Chapter Text
He noticed it because he observed everything about Mycroft when they were together. It had started out as admiration when Sherlock was little, morphed into rivalry and twisted into unconscious obsession by the time he was in his twenties. The confusing mess of emotions his brother inspired in him had kept him on the edge for years, until he’d realized what the root of it all was. Sherlock was in love with his brother, and wasn’t that just typical of them both.
At this realization, his vision had cleared somewhat and he renewed his observation with startling clarity. It was suddenly important, it was vital, that he understood his brother then. The way Mycroft averted his eyes in a flash of guilt, how his breath hitched when he was cornered and the subtle twitch of his fingers had a meaning with the new context and finally they were kissing, but Sherlock had not anticipated the explosion of their passions colliding. From then on he drank them in, fascinated by how he himself behaved and how he could affect his brother. He’d always been able to get a rise out of him, just as he got under Sherlock’s skin, but after that time things were…different. It was because of this he noticed, that and the slightly disturbing fact that he was enamoured with everything they were (he didn’t know whether he should roll his eyes in amused resignation or gag in disgust at his own sentimentality).
So when Mycroft started absentmindedly (a shock in itself; he just didn’t do absentminded did he?) pressing his lips to his forehead in gentle kisses when he passed him by to make tea - when he joined him in the bathroom to brush his teeth, when he stole back his phone – Sherlock knew this was significant. The forehead kisses had stopped when he was seventeen, when Mycroft undoubtedly first noticed this change between them that took way too long to be resolved. Ever since then their physical relationship had consisted of being in the same room together, or Mycroft holding his hand through withdrawal and brushing his hair out of his eyes when he was too high or dazed to react properly. Up until a few months ago, that is. They were suddenly young brothers again and their affection was simple and easy. John said the three years of being dead must have matured them both, but it went beyond that, of course. Behind closed doors, however, things were a bit more complicated.
Sherlock had always known he was more tactile than his brother, and the only exception Mycroft did was for his family. While Sherlock had learned the hard way that sometimes when you reach out, you get burned, and had thus endeavoured to become as untouchable as Mycroft, he’d never gotten rid of the undeniable pleasure he eventually felt at affectionate touches. It had a tendency of making things messy, which he was rediscovering at an alarming rate recently. He was treading on a thin line between his own selfish desires and the fear that his greed would finally push away the one person who’d always been there. They had rarely needed to speak of things like boundaries, they could read each other so well and often anticipated the other, and it was clear that outside of Mycroft’s safe zones (his home, his cars, his office, and his club) they were only brothers, not lovers. It was driving Sherlock mad, because they just needed to be careful (people would see but they wouldn’t observe), it had so much potential, and it was thrilling in a way. Everything was at stake, but they wouldn’t lose. Alone they were brilliant and together they were extraordinary; the world wouldn’t stand a chance.
If only Mycroft would recognize this, but no, there was more to it than that. He just wasn’t sure what, and that scared him because if he couldn’t see it then how was he supposed to know what to do? He had to figure this out, before he made a mistake that could ruin them (he knew he was greedy, but he had never been good with self-restraint and Mycroft knows this but still he allows him to stand a fraction too close and it’s so frustrating). He should have anticipated it would drive him to do something stupid; it always did, with Mycroft. But emotions clouded one’s judgment, and he’d never been very rational when it comes to his brother in the first place. Which was probably why he’d said “Okay”, draped over Mycroft with his nose pressed against his neck (he smells safe and warm and it’s intoxicating in moments like these; limp and languid from sex and completely satisfied in an endorphin high).
He didn’t take note of the silence that followed his agreement, not until Mycroft shifted underneath him to sit up against the headboard and stare. Sherlock huffed in annoyance, settling down with his head on Mycroft’s chest and arms tights around his stomach.
“Why did you move, I was comfortable,” he grumbled, nipping at the skin available and enjoying the flinch and hitch of breath in startled pleasure/pain that always followed. Mycroft buried his hand in his curls and tugged in retribution, which only served to make Sherlock latch on to the same piece of skin and work to make a vivid, red mark.
“Sherlock,” he hissed in warning, making Sherlock grin as he let go to soothe the skin with his tongue.
“Humph.” He resettled against him, breathing in and enjoying the gentler rhythmic tugging at his hair when Mycroft spoke again. “Why did you agree?” And he wasn’t sure, but he had agreed, and he wasn’t so sure he wouldn’t go through with it after all. That was disconcerting in itself, and so it wasn’t that strange when Mycroft’s frown matched his own.
“I’ve been making varied versions of that offer since you were eighteen, and this is the first time you’ve ever expressed anything other than vehement rejection of the idea,” he pointed out, brow raised in enquiry. “I am, naturally, curious what has changed your mind, my dear. Tell me.”
Sherlock bit his lip in frustration. “I am not sure.” It was hard to admit, he had a knee-jerk reaction to admitting ignorance in the face of his brother, but it was more unsettling to actually not know (and the blow was significantly softened by the fact that he had his arms and legs wrapped around the same very naked, very distracting brother).
They were silent for a few moments before Mycroft shifted in his grip and hummed in thought. “What has changed? What about moving or renovating your current haunt and get a permanent side-job has become tolerable?” he wondered in amusement, making Sherlock poke him hard in the ribs in annoyance.
“Maybe because I did accidentally wreck the kitchen ceiling and Mrs. Hudson hasn’t found out yet, and because this time it’s a side-job rather than an attempt to place me permanently behind a desk,” Sherlock scowled in reply, rolling off of him to glare at the ceiling. He ignored Mycroft’s amused snort, and the sensation of him moving down the bed beside him. Propping his head up on his hand, Mycroft leaned on his elbow and looked down at him with a small smile.
“I don’t think that’s it,” he said, reaching down to trace his fingers along the edge of the sheet that had slipped down Sherlock’s hips. “Did you know, I never actually expected you to accept my offers?”
Turning to face him, Sherlock frowned. “Then why did you keep at it? That’s redundant and you know it.”
Mycroft hummed, tracing up and down Sherlock’s stomach before resting his hand on his hip. “I used it to gauge your mindset,” he paused to smirk, pinching Sherlock lightly, “The more creatively you told me to sod off, the more determined you were to sort yourself out on your own. Of course, at times I had to interfere nonetheless, regardless of your vivid imagination on where I could stuff it.”
Catching his brother’s wandering hand, Sherlock wondered what it said about his mindset when he’d agreed, but couldn’t bring himself to voice it. Tugging him closer, Sherlock kissed the thoughtful twist of his brother’s mouth, licking and nibbling at his lips until they parted with a pleased sigh. Mycroft’s tongue was gentle against his, his teeth teasing as Mycroft rolled them over to pin him down. Letting a pleased growl escape, Sherlock arched into him and spread his legs to make place for the warm body above him. Mycroft rarely took on an aggressive role, though he could be frustratingly playful and maddeningly docile, and the sharp nips along his jaw down his throat signalled he was in the mood of the former. But both never failed to drive Sherlock wild, feeding his possessive passions and making him determined to have his brother want him more, until there was nothing else, and it was scary how strongly it moved him. Mycroft had never hesitated to use it to his advantage, as was evident in how he was currently caressing him with his whole body, writhing on top of him and letting his mouth be possessed with all the passion he was so good at receiving but still unable to match in its intensity.
“I will never leave you unless you want me to,” he murmured against Sherlock’s cheek when he let him up for air. “And even then, I won’t be far off. I’m much too selfish to ever let go of you completely. You know this.”
Thrown, Sherlock tightened his grip on his brother’s hips and breathed hard. “What are you—“, he began, breathless, but Mycroft cut him off by nipping at the tip of his nose, making him huff in annoyance.
“You said yes because you thought of moving, not to a new flat, but to here. You thought taking a side-job would please me, even if you would no doubt walk out on it after perhaps a month,” Mycroft said, placing small kisses along Sherlock’s jaw, “The reason you were contemplating going against your desire for the security of being independent by having a place of your own, and working with what engages you in all the ways you need, would perhaps in this instance be insecurity. Why, Sherlock? What could possibly---“
“—I’m not insecure,” he snapped, feeling his cheeks heat and he pushed at his brother’s shoulders until he relented and rolled them over. Straddling his hips, Sherlock glared down at Mycroft’s exasperated but indulging expression.
“Sherlock—“
“—No! It’s…” he trailed off, flustered and not liking it. He wanted to say it was nothing, but Mycroft would never let a lie like that slide, not here. And he already knew, the bastard. He could see it in the thin line of his lips and the dark look in his eyes. “Don’t make me say it, Mycroft. Just don’t.”
Familiar hands stroked up his thighs, the motion gentle and calming if not for the light drag of nails which sent a shiver down his spine. “All right,” Mycroft said quietly, applying more pressure as he scratched almost invisible lines along Sherlock’s skin. “Come here, then.” And Sherlock let himself be pulled down, sealing their lips together eagerly as he felt his desire flare up in a blaze. Mycroft was soft and pliant underneath him, and the pleased noises he made as Sherlock kissed and caressed had the quality of surprised fascination they always carried (he was always so intrigued by what Sherlock could do to him, what they made each other feel, and it made Sherlock lose himself all the more in their passions).
“Mmm, yes,” Mycroft sighed in response to Sherlock’s lips working their way down his neck and across his chest, leaving marks as he went. Sherlock could almost hear him calculating how to best hide the most daring ones (one placed just at the edge of where his crisp and clean shirt-collar would be) and bit just a little bit harder, enjoying how his brother arched into his attentions. It was delicious, he noted, licking a hipbone cushioned just so by warm flesh before swallowing his brother’s semi-hard prick down in one smooth motion.
“Sherlock!” he gasped, hands burying themselves in his hair to caress rather than tug, and Sherlock moaned in approval, staring intently at the look on this brother’s face. Moving his tongue around as he sucked, Sherlock didn’t relent until his prick was throbbing hard in his mouth and the taste and smell of pre-come teased his senses. He let it slip out with a wet plop, groaning at the memory of a reversed situation (fucking his brother’s mouth were one of his favourite things, fucking it until his lips were swollen and his throat was raw).
“Up,” Mycroft panted, licking his lips invitingly and wriggling down a bit and Sherlock’s breath caught. “Get up here, and I’ll suck you.”
“Can’t,” he groaned and nibbled at Mycroft’s inner thigh, nuzzling him as if in an apology (and oh he was sorry indeed, but if he straddled his chest and let him suck him now he wouldn’t be able to stop). “I want to fuck you.” Breathed against Mycroft’s thigh it was just barely audible, but his brother’s moan of approval and how he spread his legs in obvious agreement made it clear Sherlock wouldn’t have to repeat himself.
Licking his way to the base of Mycroft’s cock, he took a hold of it and stroked slowly, dipping down to mouth at his balls and inhale the enticing smell of his brother’s musk and sex. By now Mycroft was panting slightly, and as he titled his hips for access and Sherlock breathed against his entrance, so close, he moaned his name like a curse.
Slipping a finger down to trace around the ring of muscles, Sherlock rested his cheek against Mycroft’s thigh (not far from the mark he’d left) and breathed in shakily. “You’re still so open for me, My. I fucked you well, didn’t I? God, you’re a mess down here.” He wanted to mess him up even more, fill him up with more lube and semen and have his skin covered with a fine sheen of sweat, his hair sticking up in silly places and cheek red and raw from the fiction of being repeatedly rubbed against the sheets as he fucked him hard. Pressing two fingers inside of him easily, Sherlock listened to his moans and breaths and hummed in pleasure, slipping a third inside after a few quick, efficient thrusts.
“You can take me, can’t you?” he whispered, looking up his brother’s slightly arched body and meeting his eyes, pupils blown wide in arousal. Mycroft thrust against him in response, smirking and looking delectably wanton, an entirely seductive contradiction of the pristine, three-piece suit governmental official he was outside. Sitting up, Sherlock slipped his fingers out of him and pushed at his legs. “I want you on your knees, My,” he breathed, settling back on his legs as he watched his brother reposition himself with smooth but eager movements. It was an arousing sight, to say the least. Reaching out, Sherlock caressed the upturned arse, grabbing the flesh and massaging in circles to watch the reddened entrance flash before him. At Mycroft’s sigh, Sherlock grinned, moving closer to grind his flushed prick against his cleft and press a hand on the curved back before him. Mycroft went down easily, arms giving out under him and cheek pressed against the pillow.
“Lube,” Sherlock murmured, hips undulating between Mycroft’s cheeks as his brother stretched out to comply, fishing the almost empty tube out from somewhere under the pillows to hand it over. Flipping it open, Sherlock squeezed out a generous amount of the cream before he capped it and disposed it somewhere to his right.
“You should see yourself,” he said, stroking his cock and spreading the lube, catching some on his other hand’s fingers to circle Mycroft’s hole. He chuckled breathlessly in reply, wriggling at the attention. “I’m not as enamoured in myself as you.” Sherlock lined himself up and shuddered, trying not to think of how true his brother’s words were even as he pressed inside tight heat.
“Still,” he groaned, bottoming out and pausing to enjoy the feel of his brother around him, biting his lip to prevent himself from moving before he was ready to deal with the sensations of fucking him. “It’s quite a view, my prick buried in your arse.” This got him the desired response; Mycroft pushing himself further into his hips, breathing his name and an eager agreement.
Pulling out, Sherlock’s breath hitched in pleasure and he only paused for a moment to admire the view before snapping his hips and burying himself again. Setting a hard, even rhythm, he let the noise of skin slapping against skin and the breath being forced out of Mycroft’s lungs wash over him, exciting him further. His grip of his brother’s hips helped adding to the force, and he could see what bruises would form within the hour. It had him swirling his hips, playing with the angle until he was thrusting inside of him just so, and Mycroft was reduced to clawing at the sheets and making aborted moans as his breath left him.
“You feel so good, My,” Sherlock groaned, kneading the skin in his hands and digging his nails in, panting and losing himself in the sensations.
“Yes, yes, harder. Oh--!” came from beneath him, muffled by the pillow Mycroft was being pushed into relentlessly, cut off by Sherlock draping himself along his back and reaching for his straining prick, smearing pre-come down the length.
“Making you come a second time won’t be hard, will it, brother?” Sherlock panted in his ear, nipping his earlobe before kissing his cheek and flicking his tongue out to catch a sweat drop trailing down from his temple. “It’s amazing what I can do to you, isn’t it?”
“Sherlock, oh god, yes,” Mycroft moaned, wriggling underneath him and reaching around to take a hold of his neck to pull him closer until his nose was buried in his neck, “you’re amazing, of course you are. Amazing.”
His rhythm faltered in response, his breath hitching as he latched onto the place shoulder and neck met, biting and sucking the umpteenth mark onto his brother’s skin (he’ll count them when they’re finished and pick his favourites, and he’ll chose which to renew and keep, like the one on his hipbone and the one at his left wrist covered by cuff and watch).
“My,” he whimpered, having lost his rhythm but not caring at this point, simply losing himself entirely in his brother’s pliant, heated body and snapping his hips fast and hard. Using what little leverage he had, Mycroft met him eagerly, biting into the pillow underneath him to muffle his groans. There was an I love you somewhere between them but it was stating the obvious at this point, but the kisses became more eager and the whispers softer as they pulled each other closer to the edge for a spectacular fall.
“Come for me,” Sherlock gasped, feeling the familiar tingling along his spine signalling he didn’t have long, “Don’t—no pillow—want to hear.”
Nodding, Mycroft panted in little gasps and moans, twisting the sheets in his hands and pushing back against him. “Almost there, darling, almost,” he groaned and Sherlock squeezed his cock in encouragement, causing him to shudder beneath him. “Oh, yes!” A few more strokes and he was shaking and arching in his hold, hissing his name between clenched teeth and soaking his hand with hot come. He was clenching and trembling around him, stimulating Sherlock’s prick with maddening efficiency. Six more thrusts and he was coming as well, the soft body under him open and warm.
“Oh, oh Mycroft,” he moaned, burying himself to the hilt as he twitched and trembled, filling Mycroft up and pulling pleased noises from him as he nuzzled against his neck and breathed in sweat and shampoo and cologne. “You feel so good,” he whispered, lowering himself on him for a moment, staying inside as he softened and caught his breath.
“Mm, stay,” Mycroft sighed, sounding as well fucked as he felt, and Sherlock managed a weak chuckle before giving up on anything but simply breathing and enjoying the afterglow of weak limbs and sated bodies.
“We’re not done, you know,” he said after a while, slightly breathless still because of the added weight of Sherlock. “I’ll deal with you when I can walk and talk properly.”
Snorting, Sherlock bit his shoulder blade. He was under no illusions of his brother’s persistence.
“You’ll make it look like I’ve got some kind of skin disease, “ Mycroft commented idly, obviously amused but the small smile on his face softened the supposed mockery. Sherlock hummed, talking into his skin. “That reminds me, I’ll have to count them when you’ve recovered, old man.”
“Old man? You little brat,” he snorted, elbowing him in the ribs until he rolled off, slipping out on his way and making them both groan. “I would get you for that, but sleeping seems like such a more appealing option.”
“You can’t fall asleep yet,” Sherlock grumbled, moving to manhandle his brother onto his back, tracing a line of love bites along his collarbone. “One, two, three...”
“That’s four, actually; you did this one twice.” Mycroft’s hand was soft around his, eyes smiling at him. “If you’re going to do it, do it properly. You wouldn’t want to miss something, if you’re going to pick a favourite.”
“You’re insufferable,” Sherlock muttered, but continued, trailing finger over sensitive skin and replaying the memories of travelling it with lips and teeth and tongue.
“Pot, kettle.”
“Oh shut up.”
In the end, he decided on the hipbone, shoulder, the double-one on the collarbone, the inner thigh, the wrist and underneath the navel. Mycroft vetoed the one at the base of his neck he’d have to cover up with make-up, but otherwise approved, if only to have the poking and probing stop so he could sleep. Sherlock might have dragged it out a bit longer than necessary, but he didn’t doubt his brother would get back at him soon enough. He’d deal with it in the morning.