Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Albert closed the door of his own home behind him, exhaling slowly as he let the weight of the day roll off his shoulders. The flat was dark, still, and yet – he, of all people, knew better than to trust that silence.
 
"If you’ve decided to let yourself in,” He said dryly into the darkness, “you could’ve at least prepared dinner."
 
A slow, dark chuckle answered him. He flicked on the light, and there he was - Mycroft, sprawled comfortably in Albert’s favourite armchair like a king on his throne, smirking in that infuriating way of his.
 
"What if I did, in fact, bring something?" The older man purred, his gaze sweeping appreciatively over Albert. "But before that… you know what the rules are."
 
Albert’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t oppose any real resistance. He reached for his tie first, loosening it before slipping it off entirely; then his fingers moved to the buttons of his waistcoat, undoing them slowly, one by one; then to his shirt. His belt followed, then his trousers. They all ended up carefully folded on the arm of the sofa.
 
The smirk never left Mycroft’s lips, becoming instead a touch sharper as the man took on the sight in front of him. "Good. Now come here, kitten.”
 
He gestured with two fingers, in a silent command, and Albert sighed, but obeyed. He stepped forward, settling himself onto Mycroft’s lap completely naked. The bastard had the nerve to look pleased, resting a hand on Albert’s thigh as though he belonged there.
 
“How was your day at work?” The older man asked sweetly.
 
Albert scoffed. “How was yours?” He shot back, sharp and snappish.
 
That earned him another low chuckle. “Oh, you already know how mine went. I received the latest cargoes from Colombia. Only the finest products for England,” Mycroft said lightly. And then he tilted his head, considering Albert like one might consider a misbehaving pet. “Now, tell me - why are you in such a terrible mood?”
 
The other man clenched his jaw, pressing his lips together in stubborn silence.
 
Mycroft exhaled a mock sigh and ran a finger along Albert’s back, making it arch in a way more than pleasurable to his hungry eyes. “A pity,” He purred. “I suppose I’ll just have to take back that nice bottle of wine dated 1782 - the one currently resting in your fridge.”
 
Albert’s eyes darted toward the kitchen before he could stop himself, but Mycroft didn’t let him move.
A firm arm around his waist kept him exactly where he was.
 
“Duty comes before pleasure,” He murmured, his breath brushing against Albert’s ear. “Now, first of all - where are the documents I asked you for?”
 
Albert let out a slow breath. “In the folder near the door.”
 
A hum of approval. “Good.” Mycroft’s left hand slipped between his lover’s thighs. “Second thing - why are you upset?”
 
A gasp left Albert’s mouth, before he could stop himself.
“My brother’s been receiving… gifts.”
 
Surprised by that answer, Mycroft blinked at him. “Are you… jealous?”
 
Albert stiffened. “I’m worried,” He snapped.
 
And then he explained everything; every detail of the packages and the hearts they contained. Mycroft listened lazily, palming him with a touch just firm enough to be distracting.
 
It was infuriating.
And effective.
 
Albert's breath hitched as Mycroft’s hand pressed down just right, his train of thought nearly derailing. Yet he gritted his teeth, determined to finish, forcing himself to focus on his own words, rather than the way Mycroft’s fingers were handling his cock like he had all the time in the world.
 
Then, suddenly, Mycroft’s hand went still. Albert felt it; the sudden stiffness of the other man’s body, the way his fingers flexed just once before stilling.
 
His pulse spiked.
 
“You know something,” He gasped, twisting slightly in Mycroft’s lap to look at him properly.
 
But the other man’s gaze was unreadable once again. “I don’t.”
 
A lie. Albert knew Mycroft too well to miss the narrowing of his eyes, the way his lips had straightened in a thin line just before he spoke.
 
“Mycroft -”
 
“Shh.” His grip on Albert’s thigh tightened, possessive. “I will handle it.”
 
Albert frowned, unconvinced. “But –“
 
“I said, I will handle it,” Mycroft repeated, slower this time, pressing his fingers in and drawing a shamefully long moan from his lover’s lips. Then, more softly, “You, however, are going to stop thinking about your little brother’s 'gifts', right now.”
 
Albert’s breath shuddered as the other man leaned in, his lips brushing just below his ear.
 
“I want you,” Mycroft murmured, “to think only of me.”
 
 
***
 
 
“What a surprise to see you here, Mycky!” Sherlock drawled, opening the door to let his brother in. “It’s been ages. Since at least… let’s see… that time when you oh-so-politely asked me to dissolve into a bathtub of acid that dealer of yours that was trying to double-cross you?”
 
Mycroft, utterly unamused, stepped inside and ignored the jab.
 
"My darling was in quite the foul mood, yesterday night."
 
His brother scoffed. "You’ll have to be more specific, dear brother. You collect pets like children collect marbles. It’s difficult for me to infer who you might be talking about."
 
As if. He knew perfectly well that Sherlock knew – especially since it had been a while since Mycroft had taken other men to his bed. In his line of work, this would’ve been considered a dangerous liability; but for once, he really couldn’t bring himself to make a wiser choice.
 
"Albert, you insufferable brat."
 
Sherlock hummed in false thoughtfulness. “Ah, yes. The corrupted pig who passes you classified information to help your ships avoid controls. Tell me, am I supposed to care about his mood swings now?”
 
"My corrupted pig, as you call him,” Mycroft went on, gritting his teeth, "happens to be very useful to my affairs. As is his middle brother - highly talented with numbers, a valuable asset. I dislike unnecessary distractions, and I especially dislike tasteless gifts sent to their youngest brother’s place of work."
 
Sherlock tensed, his expression shifting in an instant. "I’m staking a claim. Mind your own business, Mycky."
 
"Ah, yes. Because you, of all people, have such a healthy track record when it comes to romance."
 
"You wouldn’t understand. What do you know of courting someone?"
 
A delicate brow arched. "More than you, clearly."
 
"I doubt it. He is the one for me."
 
"That’s interesting. You said the same thing about the last two people you courted before. Victor Trevor and John Watson, right? The police haven’t found them yet. At this point, I doubt they ever will."
 
Sherlock reeled back, as if those words had struck him like a slap. Regret flickered briefly across Mycroft’s face, but before he could say anything else, the younger man’s expression had already hardened again.
 
"This is different. He is different. He isn’t afraid, and he isn’t shying away from me."
 
Mycroft’s gaze landed on the unfinished doll perched on Sherlock’s desk, and his frown deepened as he took in the features painstakingly crafted in the likeness of one Louis James Moriarty.
 
"This," He said, voice bitter with disapproval, "is what you consider courting? Why can’t you choose something more normal? Some wine, perhaps? Chocolates? Asking him out?"
 
Sherlock bristled. "He likes my gifts."
 
The other man’s lips pressed into a thin line. "He’s a detective. He likes the game you’re offering him, Sherly. Not necessarily the giver."
 
Sherlock’s eyes darkened, but Mycroft held up a hand before his brother could launch himself into another impassioned declaration. "I won’t pretend to understand your… unique approach to romance, but this obsession of yours is upsetting his older brother, and would probably upset the middle one too, if he knew what is going on. They are both useful to me, and I would very much like to keep them that way."
 
Mycroft smoothed down the front of his jacket, casting one last glance at the half-finished doll before turning away, towards the door.
 
"Find another way to court your beau. One that does not upset his family. And, preferably, one that does not end in him… disappearing."