view is obscured by rivulets of rain running down the panes. 

He puts down the luggage that he had brought up for Sherlock, leaving it next to the old-fashioned canopied bed. Much of the mahogany furniture in here had been preserved even long before Uncle Alder’s time, and Mycroft had spent some free time mending, polishing and dusting the antiques over the past year – anticipating that one day, Sherlock might like this room for his very own. 

Then there is lightning that streaks the sky and a huge crash of thunder which causes Sherlock to jump into Mycroft’s arms. An arm curls protectively around him, while the other hand gently rubs soothing circles against his back. Lips tenderly touch his forehead.

“You never liked thunderstorms.” 

Mycroft remarks, remembering the old days where Sherlock would hide during such occasions. Or if Mycroft had been within sight, the tiny curly haired Lock would demand cuddles and comfort, burying his face in Mycroft’s shoulder – not too dissimilar to what Lock is doing now. It’s cute and precious, and Mycroft is happy that Sherlock trusts him again. Happiness overtakes him; it’s finally hitting him that Lock is moving in with him for the long-term. The fulfillment of a dream that Mycroft had cherished for a long time now, even before they had been together. 

“The pressure changes during storms make my bones and joints ache, Mycroft. It’s… not a good time by any means.” 

“Take a shower, my love. You will feel better –”

“Do you actually expect me to stay up here?”

“I do, of course, expect you to warm my bed during cold rainy nights.” Mycroft gives his words a teasing lilt, before pecking his cheek. “But I thought… that you might like a space to call your own.”

“It’s… lovely. It really is.” Sherlock did like the atmosphere of the room, despite the storming weather outside. It was the sort of thing that would have appealed to a younger him, with its old-timey furnishings and his love for the sea. He also appreciates the new high-tech microscope, the mini-fridge and freezer unit (which would be likely used for a secret stash of snacks and drinks rather than experiments in this phase of Sherlock’s life) and the bookshelves crammed with books of all sorts. His sharp eyes can catch the repair-work that Mycroft had carried out in the room. The walls had been repainted a creamy sort of colour, complementing the blue and mahogany that pervades throughout the room. The cozy nook next to the windows had been made with reading or thinking on lazy days in mind, and Mycroft had supplied it with ample cushions of all shapes and colours. “I like it.” 

Mycroft squeezes Sherlock’s shoulder affectionately. “Shower, Lockie. I prepared food for us, but I can supplement it with Mrs Hudson’s generous fare. And later… I could massage all your aching body parts. I come highly recommended.”

“Really?” Sherlock raises an skeptical eyebrow, before feeling a pang of jealousy.

“Anthea. She gets grumpy whenever she gets one of her tension headaches –”

“Who was the assistant again?”

“Off with you, you silly boy!” Mycroft snaps one of the clean striped towels that he had originally folded and left on Sherlock’s bed at his brother, who ducks cheekily. 

“One hour, seven minutes and twenty-six seconds.”

“Since what?”

“That we’ve gone without exercising any homicidal tenden – mpph! Stop it, stop – hahaha, stop!” 

“I will show you homicidal tendencies!” 

Mycroft tickles his brother as he shoves him onto the neatly made bed, wrinkling the smoothness of the goose-down quilt. Something soft hits him in the head – his brother had hit him with the pillow – and they are rolling about – struggling for control of the ‘weapon’. It ends when they are both breathless with laughter, and Sherlock is looking up at him, panting hard with the exertion, those brilliant eyes sparkling at him. He kisses him instantly with his fingers tangled in his silky (and slightly sweaty) locks, and Sherlock sighs into it. 

“Miaow!” 

Mycroft groans when Sherlock’s head jerks up and hits his forehead in shock. Sherlock rubs at his head, feeling dazed as a grey tabby with blue eyes leaps on the bed from somewhere. Where did this creature come from? As a rule, he likes animals… dogs in particular but cats… he had a rather nasty experience with one as a child. He still has the scars to prove it. Did Mycroft adopt another child and not tell him about it? A warning would have been nice. The cat waves its tail and walks over Sherlock’s body without an iota of remorse, and leaps off the bed. 

“You okay?” Sherlock asks, his heart slowing down from the scare. “I wish… that you would have warned me.”

“I am sorry, Lock. I should have told you –”

“You knew about my… aversion for cats…” 

“I couldn’t let him go to the shelter, Lock. He was all wet, soiled and alone.” He sighs. “I should have told you, Lockie.”

His brother pushes him lightly aside – biting his own lip as if trying to contain a nasty retort, and gets off the bed. He bends down, grabbing his suitcase – leaving Mycroft with a fear that Sherlock would leave, despite it raining cats and dogs and even frogs out.

“Sherlock. Lockie. I… am a coward.” He whispers. “I’ve always been when it comes to…”

“Not now, Mycroft. I can’t believe you…” 

Sherlock ends up opening his suitcase, pulling out a fresh set of clothes with unnecessary aggression. This is ridiculous! That his brother couldn’t even talk to him about a pet cat! It’s not like Mycroft had gotten the creature yesterday, his brother has had at least a few weeks by his reckoning! Sister dear is one thing, but this?!? What did Mycroft think Sherlock would do? Drown it? Make him take it to the shelter? Sherlock would never make Mycroft give away a pet that he had grown so attached to! 

Aren’t they supposed to be partners in everything? It’s one thing to make a unilateral decision about their intertwined lives, but another to know about the incident with Aunt Millie’s horrid cat and to not have the courtesy to warn him about the new feline companion that he would be sharing space with.

It hurt. 

He stomps off to the adjoining loo, kicking the door shut behind him. 

Mycroft looks despairing at the closed door. How did things go tits up so quickly? Knowing that his brother needs space, he reluctantly goes downstairs, where his kitty-cat greets him, nuzzling his ankles before weaving between his legs as he walks to the living room to check up on his border collie – Sadie – snoozing away next to the fireplace, recovering from some nasty cold. 

***

This is not how Mycroft had envisioned their dinner to go. Sherlock (in a pair of faded jeans and an old hoodie) eats in sullen silence, his chopsticks fishing out tender pieces of lamb and seafood from the partitioned pot with two different soup bases: a spicy one and a creamy variant with corn. In addition to the hotpot, Mycroft had also laid out some of Mrs Hudson’s offerings: Yorkshire pudding, mini-fruit tarts and even some biscuits in the hopes of tempting an appetite that had left both of them. At the very least, Sherlock hasn’t left. Surely that must count for something.

The light flickers now and then, as lightning crackles and thunder booms. Sherlock looks increasingly uncomfortable with the natural phenomena going about outside. A storm here out on the coast is nothing like a storm in London. The rainwater pounds mercilessly against the retiled roof; the wind whips about and howls its displeasure; the seawaves slam against the shore, taking no prisoners. 

Mycroft loves it.

He tries to speak, but the look Sherlock gives him quells his words immediately. I am sorry. He thinks, as he remembers comforting a tearful Lock after his unfortunate encounter with Aunt Millie’s ill-tempered cat, while trying to staunch the blood that came from the gouges caused by her long claws. There’s the scar on Lock’s lip, and a few faint ones decorating his chest from that encounter. But Chinook is nothing like Aunt Millie’s old cat; he’s affectionate and playful – happiest when he is purring in somebody’s lap, or cuddled up to Sadie. He likes to join Sadie on their jaunts outdoors, and is quite amenable to wearing a harness for long walks. 

Figuring that he had nothing to lose, Mycroft pulls out his phone and texts.

Are you going to give me the cold shoulder all evening, Lock? MH

Sherlock huffs, but after a moment, he pulls out his phone and looks. 

I am sorry. MH

It was so long ago. MH

I meant to tell you about him, Chinook MH

An eon seems to pass before Sherlock finally moves – the lights flickering ominously with another thunderous bang.  

It’s not the cat that I am upset about. I am upset that you didn’t discuss it with me. Especially now, since… SH

What did you think I would do? Tell you to get rid of him? SH

I wouldn’t, you know. SH

I might be many things, Mycie, but heartless, I am not. SH

Sherlock sees it, the flicker in Mycroft’s blue eyes. That… doubt. His brother had been afraid of what Sherlock would have said. Suddenly feeling like he’s lost all his appetite, he pushes back – the legs of the chair scraping harshly against the floor. He can’t be here. Flinching as another ka-boom of thunder rattles the house and its lights, he walks to the living room where Sadie – Mycroft’s (or rather their) collie – is curled up in her wicker basket next to the fireplace. She immediately recognizes Sherlock – turning her neck to look at him – and she offers a weak greeting bark. Which is immediately followed by a cough. Bollocks, no wonder she hadn’t greeted him at the front door with her doggy kisses!

“Hi girl.” Sherlock bends down to ruffle her fur. 

Ah. Viruses. Cats. Storms. Trust. What an evening. 

***

What is wrong with him? Mycroft thinks glumly, now sitting at the dining table. The portable gas-stove is now turned off; the aromas of the soup bases in the partitioned pot remind him of his unsated hunger, but it feels wrong to eat without little brother present. He had been looking forward to Sherlock’s arrival all day, little anticipating that this would be the result. Resting his hand on his chin, he sighs. Did he not trust his brother? Or is it… merely avoiding potential conflict? Sherlock and he rarely fought at all these days. In fact this is probably the most serious conflict they’ve had. When did this become an issue of trust? 

Getting up from the table, he straightens his clothes and trudges out of the kitchen. Mycroft is used to living alone. He had lived by himself in London, and now here – with Sadie and Chinook of course. Loneliness had never been an issue. How can it be with his brother here – in this very cottage – that he feels a void? An emptiness. Alone. He doesn’t like it when little brother is upset. Ever. Even during the days where they didn’t get along. During the days where Mycroft had buried his feelings from the rest of the world. He had loved his brother for so long. 

It was in this kitchen where he had let his shields down for the first time in front of his brother that fateful day. Seeing Sherlock realize it had been the single most scary experience in his life – he hadn’t even realized that he had let his mask slip. Perhaps with retirement, he is losing his touch. Or maybe, he is just tired of carrying such a burden. It must have meant something that Sherlock had sought him out. Had spent so much time out of his life to look for him. Even out here – almost a hundred kilometres away from London – in isolation (for yes, Mycroft seldom interacts with people with the exception of his housekeeper and his neighbours, although these days with SARS-CoV-2 globally spreading – he has stopped socializing altogether) the longing and the dreams had still persisted. Of living together with little brother. Of tenderness. Of companionship. Of love. It had further confirmed what Mycroft had known of his incestuous love for his brother. Terminal. Any attempts to quash it is an exercise in futility. 

That night had been beautiful. To see Sherlock open his own book of revelation – and to see the want… the need mirrored in his gorgeous eyes. And then – to share in those new feelings. So much to discover, so much to learn. Making love in the moonlight. Kindling the start of something. Something new. Relationships require work, just like the maintenance of a good fire. Particularly long-distance ones like theirs. And they had made it work. 

He walks past the stairs, and sees little brother curled up on his armchair; his knees folded up to his chest – a plump cushion hugged tightly around his arms. Dark curls peek out of the hood, making Sherlock appear younger than he actually is. It’s not sulking. This is actual misery. Sadie – who really ought to be resting – gives him a glance, a suspicious one. If Mycroft is to translate such a look – it means fix it. 

She is a wise dog. 

Thunder crashes. Loud. The lights flicker. Once. Twice. Sherlock’s grip around his cushion tightens before relaxing. Otherwise, he doesn’t move. Mycroft is unsure about how to approach this version of his brother. 

Cautiously, he steps forward, closing the gap. Another boom of thunder – another flicker – and then the room darkens. Only illuminated by the flames of the fireplace. Mycroft counts to five. The lights don’t switch on. Blast it. The backup generator is working, but it will only provide electricity to the freezers, his fridge, the water heater and a critical power supply in his study. He stands next to his brother – they are close enough to accidentally brush against one another. 

“Mycroft… I don’t like it.” Sherlock speaks first.

“It’s only a power outage, darling.” Mycroft says, soothingly. “Happens often out here at the seaside during such storms.” He then tries. “Are you… still upset with me?” 

“Yes. But…” 

Mycroft somehow slips onto the armchair. He wraps his arms around his brother – who had gained some weight during the course of their relationship – generally a reliable indicator of a happy, stable romantic relationship. Sherlock sighs deeply, before relaxing against Mycroft. Pulling the hood down, Mycroft buries his nose into Sherlock’s fragrant locks – freshly washed with that regimen of fancy hair products. He has missed this. Not the hurt feelings, but the intimacy. The cuddling. Comfort that could only be had between the two of them. The storm continues its unrelentless course, thundering the background. 

Sherlock sighs. “I am just out of sorts, Mycroft. I mean – it’s just a cat. I know you care. I know you love me. We don’t live together… well – until now, at least. And – I know I don’t exactly have the best track –”

“Sherlock. No.” Mycroft hugs his brother tighter to his person. “I trust you. We are equals. I just – I guess subconsciously worried that you weren’t going to react to Chinook well. And… I quite like him –”

“You mean – he’s crawled his way into your icy heart – and he’s staying there.” Sherlock smirks – damn, his brother is a sucker. “Well, as long as you aren’t replacing me with –”

“Never.” Mycroft is horrified.

“We will be okay, won’t we?” Sherlock asks, somehow sounding impossibly young.

“Of course.” Mycroft soothes, knowing that some of Sherlock’s discontent is coming from the dreary weather outside. He presses his lips against his forehead. “Of course, we will be, Lockie.”

***

“Let’s sleep in my bed.” Sherlock says after Mycroft had taken a shower. He carries several hot water bags in his arms, considering that the heating had gone out with the rest of the electricity. 

“Whatever you want, Lock.”

With Mycroft carrying the torch, they find their way to Sherlock’s room by the sea. It’s pitch dark out, the waves still slamming against the sandy shores. The room is colder than when Sherlock had been in it last. Mycroft shuts the curtains while Sherlock pushes the bottles underneath the quilt, making the space warm and toasty for the night. 

He slips in, rather enjoying the sensation of the cold quilt against his skin, and the warmth of the water radiating from the bags. His brother soon joins him, and Sherlock wiggles over to his warm body. Mycroft chuckles, his arms receiving him. Thunder booms again, causing Sherlock to shake.

“Shh… Lockie. I’ve got you.”

“I know. I just… don’t like it. Loud noises. I tolerate it, you know. Bombs, fireworks – etcetera etcetera, but after Sherrinford – I just don’t know. Like my childhood seems so close to the surface at times. Some things just feel like they… happened yesterday. Like the incident with the cat. Me… hiding with you during a particularly nasty storm. Or when Mummy called me before the holidays, and all she wanted to talk about was sister dear – I just… had a creepy sensation crawl up and down my spine during that entire conversation, and I realized that that is what I had felt when I was around her as a child. My sense of my past is totally fucked up, even though it has been three years since I got my memories back. I am still trying to put myself… back together. Well… or rather, find myself.”

“We are all finding ourselves, Lock. You aren’t the only one. I haven’t spoken to Mummy or Father ever since I left London. Mummy was rather upset… that I wouldn’t see Eurus again in the flesh.” 

There’s more thunder, but the sound is fainter now. The storm is moving on. Sherlock gives a little sigh of relief, and Mycroft rubs his back. 

“Mm… lower.” Sherlock mumbles, and he moans contently when Mycroft finally reaches that knot. “She hasn’t forgiven you.”

“No. Well. I don’t know. It’s not like she has my number. But she’s never gone to find me, like you had done. It isn’t difficult.”

“Left… no not your left, my left.” Sherlock orders.

“Yes, your Royal Highness.” 

Mycroft feels light, despite the topic of conversation – happy that the spat had seemed to blow away along with the brunt of the storm. Now there is a much more comforting patter of raindrops, and even the sea and the wind have quieted down. He continues to work on Sherlock’s rather tight back, before working on his abused limbs and joints. 

Sherlock is melting into the bed, enjoying his brother’s attention. He loves the way Mycroft makes him feel. Like he’s not a burden. That his brother had no expectations of him other than him being safe and healthy. And happy. That he is adored and loved. Cherished. That he’s free to be himself. Even if he’s still figuring that part out. It is everything that he had craved during his days in London, knowing that the precious few days and weeks they spent together over the previous year isn’t enough for him anymore. 

“I love you.” Sherlock says before giggling when Mycroft works on his feet. 

His brother responds by kissing the soles of his feet, before coming back up to snog him properly. Sherlock sighs into the kiss, feeling the long day catch up with him. 

Mycroft senses his exhaustion and he says. “Sleep then, Lockie. We have all the time in the world now to do as we wish.” 

He brushes his lips against Sherlock’s cheek, and he smiles to himself when he hears his brother’s cute little snore.

***

“Mm…” Sherlock mumbles. “Mycroft…” 

There’s something thick and long pressed against his bum, and without thinking too much of it, he rolls his hips, rubbing against the hardness. There’s something warm ghosting around the sensitive skin of his nape, sending little frissons throughout his nerves, waking him gradually up from the world of sleep. 

“Now this is a nice way to wake up.” 

Sherlock could hear Mycroft’s smile from his words. 

“May I?” The meaning is clear when he feels a hand at his pyjama bottoms.

“Yes. Oh god, yes.” Sherlock had cleaned himself thoroughly last night, just in case. 

Somewhere, somehow – his brother finds the lubricant that he had stashed in the room, and Sherlock shudders when a hot tongue swirls against the sensitive flesh of his perianal region after Mycroft had made his bottoms vanish. His brother licks in slow torturous circles, getting ever so close to where Sherlock wants him to go. 

“Mm… I shall feast, brother mine. Considering that I never got to finish my dinner –”

“And whose fault was that – hnng!” 

Sherlock gasps when both clever tongue and lubricated finger penetrate him simultaneously. God, it’s been awhile. Well, granted, a month is very short in the grand scheme of things, but still! He definitely understands now why goldfish are always chasing tails. Just as he does with good cuisine, Mycroft eats him out with enthusiasm, his tongue burying itself deeper and deeper, while his teasing finger toys with the nerves of his sensitive rim. An embarrassing keen escapes him as Sherlock fists the sheets – feeling like he is going to levitate off the bed. 

“So delightfully sensitive.” Mycroft mumbles. He does indeed spend his days fantasizing about his brother’s glorious bottom. His own brain running its own simulations of all the perverse things he could do to it. He adds another finger, and continues. 

He could feel his brother twitch and writhe – and see in his mind the few beads of sweat that would have formed on Sherlock’s forehead by now, and how his dear face and toes would be scrunched up in pleasure. And how little brother is trying to not to move his hips, for once attempting the practice of patience. 

“Oh for the love of god, fuck me already!” Sherlock calls out, and Mycroft laughs, scolding him for the obscenity, which only spurs on his brother. “Shove your big fat cock up my arse! Please!”

Unable to deny his brother, Mycroft crawls upward, covering Sherlock’s now-bare torso. With one hand, he guides his own throbbing dick to the cleft between his brother’s bountiful arse cheeks, and he rubs the glans against it – teasing his brother further. Before his brother could complain, he thrusts in, feeling the head pop inside. Mycroft groans. So tight. So bloody exquisite. He slides inward, millimetre by millimetre, before Sherlock takes matters into his own hands and thrusts backwards – causing Mycroft to bottom out. 

He could make out Sherlock’s face in the darkness – as a sliver of bright light (Mycroft hadn’t even realized that the rain had stopped upon his awakening) pierces through the crack in the curtains, casting hypnotic shadows over Lock’s dear face. He kisses him. Kisses him fiercely as they both work together in tandem to create the most glorious sensations within each other. 

“God. You feel so good.” Sherlock moans, his breathing getting slightly laboured. “I like this, christening the furniture. We should –”

“We did that last year.” Mycroft says with a smile, sucking a bruising kiss on Lock’s tantalizing neck. For good measure, he leaves a few more, loving the mewls of pleasure that he coaxes out of his brother – figuring that it’s safe now to mark up Sherlock all he liked. 

“It’s a new year.”

“You didn’t leave until the fourth.”

“Don’t be smart, Mycroft.” Sherlock whimpers when Mycroft gently pinches one of his pink nubs, pulling just so perfectly. “I can’t believe you are being pedantic during sex. It’s unbecoming.” 

“I am not doing my job if you can say such long sentences.” Mycroft grumbles, thrusting just a little harder – hearing the head of the bed actually thud against the wall. 

“Ooh. More. More!” Sherlock cries out as his brother does just that. He wraps his arms tightly around Mycroft’s back for leverage, aware that his fingernails are starting to dig into his brother’s back. “Fuck me into the bed, Mycie!” 

Mycroft is hammering into him like a jackhammer, and it’s beyond words. Usually their sex tends to be playful and tender – as his brother was always careful not to harm him, but this is certainly something new. Something wonderful. Soon Sherlock feels his brother’s hand wrap around his own weeping cock, and Mycroft pumps it, once, twice, thrice as he fucks – and Sherlock is screaming unintelligibly as he cums in a way he had never done before. 

He collapses bonelessly against the bed, feeling fucked completely out of his mind. His brain has ceased to function while his eyes look blankly at his panting brother who had also spent his load after Sherlock’s arse had squeezed it out of him.

“Good god. I am going to be sore in a few hours.” Mycroft groans, ensuring that he falls next to Sherlock rather than on top of him. 

“You aren’t ancient yet, brother dear.”

“Mm… and who knew you could scream like that? You make me feel like some hot twenty-something stud.” Mycroft whispers, and Sherlock could feel his brother’s (usually hidden) insecurities rise to the surface. 

“To me, you are.” Sherlock kisses his stubbly cheek. “I promise I am not lying. And I am not going to leave. I want to… stay.”

There’s a sublime sort of happiness bubbling deep down within Mycroft. Yes. Of course. Stay. Stay all you want. I love you. I love you forever. Lockie. Instead, he simply settles for grasping one of Lock’s hands, before he feels something leap onto the bed. Oh god, Chinook. The memories of the previous night come to mind.

“Mrow?” 

Chinook walks the gap that separates their bodies. The grey tabby gives Mycroft a customary nudge with his head. But it isn’t a plea for breakfast – surprisingly. The kitty walks further, this time – his blue eyes focus intently on Lock. His tail swishes to and fro.

“Someone is here to make friends.” Mycroft smiles at his brother, who looks with some askance at their visitor. 

The cat stops just before he reaches Sherlock’s arm, and he curls in a ball before purring. 

“You can pet him, Lock. I promise he won’t bite.”

Sherlock’s bottom lip trembles a bit, but there is a firm look upon his face as he slowly reaches for the cat’s fluffy head. With caution, his fingertips touch the soft fur, and he strokes. The kitty purrs louder, before leaping onto Sherlock’s shoulder with his claws carefully hidden and gently licks at the small (barely perceptible) scars that a long deceased cat had once left.

Mycroft could see his brother’s eyes soften at the gesture, and he knows that everything will be okay. That Chinook had done his job to ensnare another worshipper into the fold. 

***

“Hey.”

“Hi John.” 

Sherlock accepts the video call as he strides down the shore with Sadie by his side. The collie had shrugged off her illness and had been eager for Sherlock to play with her while he had tried to eat breakfast. Mycroft is further ahead of him, having his hands full with a curious Chinook. The cat has a fascination with the sea, but due to his small size, Mycroft forbids him from playing in it – afraid that he would get swept away. 

It’s a beautiful day, the sun casting its rays over the much calmer waters, causing it to sparkle. Overhead, picture perfect white (innocent) fluffy clouds drift across the sky. It’s still cold, so Sherlock is dressed warmly in his winter coat, scarf and a ridiculously fluffy toque with a pom-pom that Mycroft had forced upon his head before they had left the house. The lightest of breezes blow about.

“You are at… a beach.” John remarks. “Amazing. I never thought you were the sort…”

There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me. Sherlock muses. “What’s up?” He inquires instead, popping his ‘p’.

“Just… checking up on you. Baker Street seems… too large without your presence in it. All wrong, really –”

“Are you trying to say that you miss me, John?”

“Ha, yes. Greg misses you too –”

“Who?”

“Oh, come on – Sherlock. It’s Lestrade! You upset the poor man – leaving without a word! He had a bloody sort of murder on his hands and –”

“I am retired now, John.”

“I know. I told him. So, you bored yet?”

“Nope. I like it here.” Sherlock takes his pink frisbee and throws it far for Sadie’s benefit. The collie barks enthusiastically – and goes tearing after it toward the towering cliffs. “It’s… peaceful –”

“Oh you have a dog!” John exclaims. “Damn. I am jealous. I’ve always wanted one –”

“You could get one, you know. I am sure Rosie would love it.”

“Yeah, I was thinking – a bulldog. Maybe when we are married. Oh –”

“How did the proposal go?”

“Oh man, it rained like hell yesterday after you left! Gonna try again tonight, Sherlock – we didn’t end up going to the garden as I had wanted. Hey Rosie –” John calls out. “Come talk to your Uncle Sherlock!” 

“Hi, Uncle Sherlock.” The blonde child runs up to the screen, her curls bouncing. “Dad said you left and you didn’t say goodbye to me! I miss you!” 

She blows a kiss, and Sherlock could feel his heart do something funny from beneath his bones.

“I miss you too – Rosie-girl.”

They talk a little of Rosie’s current favourite obsession – which is ice-skating. Sherlock shows her Sadie when she bounds back with the frisbee in her mouth and she squeals with joy, and Sherlock grins when she starts pestering John in the background. “Can we have a doggie, daddy? Please? Please?”

“I suppose you won’t be showing and telling your boyfriend.” 

John tries moments later, and Sherlock chuckles, looking up once more to see Mycroft standing at the edge of the sea. Mycroft’s hand is holding Chinook’s harness tight as the kitten plays at the edge of the water, crawling over all sorts of debris and driftwood that had been washed ashore from last night’s storm.

“Nah. He’s a private sort of sod –”

“Sh’lock has a boyfriend?” Rosie squeals. And then a beat later... “Ewww… boys have cooties!”

The unexpected exclamation sends both Sherlock and John into gales of laughter.

“I didn’t realize cooties were still a thing in this modern day and age.” Sherlock remarks.

John chuckles. “It’s an old staple of school lore. And boys are rather gross, I do have –”

“Not mine.” Sherlock says firmly, remembering how fastidious Mycroft had been (and still is). “He’s not gross at all.”

“If you won’t show him, then describe him?” John wheedles.

“Tall, dark and handsome.” Sherlock has a shit-eating grin on his face while John groans at how generic (and cliché) his description is. 

It’s apt though – his choice of adjectives.

“Give me something more. Evidence. As you would call it.”

“John, I think you might regret that.” Sherlock says, walking over to his brother with a speculative look. 

His brother’s face is scrunched a little in confusion, but Sherlock gently presses a finger against his lips – telling him to keep quiet. 

“Lover mine.” Sherlock says, infusing his words with all the silk he could muster. 

And then, they kiss. 

Sherlock keeps his screen turned toward him, so that John cannot see Mycroft. They snog ardently and passionately – Sherlock making it as loud and wet as he could. There is a delicious amount of tongue as they explore each other. There’s something naughty about kissing his brother with a clueless John as his witness. He tries to stifle his laughter when he hears:

“That’s enough, that’s... quite enough. I get the picture! Sherlock!” 

And then a hasty click as John hangs up when Sherlock gives up a breathy ‘Oh God’, presumably to save Rosie from examples of manly indecency. Or rather, the transmission of cooties with a round of saliva swapping.

“Next time he calls, I am blowing you.” Mycroft whispers after they break the kiss. 

“Did I ever tell you how much I love you?” Sherlock curls an arm around his brother’s waist, and gives him the fondest of looks. 

“Yes, but I could never hear enough, Lockie.” 

“I still remember when I saw you here for the first time. God. You had changed so much from when I had last seen you at Sherrinford after playing happy families with our parents. You looked… at peace. Playing with Sadie in the waters.”

“At peace I may have been, but I was lonely.” Mycroft says quietly. “I… I missed you. At least when I was still at Whitehall, I could look for you through the surveillance networks and see what you were up to, but here… I –”

“I know. I… I missed you too.”

Another smooch. 

“So… you intend to stay?”

“Yeah. I think it’s about time, isn’t it?” 

“I am glad. The worst days of the past year were when you had to leave. Where I had to be stoic and strong and pretend that I wasn’t being torn apart inside.” Mycroft reaches up to wipe at something away from his face, feeling happier than he’s ever felt before. 

Sherlock relinquishes his hold upon his brother’s waist, and instead clasps his hand in a supportive manner. Tenderly, he uses his other leather-gloved hand (after having tucked his phone away) to cup Mycroft’s chin, and reels him in for a slow sort of kiss. Their lips brushing softly against the other while their noses meet. 

The waves continue to ebb and flow while a border collie and a grey tabby look indulgently onward at this tableau of human happiness.

~Fin