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Chapter Text

Slowly, Mycroft walked into the dim room, lightened up only by the large aquariums, creatures of the sea – jellyfish, sharks, to name a few – moving rapidly through the clear water. On his heels were DI Greg Lestrade and three uniformed police officers, who had been alarmed by John Watson as well.

He had never been here before – busy men like him didn't have time to visit tourist attractions. But this place had its charms. Crossing those glass tunnels, surrounded by water, had felt like entering another world. It was a peaceful place, and he had fleetingly decided to come back someday – given he would be as alone as Vivian Norbury had been before Sherlock and Mrs Watson had sought her out. The thought of sharing this place (or any place, for that matter) with ill-behaved children and people yelling into their phones made him shudder.

“Well, Mrs Norbury. I must admit this is unexpected.” He had not seen it coming, not even after concluding that Sherlock had been wrong about Elizabeth – and he would probably have to endure more unwelcome advances from her to make up for this... He had never had any suspicions towards this woman – Vivian Norbury. He had never even really noticed her. She had been like furniture. Useful but completely unimportant.

Perhaps Sherlock had been right after all – he was slipping.

But so was his little brother now – Mycroft had taken in immediately that Sherlock had showered the traitor with a litany of rather scathing deductions, tearing her to shreds, enjoying himself way too much. Shouldn’t baby brother know that one just didn’t provoke somebody who had a bloody gun in their hand?

Obviously, he didn’t. “Vivian Norbury, who outsmarted them all. All except Sherlock Holmes.” His smooth, deep voice was heavy with contempt and smugness, the mentioning of his own name sounding like a caress… or like masturbation, if one wanted to be extra malicious...

Oh Sherlock… Always cleverer than everybody else. Never knowing when to shut your mouth…

Mycroft watched him holding out his left hand. John Watson’s wife, the ex-assassin gone bourgeois who had ultimately brought Sherlock into this situation, and the police officers who were standing behind her moved forwards along with the detective, trying to close in on the woman with the weapon. Which was decidedly not a good idea. Idiots, the whole bunch of them.

“There’s no way out,” Sherlock said, sounding almost pitiful. And more than a bit condescending...

A slight smile was pulling at the culprit’s lips. “So it would seem. You’ve seen right through me, Mr Holmes.”

In fact, Sherlock didn’t see. She had not given up. She had just made a decision, and it wouldn’t bode well for baby brother. Mycroft moved his umbrella to his left hand, grabbing the handle with the right one in one smooth movement. His mind was highly alert and the deductions were coming in at a pace he had not experienced for a long time. He had gotten complacent. Too many hours spent behind his desk, scheming, and being annoyed by awful people. No legwork, no imminent pressure. But now, all his senses were on fire.

Sherlock was still not getting it. He was too stunned by his own cleverness, riding on his post-case-solving high. “It’s what I do.”

Oh, how full of himself he was. Wasn’t that one of his many charms, though? Sherlock, so flawed and yet so irresistible, for friends and foes – intelligent beyond reason but sometimes too smart for his own good. So gifted, so otherworldly beautiful – a godlike creature too precious to live amongst the unworthy, and too aware of it, even after all of John Watson’s efforts to turn him into your everyday man who cared about everything and everyone. John had influenced him though; little brother did care for his friends – mostly John himself, his wife, and their child – going as far as making a sentimental vow to protect this precious little family…

Vivian tilted her head almost flirtingly. “Maybe I can still surprise you.” And suddenly her gun was aiming at the arrogant detective, who immediately raised both arms, looking a lot less infatuated with himself now.

“Come on. Be sensible,” Mycroft heard Lestrade say behind him, and he rolled his eyes.

Because of course she wouldn’t be. She had nothing to lose, and Sherlock had humiliated her too much. Had, without a doubt, stressed how unimportant her role in the government was so she had to betray the country to enjoy knowing how good she really was. Probably he had also deduced that she was single and living with cats…

So while she was saying, dismissively, “No, I don’t think so,” Mycroft pulled the gun out of the umbrella, aimed at her chest, and fired – one second before she would have shot little brother.

“Surprise!” he couldn’t help but mumble, and the slightest of grins was pulling at his lips for just a brief moment.

Not more than thirty seconds had passed since he had entered the room, he realised when he suavely handed the gun to Lestrade, who looked like he had just suffered a stroke and took the weapon, gaping at it as if Mycroft had put a toad onto his hand. “I trust you will give it back to me after the usual procedures,” Mycroft calmly said to him. He could of course have refused to do that, given his position, but he didn’t see any reason to cause any hassle with the man who had proven himself so useful with keeping little brother on the sober side. “I shall deliver my testimony in the morning. Good evening.”

He turned to leave while all hell broke loose behind him; everybody was shouting and the policemen were certainly all rushing towards the wayward secretary to check if she was really dead. Which she most definitely was. That Mycroft hated legwork didn’t mean he wasn’t good at it…

There would have to be lots of evaluation on his part as to how she had been able to get away with betraying the kingdom for so long – under his own very nose, no less. His and Elizabeth’s. This fact was not sitting well with him. Procedures would have to be amended, protocols questioned, privileges revoked. All very annoying but inevitable.

He had not taken more than two steps towards the exit when he heard his brother’s voice behind him – it was hardly recognisable as it was unusually… small. Shaky. “Mycroft.”

Mycroft turned, raising his eyebrows. “Yes, Sherlock?” He had never seen Sherlock look at him like that. As if he was… the Eighth World Wonder? Mary Watson, the woman who had dared to shoot his brother to hide her nasty secrets but had of course been forgiven for it by the not-so-sociopathic detective, was standing next to him, her expression equally awestruck. Actually, they looked quite funny, the pair of them – like two decidedly untalented comedians in a bad film.

“You… You just saved my life.” Sherlock said these words as if he couldn’t believe they were coming out of his mouth.

It stung, but as usual when he was dealing with his little brother, Mycroft pushed the feeling aside, and his shields were in place. “I think so, yes. Next time, perhaps don’t mock criminals with the number of cats they possess if you know they are armed. Just a thought.”

Sherlock opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but then he closed it again, his eyes, looking pale-blue in this weird light, still boring into Mycroft's. Mycroft could detect shame in them as the realisation was dawning on him that he had royally messed up that situation.

Mycroft gave him a mocking little wave and then turned to leave – and the next moment, Doctor Watson was all but crashing into him, ruining his grand exit.

The short, blond man looked around him, even laying a hand on his arm, which was highly unwelcome. “What happened? Is she dead? Who even is that? Is anyone hurt? Sherlock, Mary?”

Mycroft sighed. The man reminded him of an over-excited terrier. “I’m sure my brother and your wife will fill you in. Tata.” And with this, he left, his hand wrapped around his so very useful umbrella sans its handle, and only when he was back in the long glass tunnel, silence engulfing him, he allowed himself to stand for just a second, closing his eyes, taking a deep breath, and then he all but stormed forward, ignoring the fact that his legs felt wobbly – as only now he had fully grasped how very close he had been to losing his little brother. He had barely spent a minute in there – and if he had come just sixty seconds later, Sherlock would have most certainly been dead now.

And ultimately, and cruelly ironically, the only child Mummy and Father would still have was the one they had thought had died thirty years ago, sitting in a secret prison without their knowledge.

Because Mycroft would have not been able to endure living in a world without Sherlock in it for a single day, especially if his own ignorance had led to this unbearable loss.

*****

“I’m fine, fine,” Sherlock brought out, barely registering that he was petted by John, Mary and Lestrade like a poor old dog that had been saved from a flood.

He lowered his gaze and stared at the woman who had been, only seconds ago, about to shoot a bullet into his heart. Now she was the one who had been shot. Her empty eyes staring at the ceiling, a puddle of blood spreading beneath her.

God… He had been such a complete, utter, fucked-up moron.

Some of the deductions he had hurled at her wavered through his mind.

“Same old drudge, day in, day out, never getting out there where all the excitement was. Just back to your little flat on Wigmore Street.”

“Wedding ring’s at least thirty years old and you’ve moved it to another finger. That means you’re sentimentally attached to it but you’re not still married. I favour widowed, given the number of cats you share your life with.”

“So yes. I say jealousy was your motive after all – to prove how good you are, to make up for the inadequacies of your little life.”

It wasn’t as if his deductions had been wrong – he knew they had all been accurate. But why had he said that, and in that tone, no less… to a woman who had a bloody gun in her hand? Mary had told him to stop but he had paid it no heed. What he had said might have been true, but it had also been cruel and provocative and completely unnecessary. For a moment, he saw himself, talking to her in the most condescending tone possible, and it made him cringe.

He turned to Mary, noticing that John and Greg were talking to each other about two metres away from them; Greg was showing him the weapon that had been concealed as the handle of Mycroft's inevitable umbrella. “If you ever think I’m becoming a bit... full of myself, cocky or... over-confident…”

“That’s your natural state, Sherlock,” she interrupted him dryly.

He grimaced but continued, seriously. “...would you just say the word ‘Norbury’ to me, would you?”

“No problem.” Mary’s large eyes were looking at him poignantly. “She would have shot you, for real.”

“I know,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“And then I would’ve had to save you.” Mary nodded at his questioning stare. “I’d have jumped in front of you to take the bullet.”

He furrowed his brow. “Why the hell would you do that? You have a husband and a baby, and it was my own fault.” And of course she would have never been fast enough to catch the bullet. It was as ridiculous as it was touching.

Mary shrugged. “I owe you.” She huffed out an unamused laugh. “I shot you, remember? Never even said sorry properly. So… I’m sorry.”

Sherlock grimaced as he had not been prepared for this, and then he glanced at John, who had not heard what Mary had said. “Don't tell him…” John would not like to know that Mary would have tried to give up her life for Sherlock, leaving him and Rosie behind. Sherlock didn’t know an awful lot about marriages, but he was quite sure no spouse would want to hear something like that, even if it would have never worked.

“Never.” Mary gave him a sad smile. “I think… he cheated on me.”

“What?” Sherlock wondered for a moment if he was just dreaming. It all seemed so surreal. Having almost been shot – again – at this weird, otherworldly place. His brother, the pencil pusher – turning into a crack shot, increasing the number of people in his life about whom this could be said to three. And John – cheating on the new mother of his child? John? Mr Decency and Care? “Are you sure?”

“A woman doesn’t miss the signs.” Mary shot a cautious glance at John, but he was still deep in his conversation with the DI. “Perhaps it was just someone he texted with. I know he did that. I caught him more than once, always giving him time to put the phone away before I made my presence known. I do think he has ended it.”

“Why didn’t you talk to him about it?”

Mary shook her head. “Because I cannot lose him. Oh, husband. You missed all the fun.”

“Yeah.” John stepped closer to them while Greg turned to talk to his minions, brushing a kiss to Mary’s cheek. “Dammit, Sherlock, I always made fun of him carrying his brolly even in thirty degrees heat with no cloud in the sky. Now we know why. Your brother – the avenger, huh? You reckon he has more weapons hidden in that thing? A sword maybe? A flamethrower? A tank?”

“Who knows,” Sherlock said, not reacting to the joke. He had not had any time to really think about the most astonishing thing his brother had ever done, at least in his presence. For him. He needed a moment to process it. More than a moment…

Now was not the time for it. Lestrade approached him again, and Sherlock prepared to be summoned to the Met to have a thorough talk about today’s events. Better to get it over with tonight.

And then he would go back to Baker Street and spend the rest of the night dealing with the fact that his big brother had nonchalantly killed someone to save Sherlock's life – and how that had made Sherlock feel.

When he followed the officers outside, John and Mary directly behind him, he realised that his legs were shaking, and all he saw in his mind’s eye was that tiny, goddamned sexy smile on Mycroft's lips after uttering this quiet, mocking ‘Surprise!’

Well… Not only Vivian Norbury had been surprised quite a bit tonight after all…

Chapter Text

“Sherlock. I thought you had given your testimony last night?” Lestrade had said so – and yet Sherlock had been lurking in the corridor right in front of the DI’s office.

Had little brother just… blushed? And wasn’t he stepping from one foot to the other?

“Yeah, well.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “I just had to bring some folders I took home. Cold cases.”

Mycroft nodded. “I see.” He had spent an hour in that shabby office, handing his meticulously written testimony over to the DI, who had complimented him for having such a perfect memory that he could recall everything Sherlock and Norbury had said. Not that it really mattered. The only important fact was that Norbury had been about to shoot Sherlock, without a doubt, and Mycroft had shot her to save his brother’s life. There was not a shade of doubt about it. There would be no charges. Actually, nothing of this was even Scotland Yard’s business. Mycroft could have simply informed the grey-haired inspector that it was a Secret Service matter and that would have been it.

But instead, he had decided to let Lestrade in on the remarkable story of a government secretary that had chosen to become a traitor to Queen and country out of jealousy, boredom, and frustration – and, as always, money. He knew Gregory Lestrade would keep shtum about the details, and most certainly, John Watson or Sherlock himself would have told him anyway. It had simply been nice to be away from the office for a while, given all the shouting he had already listened to by Lady Smallwood in the early morning…

Anyway… Why was Sherlock really here – because those crumpled folders were certainly not the true reason? Because he thought Mycroft could be in trouble? Was he… worried?

When had his brother last been so close to him that Mycroft could actually smell him? Hair products, body wash, a fine one, aftershave. Oh, and he’d had tea while he had been… doing what, seriously waiting for him to leave Lestrade’s office?

Sherlock took a tiny step closer to him as a female officer walked past them, throwing them a curious side glance. “I… Do you have time for a coffee?”

Mycroft caught himself staring at Sherlock, trying to make sense of this. Of this question, of the almost shy tone in which it had been uttered. And now Sherlock was definitely blushing. In all probability, John had sent him here to play nice. That had to be the reason. John Watson, who had always urged Sherlock to behave better. Be kinder… Not actually towards him, though… And still Sherlock had quite obviously meant to catch him here, and was he seriously to believe it had been his own idea?

Feeling quite out of his depth, Mycroft cramped his hand around his umbrella – which had its handle back already. “Unfortunately, I’m already running late for a meeting.” The PM, God… The stupidest moron that had ever been elected.

“Oh, sure.” Sherlock nodded. “I guess we’ll speak… another time.”

“I will head over to Baker Street this afternoon,” Mycroft heard himself say. Where had this come from? He didn't have time for a brotherly visit. But, confusing him even more, he noticed that Sherlock's eyes had brightened up at this statement.

“That would be… good. I’ll make sure I’m at home.”

Well, if no interesting case came along, Mycroft thought without so much as a hint of bitterness. Dealing with Sherlock, he had long left bitterness, frustration, and hope behind. Was he now giving the latter an opportunity to make an appearance again? And how stupid would that be?

He nodded. “Laters.” He turned to leave, knowing he should have been in Whitehall fifteen minutes ago. He had heard his phone vibrate a couple of times but had chosen to ignore it.

“Yes. And… Mycroft.”

Mycroft stopped to face Sherlock once more. “Yes, little brother?” Damn… This had sounded like an endearment… He would have to do better than that or Sherlock's unexpected attempt – at what exactly, working on a better brotherly relationship? – would be short-lived. But whom did he want to fool – it was doomed to be short-lived anyway...

“Thank you.” Sherlock rolled his eyes when Mycroft just stared at him, dumbfounded. This was more like the little brother he knew… “For saving my bloody life, Mycroft.”

“Oh, that.” When had Sherlock ever thanked him for anything? Never? Certainly John Watson’s order again. Or wasn’t it? “Can’t let some treacherous moron shoot you,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Not on my watch.” Only after saying this he remembered that Sherlock had said the same about Mary Watson possibly being killed…

And the next moment, he almost fell backwards when Sherlock closed the distance between them, hugged him tight for three [sweet] seconds, and then let him go and all but stormed out, his coat flapping around him, without another word or look back at him, his head ducked as if he was thoroughly embarrassed – which he most certainly was.

Mycroft stood there in the middle of the corridor, only vaguely registering the cops that walked by, for five full minutes, stunned out of his mind, until Greg Lestrade left his office, almost bumped into him and asked him, irritated, if he could do anything for him.

When he had excused himself, trying to maintain what was left of his dignity, and was finally sitting on the backseat of his government limousine, his phone rang – the PM’s PA, of course. He rejected the call while they were driving off, and he deleted the notifications about the other six missed calls from the man. He didn't give a bloody damn about it.

He could still feel Sherlock’s body pressed flush against his, and it made him tingle from head to toe.

*****

“Hello, brother. May I have your coat? And your umbrella? Hehe, John wondered what other weapons you are carrying around in it. There are more, right?” Sherlock shut his mouth with an audible noise, wondering if he could possibly sound more like an imbecile and make a greater fool out of himself if he tried.

Mycroft, looking as if he had just showered and shaved and put on a fresh suit – instead of spending seven, no, eight hours in his office already, plus the trip to the Yard – gave him the confused gaze Sherlock so richly deserved before he leaned his fancy umbrella against the wall next to the door and slipped out of his coat to hand it over to Sherlock. “I’m afraid this is classified information, little brother,” he said, and Sherlock tilted his head at how weirdly fond his voice had just sounded, and had that been a twinkle?

Mycroft's eye had probably just twitched; his face was unmoved as always. But somehow, Sherlock could detect anxiety, perhaps because he was plagued by it to an extent he had not thought possible.

In fact, he had been pacing around the flat for almost as long as he had been here after leaving the cab that had brought him home from the Yard. Storming out to do some grocery shopping in between, almost literally running into Mrs Hudson, who had been on her way out to visit a friend.

What was happening to him? Why had he hugged his very un-huggable brother? Had been looking forward to his visit and dreading it in equal measures? He had not been able to conjure up one clear thought since he had gotten home last night. He had tried, oh yes. But thinking about those moments after the kill-shot had made his brain spin in a way no drug had managed to do, ever, and so he had taken to play the violin until Mrs Hudson, who had no idea what had happened at the London Aquarium, had called him to tell him he should finally give it a rest or he would have to spend the night on the streets… After that, he had treated himself to a strong drink and had, thankfully, fallen asleep as soon as he had dropped onto his bed.

And when he had woken up at half past eight, he had, without so much as thinking about it, taken care of his morning hygiene, dressed, and raced back to the Met. Where he had met his brother. Whom he had hugged…

Not sure if his legs would even work, he led the way to the living room, where he had laid the table. Mismatching mugs, not entirely intact plates, cutlery that was in desperate need of some thorough polishing, no table cloth as he had accidentally burned the only one he had still possessed – it looked pathetic.

“I bought cake,” he hurried to say when he saw his brother glance at his well-meant but hopeless efforts, and Mycroft threw him a glare that made him blush. Did Mycroft really think he would serve something so heavy on calories and then mock him for eating it? And why the hell had he ever teased his brother with needing a diet? The times in which Mycroft had been a bit chubby were long over. Nowadays, he was slim and he obviously used his treadmill regularly, before or after coming home from the, well, treadmill…

Thankfully, Mycroft apparently came to the conclusion that Sherlock had nothing nasty in mind by offering him chocolate cream cake. He sat down on the sofa – Sherlock had laid out the plates next to each other. Why had he done that? Wouldn’t have been better if they had been sitting opposite of one another? Wasn’t this too close?

And was he losing his mind?

For a long moment, neither of them said a word. Then Sherlock jumped up again to be mother, and Mycroft thanked him politely.

“So…,” Sherlock said, trying to sound normal(ish).”Did she give you a hard time, Lady Smallwood?”

“What – for shooting her secretary?” Mycroft smirked, and it made his usually stern face brighten up, if only for a second. “She was not that amused, no, even though if I had not done that, Norbury would have gone to prison for twenty years anyway. While she was on it, she nagged about my false accusations towards herself again.”

Sherlock looked down on his thighs. “Yeah. Also my fault.”

“I don't blame you, little brother,” Mycroft said, and Sherlock's head snapped up at how [tender] kind he sounded. “I wouldn’t have considered Norbury to be the actual culprit in a million years.”

“Mary made me come to this conclusion,” Sherlock told him, staring at Mycroft's casually crossed legs. How long they were. They just didn’t seem to end. Horrified at this thought, he stuffed his mouth with cake, mostly to distract himself, the delicious taste exploding on his tongue.

“She did? How so?” Mycroft asked before he elegantly sipped at his tea.

Sherlock chewed hastily and swallowed the dessert, grabbing for his tissue to remove the crumbs from his lips. “It was something she had said before. That receptionists know everything.”

Mycroft pondered about that for a moment before he nodded. “That is very true. Smart woman.”

“She really is.”

“And you made sure she’s safe – the woman who nearly killed you. Took out Magnussen, dealt with her ex-colleague… Taking your vow seriously.”

Sherlock licked his still chocolatey lips, ignoring the jibe at Mary and Mycroft's heavy irony regarding his protective streak for the Watson family, trying not to think about how mightily he had messed up the Magnussen matter. He could be glad though that his brother had mentioned it in such a casual tone even though he was probably still livid about it, having gotten him off the hook or not. “I do. And with Norbury being dead, she should be safe.” Until the next person found out about her past… Sherlock was far from being naïve. He knew that could happen again anytime. But they would deal with it if and when the problem arose.

“This… is very nice of you.” Mycroft gestured at the cake, from which he had only eaten a tiny bite so far.

“It’s the least I can do.” And I love to have you here… It was true, wasn’t it? It was really nice to be with Mycroft like this – no resentments, no argument, just two brothers drinking tea and chatting.

Only that it was not just that… At least not for him… But he didn’t even dare to try to figure out what else it was about. The deduction was just out of sight, just around the next corner – and Sherlock was afraid to turn it, fearing it would jump at him, attack him, bite him in the nose… Yeah… He was getting mad…

“I’m sure John will be pleased,” Mycroft said, and there was a question in this rather confusing statement.

“John? I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”

Mycroft gave him an inquiring look. “So he didn’t tell you to thank me and be nice to me?”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. So his brother thought John had what, ordered him to do this? Oh yes. What else would he be thinking? Sherlock had literally never been nice to him in the past… nearly thirty years? “John had nothing to do with it,” he said, hating himself for sounding snappish the next moment.

“Apologies, little brother,” Mycroft said to his surprise. “I was just… You know…”

Of course Sherlock knew. Mycroft was not used to being treated with respect and politeness by him. Not wanting to speak that out, Sherlock mumbled, “He’s one to talk, anyway.”

Mycroft gave him a questioning look, and Sherlock squirmed a bit. “I shouldn’t mention it as John doesn’t know that Mary knows –…” He broke off, feeling like a chatty school girl, giving other people’s dirty secrets away, in a horribly cheesy way above all.

“That he, what, has been… unfaithful?”

Of course big brother would deduce that because what else should Sherlock be talking about? “Perhaps only via phone. Not important. And over anyway. Don't you like the cake?” If there were any award for the clumsiest change of topics, Sherlock would have been the number one contender…

But Mycroft indulged him, poking his fork into the chocolaty sin. “Not at all. It is delicious.” And he took a bite and then closed his lips tightly around the fork, all but sucking off the sticky cream, and Sherlock felt his cheeks flush so much that he had to resemble a fire extinguisher.

Mycroft stared at him, his face a mask of disbelief, and he seemed relieved when his phone soundly vibrated in his pocket. “I’m -… I’m sorry, I need to take this call.”

“Sure. I will just… go to the kitchen.” Sherlock was about to get up, but then he felt his brother’s hand on his arm, and even through the fabric of his shirt, the touch was like a tiny electric shock.

“Stay,” Mycroft said, his eyes fixed on him, and Sherlock felt like a mouse in front of a snake.

And when Bill Wiggins rang the doorbell only half a minute later, while Mycroft was still talking to some sort of politician, as far as Sherlock could deduce, he was not just slightly relieved. He offered his unexpected guest a piece of cake and got some street news in return, and when Mycroft was finished with his call, he excused himself, having to go back to the office. Sherlock both hated and was glad to see him go, saving him from a situation he had no idea how to deal with.

And from the piercing look Mycroft gave him when he brought him to the door, he knew that his brother was no less irritated by the weird atmosphere between them.

But one thing was sure, Sherlock mused when he went back to Bill, who had completely missed that something odd was going on between the brothers Holmes and was busy rolling his eyes in sheer pleasure as he was eating his second slice of cake – Mycroft was stunned and confused about Sherlock's behaviour, but certainly not put off.

And Sherlock had no idea if he should be deliriously happy about this deduction – or wet his pants at the prospect of what it could mean.

Chapter Text

This had been an awfully long, challenging day, worse than most, Mycroft thought when he leaned his head back against the backrest of his seat, the car driving off smoothly. More often than not, he took work home even after a twelve hour day at the office. Not tonight though. Not just because he was now definitely finished with his duties for the day –as much as one could say that about work whose primary trait was its endlessness. He simply knew that he wouldn’t be able to focus on anything work-related now that he was finally away from Whitehall. He had even switched off his phone, which he rarely ever did, and he planned to keep it like that for the next hour at least.

He had to think, undisturbed.

Think about Sherlock.

Think about the unthinkable.

Probably, there was not much to it. Temporary hero-worshipping for the man who had saved his life, perhaps? Amazement about the fact that Mycroft could handle a gun and shoot someone so flawlessly and coldly, just like his beloved Doctor Watson (and his wife)? Guilt for having treated Mycroft like his worst enemy for practically decades? Reading Sherlock had never been easy, particularly not when he was desperately trying to hide his motives – as far out of his depth as little brother had been today, he had still not been an open book.

Their estrangement had started not long after Sherlock had locked up – Mycroft didn’t think ‘deleted’ – his memories of Eurus and Victor Trevor. It was as if he had forgotten pretty much everything about his past – as much as a six-year-old could have a past…

Gone had been the days of carefree playing. Gone were the nights spent – very innocently so – in Mycroft's bed, little brother listening in awe to all kinds of stories Mycroft had told him. About bad, evil pirates, preferably, the gorier the better, but Mycroft, seven years older, had been an absolute bookworm with a perfect memory, so he had wavered in plots from all kinds of novels he had read, and Sherlock had been hanging at his lips.

Times had been so much easier, Mycroft mused in a rare attack of nostalgia. He didn’t normally allow himself to ponder about the past as nothing could be done to bring it back or change it, obviously. Thanks to his position, which he had created himself, he hardly had time for futile wishes. Only when he felt particularly… melancholic, he would watch a video of his family. Father had done them obsessively when the Holmes children had been little, and Mycroft had snatched a few of them at a rare visit at his parents’.

He would always grimace when Eurus was featured, always standing on the side-line, her beautiful little face stoic and empty, not understanding why these people she had to live with laughed or played ball or splashed water on one another. She had not fit in, not even in this family of antisocial geniuses, well, at least Mycroft and Sherlock had been like that. Father had long turned their mother, the uber-intelligent mathematician, into being more jovial and open, but he had never managed to do the same for his children. Not long after the last video had been done, Eurus had let Victor Trevor, who had also been part of some of the films, disappear, had burned their house down and had then allegedly died in another fire in a facility for disturbed children, and the days of a rather happy family had been gone forever.

They had not only lost Eurus – Sherlock had been lost in a way, too. Retreating into himself more and more, hardly speaking, his answers increasingly naughty when he chose to reply at all. He had spent all his spare time in his room and only went outside if their parents forced him.

And then, one day, they had been sitting around the dining room table, he had suddenly hissed at their Father for having put Redbeard down. They had all been shocked – and that had not gotten better when they had realised that Sherlock thought he was talking about the family dog into which he had turned Victor in his messed-up memory. They had chosen to let him go on believing this story his mind had made up. What would they have gained from telling him the truth he had so desperately wanted to forget?

The years had gone by, Mycroft had left home, never managing to get through to his brother again. And it had only gotten worse when Sherlock had been dealing with puberty and his brain had begun to torture him, demanding permanent stimulation. It had made him turn to the drugs, their parents had been horrified, and Mycroft had, to no avail, tried to make him stop getting high on whatever he could get his hands on. Sherlock had gone from almost completely ignoring him to openly despising him, hating him, and Mycroft had suffered, oh, how much he had suffered.

And nothing, absolutely nothing had gotten better when he had realised that he had, despite being treated like that, fallen in love with twenty-year-old Sherlock. It had been after another overdose. Mycroft had visited him in the hospital, staring down at his sleeping little brother, his face as pale as the bedclothes, his black hair sweaty and tousled, providing a stark contrast to his marble-like skin, his full, red lips parted. A drop of drool had glistened on his bottom lip, and Mycroft had wiped it away with his thumb, and the soft skin had been so warm. Sherlock had stirred a little but he had not opened his eyes, and Mycroft had kept watching him for half an hour, a feeling of despair and dread filling his soul. And then, out of the blue, he had wondered how those lips would feel on his, and he had immediately stalked out of the room, his cheeks flaming, his heart racing. The next day, he had made sure Sherlock would be transferred to a rehab facility, and that had been the final straw for their already deeply troubled relationship.

The years had gone by, and Sherlock had not forgiven him – for meddling in his life, for being more reasonable, for being himself. Whenever they had met, he had been cold and hostile towards Mycroft, who had already perfected his Iceman image and had taken to wearing this mask every time, knowing Sherlock would never question it. In Sherlock's opinion, Mycroft had been an overprotective, humourless robot, designed to make his life as joyless and nasty as possible.

Mycroft had played along, because what else would he have been supposed to do? Sometimes, when he had felt uncharacteristically weak, he had given his concern and affection away. But it had always been met with contempt and opposition, and Mycroft had given up all hope that they could ever be on friendly terms again. He had seen both Greg Lestrade and then John Watson starting to play a big part in Sherlock's life; one as a provider of casework, which had been a million times better than the ever-present drugs, the other one as Sherlock’s self-proclaimed protector and best friend. Mycroft had made sure that they knew with whom they were dealing – a brilliant, not-quite sociopathic but definitely antisocial troublemaker – and that they were no danger to Sherlock in whichever way. Otherwise, he had kept his distance, only occasionally dropping by to check Sherlock's mental state. Whenever Sherlock had hissed and snorted at him, he had known he was okay…

He had also given him cases when he had felt Sherlock was in danger of getting too bored – even though he had quite regretted asking him for help on the case of Irene Adler. Not only had Sherlock, even unknowingly, betrayed the county, this sorry affair had also fuelled Mycroft's jealousy to no end. Thankfully, Sherlock had made up for destroying their ‘flight of the dead’ plan by dropping Irene and handing the phone with all the delicate secrets on it to him. Of course – Mycroft had gotten to know that Sherlock had saved her pathetic life afterwards, and it had infuriated him enormously. He had cunningly interrogated John Watson about Sherlock’s feelings for her – the doctor had been sure Sherlock didn’t have any. And he had never met her again, so much was sure. Mycroft had made sure of it, or, more precisely, Anthea had done that. Once in a while, a text was sent from The Woman’s phone to make Sherlock believe she was still able to communicate with him. It was not necessary, of course, but it had become a bit of a running gag between Mycroft and his PA… And on the go, Mycroft could monitor that Sherlock was really not interested in her….

The only period of time in which things had become better between them had been the weeks in which they had been preparing Sherlock's mission. Mycroft had thought it was a tremendously stupid thing to do. A bunch of his agents, trained for this kind of mission, would have taken care of the matter in weeks when it had taken Sherlock years. But he hadn’t even tried to argue with him about it. Sherlock’s saviour complex regarding his friends was way too strong for him to lay low and let other people do the job. Naturally, he had been heavily monitored throughout his dangerous adventure, and in the end, Mycroft himself had stepped in to save his pretty head. Of course, Sherlock had not thanked him for it but had instead complained about him taking too long and enjoying watching his torture. That had stung really badly as Mycroft had had to suppress flinching every time Sherlock was being whipped, and having to wait for the right opportunity to step in had been the hardest thing he had ever done.

And when it had been all over and Sherlock had been back on the tracks, solving cases, repairing his relationship with John Watson, he had ignored Mycroft again. Business as usual… And once more, Mycroft had been standing at a hospital bed when Mary Watson had shot his brother. The wish to take her out for that had been overwhelming. The only thing that had kept him from dragging her into a side alley and shooting a bullet in her head had been the fact that Sherlock would never forgive him for murdering a pregnant woman – the wife of his best friend. And Mycroft was sure that Sherlock would have not rested until he found out who had killed her.

One could have argued that Sherlock could have hardly been any nastier to him than he had already been, but Mycroft had still avoided drawing his wrath onto himself. He had just been… tired. Tired of being yelled at, being hated, being cut off from his brother’s life. They had not needed another reason for being strangers rather than siblings. And of course he had, and rightfully so, anticipated that Sherlock would forgive her. And so he had done, and Mycroft had stayed in the shadows, quietly watching over him.

But that was just how things were between them. It was not nice, it was not good, but it was what it was.

Until now. Suddenly, Sherlock cared. Suddenly, Sherlock gave him cake instead of mocking him with his nonexistent weight problem. Suddenly, Sherlock was nice to him and all shy and awkward. Just because he was thankful? Or impressed by Mycroft's action?

Somehow, Mycroft did not think that was all that was to it. But was the inevitable conclusion really possible? Did Sherlock… feel something for him? Something… beyond brotherly care, even though he had not even felt that for all those years?

Did Sherlock seriously have a crush on him?

Yes. It was the only explanation for the way Sherlock had been acting around him, Mycroft concluded when he stepped out of his car to walk up to his house after bidding his trusted driver goodnight. Little brother was, understandably, shit-scared of these feelings, for plenty of obvious reasons – him being so inexperienced with romantic longing, them being brothers, the old and indestructible taboo, his friends hating Mycroft, Mycroft being Mycroft, Sherlock being Sherlock…

Would he fall into Mycroft's lap like a ripe apple if Mycroft shook this imaginary tree? Would Sherlock be easily drawn into enjoying sexual pleasures?

Perhaps yes. Sherlock was utterly confused and overwhelmed. And curious. So very curious. And sex was something he had no experience with, Mycroft was sure. Probably, he would be easy prey. Mycroft could have made plans for making his age-old fantasies come true.

But he would not do that. He had always been his brother’s protector, whether Sherlock had wanted that or not. He would never, ever risk breaking Sherlock’s heart.

If anything happened between them, it had to mean something to Sherlock. Really, seriously mean something. Because spontaneous sex was the last thing their troubled relationship, to use this term very loosely, needed. And Mycroft didn’t want quick, exciting sex for one night. He had never longed for that.

He wanted Sherlock. All of him. His heart, not just his body. That would be his very own dream-come-true.

Was it madness to even consider it? A law-breaking, morally questionable and highly inappropriate relationship that could backfire in so many ways if anyone found out? Costing him his job and his reputation. Costing Sherlock his precious friends. Yes, it was.

But one thing was clear – if there was the slightest chance that Sherlock was up to that, up to real, true love, as foreign a concept as that was to both of them, Mycroft would take it. There was literally nothing he craved more. Power and wealth and people shivering in fear when dealing with him were nice. But owning Sherlock's heart and giving his own to him was… everything.

If that really happened, he would put safety measures in place at once, one of them certainly being organising new identities for both of them. But eloping would be the very last option – Mycroft had many others.

But perhaps he was being presumptuous. Perhaps Sherlock would shy away from a physical relationship. Perhaps he was, after all, just a bit too impressed with Mycroft being a killer, and as soon as he had gotten over that, he would turn his back to him again. But somehow, Mycroft thought that possibility was rather unlikely.

When he had hung up his coat and strolled towards his living room, he dropped into his armchair, took out his phone, switched it on again and opened his messaging app.

Would you like to have dinner tomorrow, 8? MH

Yes. That would be good. SH

Mycroft smiled. Not that presumptuous after all, he reckoned.

I will send you a car. No overly formal dress code. MH

Understood. How are you? SH

Splendid, and you? MH

For the next few minutes, they exchanged texts about their respective days, all very innocently. Remarkably civil but in no way… flirty. But when Mycroft ended the conversation, wishing his brother a good night, he knew that they were on to something.

Something really good.

Chapter Text

“Sherlock Holmes!”

The very same almost jumped in the air at this unexpected screeching behind him. He had, after getting ready to be picked up, tried to busy himself by doing research, preparing an experiment he would probably never bring to fruition, deleting some contacts from his phone – his homeless network seemed to decrease every week; well, those people didn’t actually live a healthy lifestyle…

It had not helped with his anxiety that much. Or at all. He had no idea what to expect from this evening. Clearly Mycroft planned to eat out with him, and not at an overly posh place, which suited him just fine. But what would they be talking about? Would they beat around the bush? Would Mycroft just scrutinise him with those intimidating blue eyes of his? Not that Sherlock had ever found them intimidating but he knew other people did, and Mycroft would want to know what he was really thinking, what he wanted, what he was willing to do… Or perhaps Mycroft had just invited him to discuss Mummy’s birthday. That would be a let-down…

Which already said everything about Sherlock's wishes and hopes. He wanted a relationship with his brother. A real one. A not-brotherly one. Only that the sheer thought of touching his brother, let alone in any scandalous way, made his legs shiver.

He had embraced Mycroft, though. Only for the briefest of moments, but he would never forget how it had felt to be so close to him. How good he had smelled. How warm his cheek had been…

And when his musings had just returned to that point, Mrs Hudson yelled at him.

“What’s wrong? I did nothing!” God…Was he really afraid of a tiny old lady, as cunning and tough as she was? And why? He had not left a rotten head in her fridge. Again. No strong chemical smells were wavering through the house. For a change. He had just been here, minding his own business [preparing for a date with big brother] after solving a Met case with John, who had then returned to his family. So what was she on about?

This all went through his mind within a split second, and then he found himself at the receiving end of a poking forefinger, and he looked down at his manhandled chest and gulped.

“Why the hell did you not tell me you were almost shot?” demanded his landlady, glaring daggers at him. “Why did I have to learn that from Miss Hooper, who learned it from that lovely DI?”

“Oh, that.” Sherlock dropped into his chair again and gestured for her to sit down in John’s, which was far enough away for him to be out of her reach. “Ancient history. Nothing happened to me, see!” He gave her a big, fake smile and raised his arms in a ‘look at me, totally unharmed and as handsome as ever gesture’ – which didn’t placate her one bit.

“Not telling me that you almost died… I thought you cared about me,” she mumbled, sniffling, and Sherlock felt like a monster.

“I do! I do, Mrs Hudson. So what would have been the point in making you worry for no reason at all? I wanted to spare -…”

“Bullshit,” she hissed, making him both wince and wonder if his hearing was working correctly. “You forgot to tell me because… Why, Sherlock? Why did you forget about it?”

“Um… I was busy. Had to testify. Yesterday.”

“All day? Had no time to come down and talk to me?”

She gave him that passive-aggressive ‘I’m so disappointed but I don't know why, I know I don’t matter to you’ look that always made Sherlock crumble. Mummy was very good at it, too, not even mentioning Molly. Women were creatures Sherlock would never understand but had learned to fear and soothe as much as possible.

“I’m really sorry, Mrs Hudson. I… actually felt rather stupid about that whole affair. I mean… it was my fault that she wanted to shoot me.” Probably it had been the only way for her to shut him up…

“But she didn’t.” Mrs Hudson leaned forward, an excited sparkle in her watery eyes. “Because your brother – your brother, that stiff politician! – fired at her first.”

“He’s not that stiff.” Sherlock cursed himself internally, feeling a blush creeping into his cheeks at using that loaded (ha) word. “And he saved me.” Would he ever get tired of saying/thinking that? That Mycroft had actually killed someone to save him, just like John had done on their first day? And he didn’t miss the irony of both situations being his own fault… If he had just walked away from the cabbie… If he had just shut his mouth and stopped making hurtful deductions… It wasn’t as if either of those two had been very nice though… Killers, both of them, in their very unique ways. And Mycroft had clearly shot her to save him – there it was again – but since she had betrayed his beloved Queen and country, it might have been rather satisfying in another way, also…

“Yes, so I’ve heard. I would have never thought. So prim and proper and smug he is. I always thought he’s like a reptile, but now I see he loves you so much, Sherlock.”

The blush hit his face with force now. “Yeah, probably,” he mumbled, avoiding her look, praying to a god he didn’t believe in to send a client, or John, or the ghost of Vivian Norbury, or even Janine, just anybody to distract her from this delicate topic.

Her eyes bored into his, widening in surprise. “Oh my God!”

“There is no God, Mrs Hudson. I told you before – he’s just a ludicrous fantasy, designed to provide a career opportunity for the family idiot.” Only that, in fact, he was the family idiot… She had meant nothing by it, just talking about brotherly love, but his embarrassed reaction and this stupid blush wouldn’t have been overlooked by the stupidest idiot, and she was nothing like that…

She had not even been listening to him, just staring at him as if he suddenly had developed horns, growing out of his skull. “Your brother… loves you. And you love him?”

“I… Mrs Hudson, I really don't want to talk about that. He is sending me a car in about…” Sherlock glanced at his phone, the fingers that were holding it were shivering, “…five minutes and I need to go downstairs. Please forget whatever your brain has thought it has hatched about me and Mycroft.” He dropped the phone and buried his face in his hands the next moment, knowing this particular cat was out of the bag and wouldn’t go back into it. And nothing had even happened between him and his brother!

“Sherlock, my boy, it’s okay. I’m not judging you.”

He could hear the shuffling of a chair and then her hand was on his knee, patting it soothingly. “We didn’t do anything. Nothing at all. I just hugged him yesterday, just very briefly, and then I ran off, and later we had cake together, and there is a lot of it left, it’s in the fridge and there are no body parts in it so you are welcome to have a piece or two, and -…”

“Sherlock, it’s fine! You have no reason to panic.”

Finally, he looked up to meet her gaze, and huffed out a deep sigh. “I’m glad you are so… understanding. We really didn’t do anything.” Yet, he did not add, but of course he didn’t have to… This was the woman who had wanted to match him and John up since forever, clearly disappointed that it had never worked; the woman who had envied Mrs Turner for her ‘married ones’ and would probably be even pleased to know she was having ‘sibling ones’ now…

“But you want to?”

“I don't know!” Sherlock huffed. Whom did he want to fool? “Yes...”

“Oh!” She seriously clapped her hands together, and Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle.

This was just too absurd. “You can’t tell anyone, you know? Not John, not Mary, not Molly, not Mrs Turner – nobody may know about this.”

“Of course I won’t say a word! I’m old but not senile.” She gave him a stern look but giggled when Sherlock hastily apologised again. “It is so romantic! Young, forbidden love!”

Well, neither he nor Mycroft were particularly young (or pretty) but a romance between them would certainly be forbidden. “I’m sorry you can’t brag about it to Mrs Turner.”

Mrs Hudson snorted. “Her married ones are cheating on each other; I know that for a fact.”

That seemed to be a common thing for married people, Sherlock mused. But this secret would stay with him; he knew he shouldn’t even have told Mycroft.

Mycroft! “I really must dash now.” He needed to go to the loo again, he had to check his looks again and make sure nothing was sticking between his teeth.

“Of course you do. You must be so excited!”

That was one word for it. Shit-scared would probably be a more fitting one, though… But nothing would happen tonight anyway, would it? They would have dinner and have the most awkward conversation ever, and then they would return to their respective homes. Or…

He bade the old lady goodbye after grudgingly promising to keep her updated (and boy would Mycroft be happy about him giving away their secret before it had even really become one…) and hurried to the bathroom. He looked as good as he could have hoped for, the rather haunted expression in his eyes was nothing he could do anything about, so he hurried downstairs after grabbing his coat.

When he stepped outside, the black car was only driving up to the house, and when he slipped onto the empty backseat, being greeted by one of Mycroft's usual drivers, he tried to compose himself and be all cool about the upcoming evening – futile as he knew it was.

*****

Mycroft did not go out for dinner very often. Lunch was a frugal affair at his desk or a sandwich, gobbled down on the way from one meeting to the other, and when he finally called it a night, the last thing he could put his mind to was another hour spent in the presence of people in a crowded restaurant.

But every once in a while, he came to this place – a tiny Greek tavern in a nondescript street in Central London he had discovered after leaving a secret meeting with two agents in a discreet flat, all very hush-hush. The owner was a jovial but discreet old man with an impressive mane of white hair and a mighty white moustache, always having a friendly word, greeting him in his heavy accent like an old friend even when he had come here for the first time. He was not at all intrusive though, only guiding him to his usual chair in the very back of the room, handing him the menu and leaving him alone until he had chosen. He might drop a remark about the ghastly English weather but he never forced a conversation onto Mycroft, probably well aware that it wouldn’t be welcome. The food was as excellent as it was cheap – even though Mycroft didn’t really care about the latter – and eating here had always left him with a pleasantly full stomach and a rare feeling of peace.

He was sitting here like a spider in its web, Mycroft mused, smiling slightly about this picture. And his brother was the fly that was moving towards it – not quite knowing but anticipating what was waiting for him. Sherlock, crossing the dim room with remarkably slow steps, as if he wanted to postpone the inevitable, looked delectable in his slim black trousers and a turquoise shirt that was matching the colour of his fascinating eyes. They were fixed on Mycroft the whole way, and the slight blush on his cheeks made him look only more attractive. Little brother was feeling anxious and out of his depth, but he was here, and things were about to get interesting. Alexis, the owner, had just shown him the way to Mycroft as he had been busy on the phone.

With a tiny but very effective gadget, Mycroft had scanned the niche he was sitting in for bugs, not expecting to find any, and there had been no surprises. There were no other patrons close enough to overhear their conversation so they could be rather open as long as they didn’t raise their voices too much.

And they had not come here to yell at one another – well, it had always been Sherlock who had gotten loud, Mycroft tended to lower his voice when he was upset. They were about to enjoy a tasty dinner and hopefully come to an understanding on the future of their relationship. When Sherlock had reached him, Mycroft could see how wired he was, and he also didn’t miss the barely concealed adoration in his mercurial eyes.

Sherlock had fallen in love with him, as amazing and unbelievable as that was. And for a moment, Mycroft wondered if their lives wouldn’t have been a lot different now if he had shot that murderous cab driver instead of John Watson…

But he assumed that Sherlock would not have been open to these feelings back then. The two years away on his own and now witnessing the troubled but passionate relationship between the Watsons, even if John had been cheating on Mary – it had made little brother certainly more susceptible to opening up to a romantic relationship, if he was aware of that or not. And Mycroft would give it to him if he really had the courage to pursue it.

“Hello, brother.” Sherlock pulled out the chair opposite of Mycroft's, and put his coat over the backrest before sitting down.

“Hello, Sherlock. I’m glad you accepted my invitation.”

“I have to say this looks very… homely.” The detective looked around in wonder.

Mycroft smiled. “Don’t let the simple furniture fool you. The food is exceptional.”

Sherlock smiled back so shyly that Mycroft's heart clenched. “I completely trust your expertise.”

And me? Yes, Mycroft decided. Sherlock did trust him, which was the basis of everything that would possibly follow having dinner together. Not that he planned to ravish his brother tonight, not at all. They were in no hurry, and this was supposed to be the beginning of something lasting. It was what he wanted. And it clearly was what Sherlock wanted. So he had chosen to meet him on neutral grounds for their first date. It would make it a bit more formal. More serious. A bit less intimidating for Sherlock, he hoped.

Mycroft took one of the two menus Alexis had left on the table and handed it to his brother. “Pick whatever you fancy, little brother. It is all excellent.” Their fingers brushed against each other, and the look on Sherlock’s face told Mycroft that he had also felt that tiny jolt of excitement at this innocent touch.

This was going to be good. More than good.

Chapter Text

Sherlock couldn’t remember when he had last felt that weird. It was as if he and Mycroft were having two conversations at the same time, one vocal, one silent. And he didn't so much as deduce the unspoken words – he rather felt them with his… soul? Just saw them with… what, another pair of (invisible) eyes? Something like that… And he knew Mycroft could read him just as easily. Sherlock had never had a meal like this – eating while completely focusing on the person opposite of him. A few times, his fork missed his food – chicken steak with chips, coleslaw and tzatziki – but he just couldn’t look away from Mycroft, who was staring back at him with equal intensity.

*

“Cheers, Sherlock. I’m sure you will like this wine. Alexis imports it straight from Greece.”

‘Your eyes are beautiful, little brother. And I would love to kiss your mouth.’

Sherlock blushed hard, and Mycroft's teasing but soft smile made his cheeks flush even more.

*

“This meat is very tender, Mycroft. And your calamari looks very crunchy.”

‘Speaking of meat… Oh god… I’m going crazy!’

“Want to try some?” Mycroft gestured at his meal with innocently raised eyebrows and then he grinned broadly and his look was rather smug. Sherlock crossed his legs and stuffed his mouth with a bunch of fries – and when he had swallowed, two long fingers were presenting him a fried piece of fish, and he delicately took it with his lips.

*

“How is… what was her name again?”

‘This is going to be good, Sherlock. I promise you.’

“I guess you mean Rosie. Good. Growing and thriving.”

‘How can you be so sure about that? You have a lot more to lose than I do.’

“Good to hear.”

‘I wouldn’t say that… We both know your friends mean a lot to you. But that is not going to happen. Failure is not an option, little brother.’

*

“My colleagues were exceptionally annoying this afternoon. Was your case interesting?”

‘I want to kiss you, touch you, make you mine. I want to know you, in any possible way. Any way you fancy.’

“My case was quite interesting. I’m sorry you had to deal with too many idiots again.”

‘I want to do the same to you. But I’m… very nervous about it.’

“It comes with the territory. I am used to it but sometimes… it gets hard not to, you know…”

“...shoot them?” Sherlock finished his brother’s sentence, and they both laughed.

It broke the tension and stopped their weird, parallel chat that had been happening over the course of fifteen challenging minutes.

Mycroft leaned back in his seat after using his napkin. “Nobody can overhear us here, Sherlock. We can speak openly.” His voice was quiet and smooth, oh so smooth…

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Well, I should probably start by saying that Mrs Hudson figured out my feelings for you.”

It took his brother a second, but then he paled. He had obviously not already detected that…

Sherlock shook his head. “Don't worry – she’s fine with it.”

“Fine?” echoed Mycroft, who had obviously already started to plot her death…

“Yes. In fact, she encouraged me to go for it. And she is well aware of what’s at stake, and she promised not to tell anyone, especially not John,” he added, knowing that this was what Mycroft had to fret about the most.

Mycroft scrutinised him for a moment, then he nodded. “I trust your judgement. I know she would never try to harm you. So as long as she doesn’t lose her marbles and doesn’t know what she says anymore, I guess it’s okay.”

Sherlock snorted. “Her mind is clearer than mine feels right now.” Given his profession and latest disaster-record, she would probably outlive him, too… And Mycroft would not always be around with his magical umbrella, conveniently taking out his enemies…

“It’s very easy, Sherlock. Do you want this?” Mycroft, waving between them, sounded totally calm but his eyes were piercing Sherlock's.

“You should be sure of that by now.”

Mycroft nodded. “Then we will make it happen. Your landlady being in the know makes things a lot easier, don’t you think?”

“Without a doubt.” Sherlock could come and go as he wished to of course, but he did usually spend his evenings at home if he didn't have a case. He had never been one to party… Sometimes he visited John and Mary, or they came over, but usually, he was alone at home, just relaxing, doing research, playing the violin…

That would change now, obviously, as he assumed he would be spending a lot of time with his brother in the evenings, mostly at his place, obviously. And Mrs Hudson might have been worried and gotten curious if he suddenly changed his habits that much, and she might have talked to John, or Lestrade… Now she knew he was not chasing after drugs or involved in something dangerous. Good old Mrs Hudson. Insane enough to support an incestuous relationship, simply lovely for encouraging him, probably being a pain in the arse about getting the juicy details…

For a moment, there was silence between them. Sherlock was not quite sure how he was feeling. He was up to it. Oh yes. It was scaring the crap out of him but he was extremely keen on finding out what could be between them. But it was a very new sort of… fieldwork for him. Of course there had been this, in hindsight, idiotic fake-affair with Janine. But with her, he had always been avoiding all kinds of real intimacy. He had endured her kisses, pressing his lips together – it was a miracle that this self-confident, strong woman had fallen for his ruse at all.

And now… it was no ruse, no case, no game. Well, it was a case in a way – the case of how to make a relationship work with his big brother. And he would be damned if this wasn’t about to become the most challenging case he had ever worked on… Well… ‘work’ was probably not the right word…

He cleared his throat. “So… How are we going to go about this? You’ll take me home now and we’ll do… things?” God… He sounded like a clumsy moron...

Mycroft smiled – a real, genuine smile. “Now that sounds like a plan, little brother. Just to leave no room for misconceptions – what exactly are those ‘things’ you have in mind?”

Sherlock huffed, knowing he deserved this amused reaction. “You know I have never done anything like that… Sex,” he added through gritted teeth when Mycroft, all faux innocence, threw him an exaggeratedly questioning look – as if Sherlock could be referring to knitting together or planting flowers in Mycroft's garden – and he had a rather infuriating smirk on his lips.

“And I am glad about that. But still… What exactly are you imagining us doing?”

A myriad of pictures popped up in Sherlock's mind. He had never had sex but he had internet… He had watched a variety of porn clips. Not in order to get off on them even though he had not been untouched by a lot of it – the gay ones, naturally, and he realises now that he had always preferred the tall, dark and handsome type of man. It had been more than curiosity though. Sex was a strong motivator for crimes, one of the strongest. He needed to know how it worked to deduce what people were willing to do to make it happen. Jealousy, obsession, fear, revenge – so many motives ultimately resulted from these most primal desires.

He saw himself on a nondescript bed, Mycroft's head bobbing up and down in his lap. Saw him riding Mycroft, his brother’s exceptionally long fingered-hands holding his hips. Hell, he could all but feel his brother’s massive cock up his rear end – Mycroft's tightly tailored trousers didn’t leave much to the imagination, at least not regarding the size of his… package. Sherlock envisioned himself worshipping it, and suddenly, it was very hot in the room. He could see Mycroft shift in his chair, deducing all of Sherlock's raunchy thoughts, and it clearly didn’t leave him cold, either.

But he also saw himself just sitting next to a fireplace with Mycroft at his side, chatting – and holding hands. He imagined them snuggling against each other under a thick blanket, Mycroft imitating the PM, making him laugh… It wasn’t just sex he was craving, and one look into his brother’s eyes told him that the biggest sentiment-despiser of all did not only not object to this fact but longed for the same – a real relationship, all the lovey-dovey stuff Sherlock had always thought was not meant for him. Getting all touchy-feely with each other, opening up about their darkest secrets – a whole new ‘both of us against the rest of the world’. He would never have that with John again on that friendship level from before The Fall. Not because John was still pissed off at him – he wasn’t – but because he had Mary and Rosie now. But Sherlock wanted to have it with Mycroft, only on a whole lot more intimate and meaningful basis.

Mycroft was looking at him as if he couldn’t quite believe it even though Sherlock had not bothered pulling his shields up tonight. For this to work, they would have to get rid of them, only between the two of them, of course.

Even if Sherlock had considered confiding in John about this – to which Mycroft would have thoroughly objected – he wouldn’t have done it. He did not expect John to run to the authorities with that delicate knowledge – his friend would never do that to him. But John had a wife with a dangerous, highly incriminating past. Several threats against her, resulting from her previous occupation, had been eliminated, but another figure on a vengeance could appear anytime. And as it had been with Magnussen, that could involve a scheme against everybody around her, and if Mary knew about Sherlock’s secret – and John would tell her or he would at least not be able to hide it from her – it could be forced out of her. Sherlock did trust John with his life, and, as things were, also Mary, but he and Mycroft couldn’t risk this blowing up in their faces, so as annoying it certainly would be, they would have to be very careful whenever they were together with John, or either Watson, actually. They could slowly let them see that they were getting along better – as Mycroft having saved him from being shot clearly was a good starting point for that – but never how much better…

He was absolutely certain, though, that Mycroft would immediately work on safety measures and backup plans. Big brother would organise new identities for them. He would make sure they would have a safe place to go to should they be discovered and reported. The bottom line was that Sherlock was convinced that Mycroft would put him, or rather: them, first, before his job; otherwise he would never consider starting such a risky, forbidden relationship in the first place. It stunned him, still, that he was more important to Mycroft than the position he had created for himself – a position of power and influence, unparalleled in all Europe.

Mycroft gave him a knowing look. “I have always put you first, little brother, even though you would have never believed that.”

Sherlock felt ashamed and looked down at his hands. He had a lot to be sorry for. A lot to say sorry for… One didn’t have to look back very far… Physically manhandling and then drugging Mycroft, using his top-secret government laptop to bribe Magnussen, shooting the man and forcing Mycroft to save his arse, the very recent inconvenience of making his brother kill someone to save his sorry behind again… Not even mentioning all the nasty behaviour Sherlock had inflicted on him before, for sodding ages…

“Never mind, brother mine,” Mycroft said casually, his hand briefly reaching across the table to pat Sherlock's, and the touch sent sparks throughout Sherlock’s body. “We know better than to waste time explaining or regretting past wrongdoings. We have a long history, and not all of it was pleasant.”

“Now that’s an understatement…”

Mycroft smiled. “Be that as it may. It’s the here and now that counts, let our future define us, not our past – you’re getting the picture.”

“Why have you always been so forgiving?” Sherlock burst out. Mycroft had endured all the nastiness Sherlock had thrown his way. He might have scowled and told him to grow up and been all long-suffering woe-is-me, but he had literally never let Sherlock down. Apart from sending him to this death mission, that is…

“Please,” Mycroft said, looking a bit miffed now. “You really thought I would have let you die over there? Moriarty or not – I would have gotten you out.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Of course you would. So… why?”

Mycroft suddenly leaned forward, his eyes fierce. “Do you really have to ask?” His voice was low and quiet and intense.

No, he really didn’t. Love. It was as simple as that. Mycroft loved him, and had always done so, one way or another.

This was really not about getting down and dirty with each other. It wasn’t a game.

“We will drown in ghastly sentiment, am I right?” Sherlock rumbled, feeling weirdly giddy.

Mycroft laughed out loud. “Yes, brother mine. You nailed it.”

“Was that… a pun?”

Mycroft smiled. “Would you like it to be one?”

“Oh God, yes.”

Mycroft laughed again, and Sherlock knew this was going to be good. Really good. Not easy, certainly, not smooth – neither of them were used to dealing with sentiment and sex and all that. They would clash, wouldn’t they? Resentments would raise their ugly little heads from time to time.

But they would learn. Together. It would be a challenge, but a sweet one.

And Sherlock, despite being still anxious about it as it was seriously unknown territory, couldn’t wait for it.

It did irk him that he had never deduced Mycroft's feelings for him. That they had left the realm of brotherly affection behind a long time ago was a safe bet. But would he have appreciated them if Mycroft had shown them before? Of course not. So they hadn’t so much wasted time than grown into making the best of it. Everything had its time and place – another common motto but nonetheless true.

“Would you like to have dessert?” Mycroft asked him in his usual polite tone.

Yes. You. The smile Sherlock got from his brother at that made the corners of his own mouth go up, too. “I have to decline. I would like a cigarette, though.” When these last words had come out of his mouth, he wondered if he was testing his brother. Would he grimace? Say he didn't approve? Wrestle the package out of Sherlock's coat pocket?

Of course, Mycroft didn't do any of that. Mycroft hated to be predictable. And he wouldn’t have wanted to spoil the mood, Sherlock assumed. “A ghastly vice,” he sighed theatrically. “Let me call the car and pay, and then we can have a smoke while we’re waiting.”

“Sounds good to me.” Sherlock would accompany Mycroft home.

And then? They would see…

Damn… He really needed that fag…

Chapter Text

Dammit… At this rate, Sherlock would go crazy very soon… He clambered onto the backseat and fastened his seatbelt, sharing another smile with his brother. They were always smiling now when they looked at each other. It was so foreign to him! And he probably looked like a loon…

He heard Mycroft tell the driver to bring them to his house in his soft, polite voice. Sherlock's gaze was drawn to his brother’s mouth as he spoke, and he remembered how it had looked around the cigarette.

Standing in the dark pathway of the restaurant with nobody else to be seen, Mycroft had pulled one out of the package Sherlock had offered him and had lightly slapped Sherlock's hand when he had been about to reach for one for himself. Sherlock had been confused and irritated but then he had understood.

With slightly trembling fingers, he had lit the cigarette that was caught between his brother’s lips, had seen it glow when Mycroft had inhaled – and then the older man had taken it with two fingers and offered it to Sherlock, who had picked it from his hand with his mouth, and closing his lips around this item that had just stuck between his brother’s lips had felt like the most intimate moment of his life. Almost like a kiss… They had shared the cigarette, passing it between the two of them several times, their eyes never leaving the other one.

Sherlock had been feeling like a puppet, dancing to invisible but very strong strings. Of course – Mycroft was the born (and very accomplished) puppet master. It was his natural milieu. Sentiment might have a say in him pursuing a relationship with Sherlock, but Mycroft was still that manipulative arranger of all things he wanted to happen.

Sherlock had never played along though. He had always had his own mind, a strong mind, not just intellect-wise. Admittedly, he had given up control of his life for quite a few years – the promises of chemical comfort had lured him off the path his brother and his parents might have wanted him to walk. Having what could pass as a career – in whichever field. His parents weren’t snobs; they would have been happy with him succeeding in any field he liked, even though he was quite sure his mother would have loved to see him study medicine. Or mathematics, like her. And Father? All the respected professions would have been fine with him. Mycroft would have loved to see him join the civil service. Or the Secret Service…

Instead, Sherlock had consumed all sorts of drugs he could get at a very young age, and he had been high basically nonstop from the age of sixteen… Mycroft, completely pissed off and at the end of his tether with him, had eventually forced him into rehab. Sherlock might have denied it on the plane to his – in the end very short – death mission, but he had hated Mycroft for it, despite knowing that his brother had most certainly saved his life. Years later, Sherlock might have known how to use without risking giving up the ghost thanks to an accidental overdose, but back then, it had been a close call.

After that nasty little episode, he had grudgingly returned to his science studies, and eventually, Cambridge, Mycroft's Alma Mata, had lured him with a course of studies in physics and chemistry, and he could have certainly mastered it but during his second year, he had been so bored out of his mind that he had dropped everything.

His parents had been thoroughly disappointed and concerned, but they had assured him of their support at whatever he was going to do. Mycroft had told him that he was an idiot. Well, he had probably had a point…

The following years, Sherlock had lived off his trust fund, had gotten high occasionally, and had exercised excessively, usually during the night, exhausting himself so his demons would shut up, at least for a short while. Until one day, he had stumbled onto one of Lestrade’s crime scenes, and the rest was, as they said, history.

So here they were now – big brother, the sort-of-politician, the hush-hush fixer in the shadows, used to having his way. Just not when he was dealing with him, the always stubborn, formerly extremely resentful little brother, who had handed himself to Mycroft's mercy now.

They had, kind of, exchanged saliva already, but they had not kissed, and it made Sherlock feel tingly and wired, and he found himself yearning for it. He had never really kissed anyone. A dry peck on the cheek for Mummy or Molly. Enduring Janine’s intrusive attempts at snogging with him, pressing his lips together – but she had obviously still liked it and liked him… Human error indeed.

But now he longed to have his mouth opened by the force of his brother’s tongue. He died for a lengthy exploration tour of his own lips and tongue. Tasting fish and wine and Mycroft.

He gestured for his brother to make the privacy screen go up so they would be separated from his driver, but Mycroft just smiled and briefly shook his head, and Sherlock couldn’t help but huff in disappointment.

Until he felt Mycroft's warm hand ever-so-briefly brush over his, and as if that innocent but loaded touch had been some sort of wonder cure for impatience and stroppiness, Sherlock immediately calmed down, and he looked out of the window as to not beam at his nasty, horrible, wonderful brother again, and slightly smiled to himself, not even registering the nightly London lights.

*****

Mycroft had barely closed the door behind them and was in the process of taking off his coat when Sherlock already attacked him. His arms rendered all but immovable by his coat being stuck beneath his shoulders, he found himself being pressed against the door, a muscular, edgy body flush against his.

While two very soft, rather cool and definitely lovely lips were kissing him with a vigour previously unknown to mankind, Mycroft's cock jumped to attention, meeting its equally excited counterpart in some decidedly sweet friction. He moaned, and then he gasped when Sherlock's strong tongue invaded his mouth, swirling around his, aiming to explore every inch it could reach. The kiss was wet and messy and toothy, and Mycroft returned it with more force than he had wanted.

He had been about to go for ‘slow and reasonable and taking their time’ etc., but he should have known Sherlock wouldn’t be willing to follow this path. In the end, Mycroft had provoked him quite a bit by sharing the cigarette, and on the drive here, Sherlock had already been fidgety and impatient. It was thoroughly complimentary that his brother was so keen on getting touchy-feely with him – and Mycroft did wonder whom exactly he was trying to protect by his aim to take it easy and let this new relationship develop in a steady and reasonable process… Because Sherlock clearly didn't give a fuck about reasonable, which was in no way surprising, and little brother did obviously not worry about having his precious heart broken, either. Also, from the melting look in the detective’s eyes when they parted for air, both with bruised lips and shivering, it was rather clear that Sherlock did not plan to take all the sexual experience he could get and then leave and happily share it with someone else.

Perhaps it was time to fully accept that Sherlock was, in fact, in love with him. That it didn't really matter if he denied them acting on their feelings in every way they desired. Sherlock didn't want to be wined and dined first, oh, well – Mycroft had actually just done that…

Still he wanted this to be special and not rushed, and to his never-ending surprise, Sherlock stared at him inquiringly, let him go, sighed, and said, “It’s okay. I see you don't want to do anything with me tonight.”

Mycroft managed to finally get rid of his coat. “It is not a question of not wanting, Sherlock… It’s just…” Mycroft grimaced. He didn't want to sound like a shy maiden that was bothering about decency or morals. They were talking about consummating a law-breaking incestuous relationship. The usual rules for usual people hardly applied to them under these delicate circumstances, even if either of them had been one to even give a rat’s arse about rules in the first place. Sherlock had always disregarded them blatantly, and Mycroft had constantly chastised him for that even though he was equally convinced they were not applying to him – he was just less obvious about it… Which didn't mean that Sherlock was not aware of it… Strange… Little brother had hardly ever called him out on his hypocrisy…

Sherlock smiled, to his utter relief, he put his hand on Mycroft's cheek. “It’s fine. Delayed gratification is a thing, I’ve heard.”

Mycroft pulled him into a firm embrace. “A completely foreign concept to you, I believe.”

“True. I’m not the master of hatching intrigues and playing the long game after all, like other people I could mention.”

“You kind of did that with Magnussen…”

Sherlock sighed. “And you saw what happened…”

Oh indeed. Sitting in that helicopter, watching the drama unfold and then reach its ghastly crisis, Mycroft had been terrified. Had wondered if Sherlock's obsession with the Watsons had finally made him snap, finally pulled him to the dark side – where their sister already was. But then, it had turned out that Sherlock had just miscalculated and seen no other way out than to shoot the ghastly blackmailer, which had certainly not been a loss in any way.

Mycroft regretted having sent Sherlock to Eastern Europe as a punishment now. He should have immediately taken care of the security footage and bribed all the agents that had witnessed that scene. Naturally, he would have protected Sherlock like he had done during his previous mission – but just like back then, Sherlock could have disappeared off the radar and gotten into a deadly situation once more, and who knew if Mycroft would have found him in time… Whatever Sherlock decided to do in the future, Mycroft would never take such a risk again.

Mycroft pecked Sherlock's lips. “Even if we don’t get down and dirty tonight, would you like to stay? Watch a film? Have a drink?”

“Cuddle?” suggested Sherlock. When he saw Mycroft's slightly scandalised look, he laughed out loud. “A foreign concept to you, I assume.”

“But not to you?” Mycroft couldn’t quite keep the jealousy from his voice. With whom had Sherlock discovered… cuddling? John? Not very probable. The Hooper mouse? Mycroft would have her turned into the same condition as her patients… But no. Not her. Probably that secretary of Magnussen. Mycroft had not been happy about her selling off her stories about her ‘relationship’ with Sherlock to the media. It was probably about time Anthea paid her a visit in her cosy little cottage …

Sherlock smiled. “Well, I have a goddaughter now.”

Oh. Sure. That ghastly baby… Of course he could tolerate baby brother’s affection for it, but Sherlock would hopefully never expect him to play ‘nice uncle’ for the youngest Watson. Mycroft noticed Sherlock's smug grin and landed a spontaneous smack on that well-rounded bottom. “Menace.”

Sherlock's eyes were sparkling. “Fine, brother mine. When you’re finished spanking me for being insolent – which you should have probably done ages ago – serve me a drink, show me a film, and let me cuddle with you.”

Mycroft could have been wrong, but he thought that sounded like a really good plan.

*****

Now this was… new. Weird. Not in a bad way, though. Sherlock's head, resting against Mycroft's shoulder. A hard pillow but… comfortable. Mycroft’s scent was pleasant. Clean skin. Eau de cologne, not overly strong. Discreet. Big brother’s arm possessively slung around Sherlock's back. The drink was excellent. 20 year-old single malt, no ice.

‘You know I could arrest you?’

‘What for?’

‘Wearing a dress like that.’

‘Would you like me to take it off?’

“You know, your taste in booze is flawless. But this film…” Sherlock shuddered, gaping at the large screen. His brother had an actual movie room. In which they were sitting now, pressed together. On a slightly slippery, black leather couch. Watching some spy-private-detective-something bullshit in which this stupid, heavily loaded heterosexual conversation was happening. All the naughty little innuendos. Pathetic.

“It’s a classic, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, unoffended, his hand drawing random patterns on Sherlock's shoulder. It felt decidedly good.

“It’s a black-and-white nightmare.” Sherlock grinned when his brother actually laughed at that.

‘Now, what was all that about arresting me?’

‘Well, maybe not arresting you.’

‘No?’

‘I could just keep you under close watch.’

‘Very close?’

Sherlock groaned and downed his drink. “Do you fancy her?” He gestured at the screen where the idiot story continued.

Mycroft grinned and shook his head. “Do you really imagine I would? It’s just entertainment, Sherlock. Something to take my mind off the world’s real problems. It’s like you playing the violin.”

Sherlock gasped. “That’s blasphemy!” He chuckled when he was tapped on the nose by a stern forefinger. “So… That is how you like to spend the rare spare time you’ve got? Numbing yourself with heteronormative cinema?” He blushed when he realised how condescending that had sounded. “I mean, I don't say it’s a bad thing but…” His voice trailed off. This ‘getting to know each other better’ attempt they were performing without having spoken it out did have its challenges…

Mycroft deduced his thoughts, naturally. He smiled. “It’s fine, little brother, just tell me what a silly tosser I am.” When Sherlock opened his mouth in protest, he chuckled. “There is no secret to it. I just watch that nonsense to wind down. Give my brain a break.”

“You don't analyse all the plot holes, and there have been plenty already? You just let it… drag you to an easier place?”

“Something like that.” Mycroft bent forward and Sherlock kissed him eagerly. “And for the record,” Mycroft added when they had parted, not paying any attention to the film anymore, “I have never fancied anyone, whether on screen or in real life. Technically, I might not be a virgin but my sparse experiences, out of curiosity and for certain purposes, have been so far ago that I could as well be called one. There has always been only one for me.”

“Who?” Sherlock breathed. “Woody Allen?”

Mycroft laughed so hard he choked on his own spit and coughed like mad, and Sherlock had to rescue him by roughly patting his back.

“Sorry,” Sherlock giggled when Mycroft breathed again, his eyes reddened. “So… me?”

Mycroft drank up his whiskey. His voice was serious – and quite a bit sore – and his eyes were glistening with fierce emotion when he answered. “Yes, little brother. You. It has always been you.”

Sherlock had known it but hearing Mycroft say it, earnestly, without hesitation, made him gape at his brother in wonder. And then Sherlock kissed him again, his arms wrapped around Mycroft's neck as if he never wanted to let him go again – and he really didn’t.

Chapter Text

“You are bringing me treats, Sherlock?” Mycroft had gotten up and was now walking around his desk to greet him.

“Us,” Sherlock corrected him, setting the bag with the stack of sandwiches he had bought onto the steely desk. Egg salad, bacon, cheese. One could not go wrong with that.

Anthea had seen him in, looking decidedly curious – but surprisingly little suspicious. And Sherlock had quickly deduced that that did not only result in her knowing what had happened with Norbury. She did not think Sherlock was just here to thank his brother by spoiling him with goodies for lunch. Had Mycroft told her about their developing relationship? Most certainly not. But she knew his brother. Well enough to see the changes in his demeanour. Mycroft had not been at a happy place before. Professional coolness, efficiency, politeness at best. Friendly to his PA though – Sherlock had no doubt that she was very good at her job – she would not be working for Mr Perfect otherwise. Probably Mycroft and she were on rather friendly terms after all those years. Not real friends – Mycroft didn’t do those – but she was probably the closest thing to a friend that his brother was capable of having.

And she had obviously not missed that Mycroft's mood had brightened up. And that he, Sherlock, was the only possible reason for this development as the string-puller simply didn’t care about other people. Hell, this smart woman had probably known about Mycroft’s feelings for him years before Sherlock had figured them out… It was really pathetic…

Sherlock stopped beating himself up about his continuous oblivion when Mycroft gave him a proper greeting by embracing him. It was amazing how quickly one’s head could start feeling completely dizzy, how strong, well-trained legs could certainly threaten to give way, how one could suddenly find oneself sniffing at soft skin above a starched collar – and how a shaky hand could go astray on a pert, firm backside beneath soft fabric…

Mycroft stepped back, his eyes sparkling. “You think feeding me will get you into my pants faster, little brother?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, full of conviction, and he grinned broadly when Mycroft threw his head back and laughed.

He had never heard his brother laugh before these amazing developments had started. In fact, he could barely remember any other facial expression than sourness whenever Mycroft had been dealing with him. What a convincing shield that had been… Mycroft had shown his (genuine) exasperation with Sherlock's – in his eyes – poor choices but had hidden just how much he actually was concerned about him, let alone how much he desired him.

They had not spoken about the interesting topic of when exactly Mycroft had started to feel about him like this but Sherlock was quite sure it had been a long time ago. At a point in their lives when they had long ceased to be close.

“What happened to us? When we were young?” he surprised them both by asking. “I remember you were my hero. And suddenly…”

“…I was a zero,” Mycroft finished his sentence, dryly. “Life happened, Sherlock. I had to go get my formal education and you did not like it. And from then on, we grew apart.”

That did make sense, and Sherlock seemed to remember how he had resented Mycroft for leaving him with their boring parents, to start a boring life without him. He had barely spoken to his brother after that. When Mycroft had, rarely, come home for Christmas, Mummy had monopolised his time and Sherlock had pouted, and even when Mycroft had tried to involve him and had asked him about his life, Sherlock had all but ignored him. Which had not helped in any way, obviously. Ignoring Mycroft and treating him increasingly bad had only widened the rift that had opened up between them, and it had been like that for more than two decades.

For a moment, Sherlock had a weird hunch. A hunch that this was not the full story. That there had been an important reason for him to turn into a grumpy child and soon enough a sulky, unbearable teenager. He scrutinised Mycroft, but his brother was just smiling at him, with clearly genuine affection, but still Sherlock thought there was more to this, that Mycroft was still hiding something from him. But right now, he could not read his brother, could not deduce his thoughts like he had done in that restaurant, as behind the sentiment, there was a shield – more: a solid wall – and that in itself was highly suspicious. They had not been discussing state secrets after all but their own past. What was there to hide?

And then Mycroft kissed him while pulling him into a fierce embrace, his hands now kneading Sherlock's bottom cheeks, and soon, Sherlock – his cock as hard as stone in his pants, his entire body shaking violently – had basically forgotten why he had come here, what he had just been thinking about – and all but who he actually was.

*****

“Here. Black, two sugars, just as you like it.”

Sherlock took the steaming mug from a grinning DI’s hand, sipped at it – and grimaced. “A real treat, Lestrade. What would you have served me if I had not solved your case? Machine oil?” Hell, the stuff was so thick and tasted so weird that it could as well be machine oil… For how many days and nights had it been boiling?

Lestrade let himself fall into his suspiciously creaking chair, set behind a desk that was absolutely covered with folders, some looking as if they had made way-too-close acquaintance with what passed as coffee in this building as well. “You should be used to the stuff by now,” he said, grinning even wider. This man was really hard to offend… “Of course I can organise you a cup of tea instead?”

Sherlock snorted. “Even worse. Tastes like cat urine.”

Greg barked out a laugh. “And how many times, pray tell, have you tasted cat -… No.” He shook his head vehemently. “Don't you dare tell me. I really don't need to know.”

“You are totally wasted as an inspector. The world of comedy is sadly missing out on you.”

The grin threatened to split the man’s attractive face in two when he winked at Sherlock. Then, the cop turned to his computer and started typing away, went back to correct what he had typed, and went on writing down the report about the weird case Sherlock had just taken care of for him – without John, as the doctor had to work at the clinic. Three cars had crashed on a not exactly busy street in North London. A not completely incompetent Bobby had noticed that something was odd about one of the deceased drivers and had informed the Met. The case had ended up on Lestrade’s desk and then, ultimately, in Sherlock's capable hands. “That was an awesome job, Sherlock,” Greg said, finishing what the detective was supposed to sign once it had been printed out.

Sherlock waved the praise away. Even a total idiot could have figured out that the victim, a banker who’d had his hands in some highly compromising financial affairs, had not died from his car crashing into another car. He had been dead before. “Piece of cake.”

“Want some?” Lestrade asked with faux innocence. “I think I have some from last year in a drawer somewhere in here…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and poked out his tongue at him, and the grey-haired cop laughed heartily. He really was in an appallingly good mood… But when he bent over to retrieve the paperwork from the printer, he said, seriously, “When I first saw you at the crime scene today, I thought you might have, you know, slipped.”

He was talking about drugs, naturally. And Sherlock had indeed been feeling kind of high when he had arrived ten minutes after Lestrade’s call, he had to admit. But the drug of the day had not been cocaine, or angel dust, or crystal, or whatever poison he had once used to distract himself. Its name was ‘Mycroft’. Actually, a combination of ‘Mycroft’ and ‘sex’ – two words Sherlock would have never thought he’d use in the same sentence.

Technically, he was still a virgin. Neither of them had even taken off any clothes. But he had come in Mycroft's presence. Into his pants in Mycroft's office to be precise. The kiss and the groping had gotten out of hand. Cocks had been grinding vigorously against each other. Large hands had shown Sherlock how responsive his backside was to being touched. And after hardly more than a minute of exchanging messy kisses, Sherlock had shot his load into his underwear. Crying out loud against Mycroft's soft lips. Getting boneless and embarrassed in his brother’s embrace.

Mycroft had shushed him and urged him to sit down and relax, and from somewhere in his office of wonders, he had produced a pack of pants, still wrapped – Sherlock's preferred brand. Perhaps he wore them too; Sherlock had not figured that out yet. Mycroft could have gotten them for himself. Certainly, big brother sometimes had to stay at the office overnight. He did oversee MI6 missions regularly, Sherlock knew that for a fact. But something told him Mycroft had stacked the pants because of the odd chance Sherlock might ever need them. Such foresight… Such presumptuousness. Such genius…

Mycroft had sent him to his private bathroom to clean up and change into the fresh underwear. Whatever had he done with the messy ones? It was all a blur...

“I’m clean,” he told Lestrade, his eyes narrowed. “Want me to pee into a cup?”

The DI looked aghast. “Of course not. It just reminded me of the bad old days for a moment. You, having gone high, coming down low.”

Well… If he put it like that… Sherlock could barely suppress a grin. “You thought I might have gotten high because I was an idiot in dealing with this secretary,” he almost automatically deduced then.

Greg grimaced. “Not an idiot, just a bit, you know, full of yourself…”

“Thanks a bunch,” Sherlock retorted, knowing the man was absolutely right. He had been carried away by his own cleverness completely. His behaviour had been the very definition of being way too full of oneself… And it could have cost him his life… If Mycroft had not been there…

To his surprise, Greg grabbed his wrist and pressed it gently. “We were the idiots, me and my colleagues,” he said, his voice even deeper than usual. “Standing around, gaping, while she proceeded to shoot you. Not our proudest hour…”

“It all happened very fast,” Sherlock soothed him, generously. In his opinion, the cops never had such a thing as a proud hour… Even Lestrade, who was a good one.

“True, but your brother reacted while I was still pondering about how to wrestle the gun out of her hand.” Greg shook his head, in awe. “Never imagined he had a weapon in his… umbrella! That’s crazy! That’s James Bond!”

Sherlock felt a proud grin spreading across his face. “I’m rather sure he wouldn’t be that fond of this comparison.” He fleetingly imagined his brother in a movie, perhaps black-and-white like the one they had watched together, wearing a black suit and a crisp-white shirt, a dark-grey waistcoat and a red pocket square, sipping at a Martini. All spy and elegance. Sherlock liked that image…

He shook it off, lest he would get carried away and picture himself as a Bond Girl, pleasuring the famous agent. “And you know he’s smart. Smarter than me by a lot, so a billion times smarter than your lot.”

Greg gave him a good-natured eye-roll. “Yes, rub it in.”

Sherlock knew how he had meant that, of course he did, but still his mind was suddenly flooded with images of Mycroft coming all over him, rubbing his sticky sperm into the smooth skin of Sherlock's chest. He downed the awful coffee to hide his sudden blush.

“And since when do you admit your brother is smarter than you?” Greg asked, looking at him with innocent curiosity.

But was he really so clueless? Or was he suspecting something? Sherlock shook his head over himself. Of course the copper had no idea about what was going on. Ridiculous assumption. “Since he saved my arse,” he answered the man’s question bluntly, and as expected, Greg had a laughing fit at this unusual language.

When he had finally calmed down, he presented the report to Sherlock for him to read and sign, and grinned happily at him. “So you’re unhurt, sober, and you have made up with your brother. I’m really proud of you.”

‘Made out’ might have been the better term, Sherlock thought, silently cursing himself the next moment. If he didn't stop with the sexual innuendos – and he had not even had a clue how much he craved discovering his sexuality, but then, he hadn’t had Mycroft being the one to provide it on his bingo card as the Americans said – he would say something like this out loud and fuck it up. Would Greg feel the urge to expose them? He was the police after all. Of course then Mycroft would take him out… And then, what would Sherlock do without someone to throw cases his way? A lose-lose situation if he had ever seen one. Of course he could be a kept man. His brother’s kept man. Mycroft the sugar daddy. Sherlock wondered if those sex hormones that seemed to mess up his brain would calm down if he and Mycroft finally did have sex. Real sex, not some embarrassing spilling into his pants… Or would it get even worse? Would all the sex he was planning to have slow down his thought process to a point at which he would be like everybody else, i.e. hardly being able to tie his shoelaces? Somehow, he knew that if he had to choose between getting down and dirty with Mycroft on a regular basis and going on being the not-that-famous-anymore hat detective, he wouldn’t hesitate a second – in favour of being Mycroft's plaything… lover… partner…

“Sherlock? You are supposed to read this.”

“Oh, sure.” It was hard to focus right now. Actually, it was a miracle that he had even been able to solve the case. But at that point, he had all but just orgasmed, calming him down. Calming his ever-demanding brain, too. Sex! Sex was the answer! He could have had that so much earlier. Who needed drugs if sex was available to silence his screeching mind? Mycroft would have provided it ages ago. Such shame. But of course nothing had changed about the fact that Sherlock would have never considered a relationship with his brother before. So no crying over spilt milk. Waste of time.

“Sherlock? Are you quite alright?”

Dammit. He needed to pull himself together. Being that distracted and wired was not good. Thankfully, Graham was not nearly as perceptive as Mrs Hudson or Anthea. Men generally weren’t.

Finally, Sherlock signed the report and then bade the DI goodbye, wondering how he would pass the time until meeting Mycroft later. Would big brother even have time? What if a national emergency arose? Sherlock would have to help out so Mycroft could go home as soon as possible.

With flapping coattails, he hurried through the Met building, reaching for his phone to text a special someone, testing the waters, begging, if necessary…

*****

At his desk, Greg Lestrade was sitting very still. In his mind’s eye, he saw a much younger, troubled Sherlock. High and lost. Nothing and nobody to cling to but his own intellect. A lonely, disturbed boy. He saw himself standing at a hospital bed, harbouring a pale, unconscious Sherlock, emanating tragic beauty – and on the other side the elder Holmes, his face stoic and dark. The worry in his eyes was betraying his indifferent demeanour. He would always disappear before his brother woke up, knowing he was not welcome to watch over him. Greg had always found that fact incredibly sad but he had never said something, figuring it wouldn’t do much good.

And now? Love? Really? Was that even possible?

God… Greg Lestrade hoped he was right. The boy would be in the best of hands. It was all he had ever wanted for him. Being protected and cared for. Being loved. Being happy.

Slowly, a wide smile captured his face. Ah, if he could only tell Sherlock about his deduction. But rather not. Sometimes it was safer to be mistaken for an oblivious fool… And that Sherlock had not deduced what he was thinking said a lot about the detective’s condition – a fool for love, like the best of them. Who had not seen that though Greg’s first thought might have been ‘high’, his second one had been ‘shagged’. He had not mentioned it as it had seemed so off – but then he had heard Sherlock talk about his brother, seen how his amazing eyes had brightened up when he had clearly been thinking about him... And the realisation had made his mood go through the stratosphere, and fuck the law.

“Go for it, Holmes boys,” he mumbled to himself before he sighed and grabbed a folder. Back to work.

Chapter Text

For a moment, Mycroft thought Sherlock had figured it out – the detective’s eyes were almost literally sparkling with determination. That he was now massively mad at him for distracting him with physical attention earlier in his office. Memories might have surfaced. A dog might have been turned back into a boy. He had seen that Sherlock had questioned the reason for their estrangement. And that only made sense if he had started to remember, however unconsciously.

If so, he had not understood. That became pretty clear when Sherlock just shrugged off his coat after storming into his house and closing the door with his heel and all but pushed Mycroft against the wall – to kiss him with relentless vigour once more. What had appeared like rage at first sight turned out to be frustrated passion. They had only begun to be… something more than estranged brothers two days ago and Sherlock was already vibrating with impatience to take their relationship to the next level. And since Mycroft had kind of indulged him earlier, he couldn’t really deny at least some evolution.

Not that he even wanted to. What was the point? Sherlock clearly desired him, and not just for a quickie. Little brother seriously wanted him. There were no guarantees for his interest to last as life didn't provide any guarantees. Him refraining from putting out so soon might spark Sherlock's interest even more but it would also piss him off, and that could lead to a confrontation their blooming romance did not need, especially not after their troubled past. And Mycroft had wanted him since forever. Only a total idiot would even try to resist the temptation that was the beautiful, brilliant, charismatic, gorgeous Sherlock Holmes. And Mycroft might be a lot of things but he was certainly not an idiot…

And he wanted… Oh, how much he wanted… That’s why he was kissing Sherlock back with equal hunger, his hands going astray on that impossibly lush backside, and he actually died for ripping Sherlock's clothes off and take him right on the carpet in his hallway, under the eyes of their ancestors, forever looking down sternly from their paintings. Mycroft could have had him, and Sherlock would have loved it – but it wasn’t exactly the scene of seduction Mycroft had in mind. Fucking on the floor without any preliminaries was just so vulgar… Or perhaps he just had a bad conscience at being relieved that Sherlock was still clueless about the long-gone past and Mycroft's misjudgement regarding their – to Sherlock still unknown – sister’s connection to a certain dead crime lord.

Mycroft had always claimed to be ‘the smart one’. Sherlock had, naturally, never believed that but it had been Mycroft who had lived his life rather flawlessly. No drugs, no shooting someone in the head in broad daylight with a dozen cops around because he had manoeuvred himself into corner… A career to be proud of, power, people fearing him, no vices (except for secretly loving his little brother). It just wouldn’t have looked very good – admitting that he had indeed slipped. Big time. Forcing Sherlock to give up his life as he had known it, to deceive the people closest to him, to go undercover and waste two years on taking a criminal network apart of which he would have had no knowledge had Mycroft not let Eurus meet Jim Moriarty… He couldn’t imagine Sherlock would have reacted well to that.

And baby brother would certainly not be kissing the living daylights out of him now…

Mycroft was so fully aware of all things Sherlock. The deliciously smelling skin. The softness of his mouth. The hardness of his muscles and his cock that was poking into Mycroft's crotch. His breathless little moans. The thick curls beneath Mycroft's fingers. The sheer desire Sherlock was emanating from every pore.

Little brother was as serious about this as they got. And Mycroft saw no point in playing shy anymore. He would have preferred waiting a bit longer with getting down and dirty but sod it.

“Come,” he said after breaking off the kiss.

“Where, and to do what?” Sherlock asked, his eyes dark with lust but emanating suspicion. “Watching another stupid movie?” His hands were boring into the flesh of Mycroft's waist. It felt deliciously painful.

“I was thinking about showing you how to knit a present for Mummy.”

Sherlock snorted, grinned and grimaced simultaneously. “Don’t bring up our parents now!”

“Why not?” Mycroft tilted his head. “Does it repulse you after all? The incest? Do you want to block out that we’re about to commit a crime, as stupid as it might seem to us?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No! I’m completely fine with it. I can’t fucking wait to fuck you. Was that clear enough? I just don’t want to imagine Mummy standing next to us while we’re doing it!”

Mycroft shuddered. “You do have a point and quite the disturbing fantasy, little brother.”

“Yes. That’s what I am. Your little brother. I don't give a damn. And I won’t give you a reason to back out.”

Mycroft smiled, and he had to admit a tension he had not even really been aware of was leaving his body. “Backing out is the very last thing on my mind right now. Taking you apart bit by bit is more like it.”

“Bragging, brother mine?” Sherlock flashed a very toothy grin at him. “I’m in.”

“I’d rather think I’ll be in…”

“Less talking. More fucking.” Sherlock all but dragged him towards the stairs that led up to Mycroft's bedroom.

“Your language is appalling,” Mycroft tutted.

Sherlock was not offended. “I know. Isn’t it marvellous?”

Yes. Yes, it definitely was.

*****

“You can touch me.” Mycroft, standing next to his large bed on the fluffy white carpet, spread his arms in an inviting gesture, his face pure smugness and provocation.

Sherlock tried to pull his eyes away from his brother’s delightfully naked body. It was not easy. He wanted to take it all in, save every close-up in his mind palace. And he could all but see the data that was being transferred. The pale neck. The shoulder hair. The incredibly furry chest. The nipples, with only the slightest tips poking out of the fur. Had Mummy cheated on Father with a bear when she had created big brother? Mycroft's stomach was not as sculpted and muscular as his own, but far from being rounded. His legs appeared to be endless, the muscles more defined than in any other part of his body. Such long feet and toes! And of course – an incredibly long, thick cock, veiny and just a tiny bit bent to the left, accompanied by large, hairy balls. Half-hard and pink. The fetish of any gay man. Somehow embarrassing as male genitalia simply were, but mouth-watering.

“I’m feeling so used by you staring at me like this,” Mycroft joked, and Sherlock finally looked up to meet his gaze.

“I haven’t even started to use you.” But his tone was cheekier than he was feeling. He too was stark naked, and Mycroft had scanned him with equal greed, only faster, and he had clearly liked what Sherlock had to offer. Desire was filling Sherlock's every fibre but he was also very nervous. He was completely inexperienced. Would he make a fool out of himself? All his knowledge about sex he had gained from watching porn. He knew the basics, he knew what he was supposed to do with his hands and lips and arse, and he longed for doing it all, but he was also shit scared. And of course it had a lot to do with the fact that the object of his desire was nobody else than his own big brother, the man who had taught him so much – even though Sherlock had never thanked him for that – and who had saved his arse so many times. A man as smart as he was gorgeous in a very alpha-male-way. Despite being brothers, they looked so amazingly different, and Sherlock wanted to explore their differences, and he wanted to make Mycroft's shields of ice crack and melt under his caresses, wanted to get to the unknown creature that was hiding under the image of three-piece-suits, uber-intelligence, arrogance and superiority.

Would Mycroft even let him? Divest him of his layers of protection, reveal who he really was – if Sherlock even managed to peel him out of his metaphorical suit of armour. Having Mycroft physically naked did not mean his brother would be amenable to letting Sherlock bare his soul. And even if Sherlock succeeded – what if it backfired? Wouldn’t Mycroft be all embarrassed and resentful? And would he -…

“You know, little brother – you are definitely thinking too much and too loudly.”

And then Sherlock found himself being manhandled onto the bed by gentle but firm hands, and his body was covered by the excitingly male man that was his brother. This was not long-suffering, drama-queen, theatrical Mycroft with his patented woe-is-me attitude. Neither was it the Iceman Mycroft was known as in his working environment. It wasn’t the overprotective big brother who had come to Sherlock's aid so many times, pouting at Sherlock's refusal to show any gratitude.

No. This was just the man Mycroft Holmes, a creature hardly anybody could have met before – and Sherlock caught himself resenting, no, hating every man who had been allowed to make his acquaintance, no matter how long ago it might have been. The man who was kissing Sherlock now, greedily and noisily, a long-limbed, warm, edgy man who gasped in delight when Sherlock slung his muscular legs around his waist, searching for friction. Mycroft, pure, male, sexual Mycroft, whose enormous cock was rock hard against Sherlock's groin now, whose teeth were sharp against Sherlock's lips, then his neck. When Mycroft bit into Sherlock's left nipple, the younger brother yowled his pleasure to the ceiling. The stimulation – rough but far from careless, always staying on the right side of pain – was almost enough to make him come again. With all the willpower he could muster, Sherlock fought against shooting like a fountain once more. The night was still young but they weren’t, and he didn’t want to risk their first real sexual encounter coming to a premature end – even though something told him that would happen anyway. It wasn’t quite a game they were playing but in a way it was, and Mycroft was the far more cunning player…

He groaned when Mycroft winked at him and then proceeded to actually lap all over Sherlock's stomach, obviously enjoying the plane muscles beneath his tongue, and then his hot, wet mouth engulfed the top third of Sherlock's throbbing cock.

Sherlock all but melted into the pillows, his groin feeling as if it was being lifted from the bed, towards the sucking, caressing mouth. He felt like falling out of time, out of place. Nothing counted anymore but this incredible stimulation.

He heard himself whine in frustration when Mycroft let him go, but the British Government’s soft voice shushed him, and then his legs were being pushed towards his stomach, and Sherlock grabbed them with his hands on instinct. He held himself up, and open, striving towards Mycroft’s face, and his eyes rolled back when the puckered skin of his virgin hole was met by hot breath, and then a wet, devious tongue started to lick around it in circles, dipping in, breaching the muscle.

It was too much and it wasn’t enough, and Sherlock panted and whimpered and hurled obscenities he had not even known were part of his vocabulary, and then he found himself begging for Mycroft to do what he had said he would: being inside him.

Sherlock gasped in delighted shock when Mycroft pulled back to spit onto – or into? – his quivering entrance, and then big brother was covering his body again, his cock sliding up and down Sherlock's spit-wet crack, being held up by his hole, poking against it, the flexible head knocking at the forbidden door, being sucked in just a fraction, just a tiny little bit, causing a sweet burn, a sting that set Sherlock's nerve endings on fire.

And then Sherlock came, violently, between their bodies, producing a high-pitched, strangled sound that he didn’t recognise as his own voice, and his legs gave way, his head fell back, his eyes closed by themselves, and a bliss he had never known washed over him.

He heard himself whimper when he was being pulled against a hairy, damp chest, arms closing around him, a gentle voice whispering sweet nothings, and he drifted off to sleep, his eyes damp, vaguely realising that he had, once more, been the only one to come.

And he wasn’t sure if he had really heard, “I love you, Sherlock,” before sleep had fully claimed him but no matter if those words had been uttered or not – from that moment on, the moment in which one last piece of a complicated puzzle had been put in its place with an almost audible ‘click’, he knew that he was being loved, and allowed to love, and it delivered his soul from all the troubles and the darkness it had gone through for so many years. It freed him, and it healed him, and it gave him a peace he had never known in all his life.

Chapter Text

“Oh, Sherlock!”

The detective winced and looked up from the microscope he had been using, seeing an apparently equally startled Molly Hooper reaching up to her flat chest. “Hey, Molly.”

She put her purse onto the desk beside him. “Hey. I had no idea that you’re here. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Sherlock nodded. Indeed – he had not come to Bart’s for weeks. “Just checking something for a cold case Lestrade gave me.” A series of murders from ten years ago. It was a mystery to him why the Met hadn’t bothered to ask for his expertise years ago. Well, it had not been Lestrade’s case. “Poison, a rare one.”

Molly’s right hand was playing with her long hair of nondescript colour. Her face was ghostly pale and Sherlock wondered if she ever went out into the sun. Her complexion was not ‘English Rose’-pale but rather corpse-pale, and that was only being stressed by her yellow shirt. “Sounds intriguing.” She sat down on the desk, looking at him in that particular way that had always made his toes curl.

He was aware that he was to blame for it in some ways. He had always used her infatuation with him for gaining access to lab equipment and body parts. For a while, Bart’s had been like a second home to him. Molly had helped him a lot once by organising a particular corpse for him, and, feeling shattered and depressed after John’s reaction to him coming back from the dead, he had thanked her by involving her in that silly fake-case. After that, he had, innocently, said some things he should have kept to himself, encouraging her when he should have always been clear about not being available. Even though she should have known that… She was rather smart for a goldfish and Sherlock had read somewhere that women were usually pretty good at detecting homosexuality in a man. Not this one, obviously…

“It’s okay,” he mumbled. “Grant needed help and I was free.”

“Who?” Molly suddenly grinned and shook her head. “You still don't know his real first name?”

Sherlock shrugged. “He reacts to every name I’m calling him.” Lestrade did have a lot of patience with him, and he very clearly liked Sherlock, despite him being arrogant and most certainly rather annoying to deal with… At least with Graham, he knew there were no ulterior motives involved… At least he hoped so very much…

“But you always knew my name,” she said, and hadn’t she just batted her eyelids at him? He must have looked panicked as she sighed and her shoulders slumped. “Sorry. I know you don't want me.”

“It’s not, I mean… Women are not my area.”

She gaped at him, her already big eyes huger than ever. “Does that mean you’re gay?”

“Yeah. I mean, I always thought I was –… I think they call it asexual.”

“But not anymore? So you have somebody?”

Dammit… Why wasn’t he wearing a sign, saying ‘I’m fucking with my brother’? Not that they had done that, but they had certainly come a lot closer to it last night… Hell, Mycroft’s cock had been in him just that tiny bit – after his tongue had made way for it… And it had been marvellous. Everything about being with big brother was marvellous.

In the morning, Mycroft had woken him up with a kiss after a long and restful sleep, and had told him that he was welcome to stay as long as he wanted, but that Mycroft would have to stay at the office rather late today because of some inevitable meetings.

After hastily taking care of his morning hygiene, Sherlock had joined him, wearing nothing but one of Mycroft's robes, in drinking coffee and nibbling at toast with peach jam, and when they had parted after some heavy kissing and very exciting groping, Sherlock had taken a stroll through Mycroft's large house. He had not rummaged in his drawers or snooped for state secrets but he had taken in the atmosphere of every room, and it had helped him getting to know his brother better. His taste in books – when did he even have time to read them? – and music. His preferred hair- and tooth-products. Sherlock had looked at his kitchen utensils and what he stacked in the fridge. Every bit of data helped him deciphering the mystery that was his big brother.

Also, he had worked out excessively in Mycroft's gym, powering himself out. He had tried on a suit of armour, musing about the possibility of including it in future sex play – but he had quickly dismissed it…

In between, he had texted with Mycroft, which had been nice. He had also spoken with John and Mary, who had invited him for dinner the next day. It had not pleased him that much but he could have hardly declined without making them suspicious, and it really didn’t matter which evening it would be – it would mean less time spent with his new lover. Of course he would excuse himself as early as possible and head over to Mycroft's, if his brother was available at all. Since he would already see him rather late today, he didn’t want to miss out on too much quality time with him tomorrow. After that phone call, he had headed over to the Met to all but beg Lestrade for a case to keep him occupied. The cop had watched him curiously before he had produced those dusty folders, and eventually, Sherlock had gone to Bart’s to investigate, just to have something to do so he wouldn’t hail a cab to Whitehall and pester his busy brother again… It didn’t do to be too clingy right from the start.

Sherlock had never understood those inane people who could think of nothing and nobody but their ‘sweetheart’, being all but obsessed with this person, as if it was the Holy Grail. But now that love had caught up with him, he did understand. Mycroft was in his every thought. When he closed his eyes, he saw his brother’s face, smiling at him, warmth in his not-that-icy blues. He could still literally feel Mycroft's tongue in him, his cock poking against his entrance, going in only that teensy bit. But why didn’t Mycroft want to come, too? Did he dread losing control? Was it a way to feel superior to him? Sherlock, being a helpless creature of the flesh, and him, being above needing release? They wouldn’t go on like that, would they? Mycroft would let him make him come too, surely?

“Ow!” he suddenly yelled as a pen had been stabbed into his hand. Well, it had not breached the skin, but it had still hurt!

“I’m talking and talking, and you’re not hearing anything,” Molly complained, and Sherlock could see tears glistening in her eyes even though she was trying to smile, and he knew she was not about to cry because he had not listened but because what had been left of her illusions about him being a possible partner for her had just died.

“I’m sorry,” he said, meaning more than his absentmindedness, rubbing the back of his hand – thankfully, she had not used a scalpel... To think she couldn’t have him and to surely know it had to be two different things. But it had to be some sort of comfort, too, didn’t it? Knowing he was not into women (quite literally) so no other female could have him, either.

She sighed and shrugged. “It hurts, I won’t lie. But… I guess it’s the best that could happen. To you, too, of course. I’m glad you’re happy.”

“I am. And one day, you will find someone nice, too.” God, what was he even talking about? Such clichés… He didn’t have any premonitions about her finding ‘the right one’. He had no premonitions about her at all.

Unsurprisingly, she didn’t look convinced. “I asked you if anyone has met him yet?”

Well, in a way… “No,” he lied, because what else was he supposed to do? “Not going to happen,” he hurried to add. “We are… very private about it…” Fuck… Now that she knew it, he would have to tell John and Mary. God… He really dreaded this conversation.

“Not even John?”

“No! I mean… I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me dating a man but…”

Molly looked aghast. “Of course he wouldn’t. I’ll kick him if he says something mean about it.”

How times had changed, and how fast… Five minutes ago, she had still been unhappily in love with him and now she was ready to defend his same-sex relationship against an allegedly homophobic John. “He won’t. He said it was all fine, years ago. But I really don't want to talk about it.” It was futile… Molly would not keep her mouth shut forever, and John would be hurt if he found out that his best friend was seeing someone thanks to somebody else, and Sherlock wouldn’t hear the end of it… What a mess… Perhaps he and Mycroft should simply throw a little party for all of his friends – and why not their parents, too – and tell everybody about it… And everybody who threatened to expose them to the authorities wouldn’t get out alive, even if it was Mummy… And how bad a son was he that he had to suppress a grin at the thought of Mycroft pulling his gun out of his umbrella and shooting her…

But then he almost literally shook his head at his own silliness. He would just tell John that he had invented that boyfriend to cure Molly from her pointless pining for him. That would do.

“Is he handsome?” Molly asked, looking so innocent and eager.

“Yes,” Sherlock mumbled, honestly, wondering how loudly she would scream if she knew the truth about his lover’s identity…

“And smart, I bet.”

“Very, of course.” Mycroft was the smart one. So smart, and sexy, and lovely…

“You should see your face when you think of him… It’s -…”

“…disgusting?” Sherlock grinned when she giggled.

“No! Cute!”

“Even worse!” Sherlock retorted, and then they chuckled together, and he realised he felt better in her presence now than he had ever done before. He had to lie to her, and everybody else apart from Mrs Hudson, about who exactly it was that he loved, but now that she had finally accepted that she could never have him, a particular elephant in the room had vanished, and it had cleared the air. In fact, she had just proven to be a true friend, more or less selflessly accepting that he was attached to someone else now.

He nonetheless changed the subject and talked to her about his experiment, getting some valuable information from her, and soon, she had to go starting her shift. Sherlock finished his examinations, grabbed his coat and left the lab.

And when he stepped out into the cool air through the side exit, he opened his eyes in delighted surprise – as nobody else but Mycroft was standing next to the door, smiling at him. “Hello, little brother. I have escaped my duties for about an hour. Would you like to keep me company for a while?”

And Sherlock had to force himself to refrain from clinging to his neck. “Sure. Where do you want to go?” I would go anywhere with you was clearly written between the lines, and Mycroft smiled and winked at him, and Sherlock felt a blush on his cheeks that some people would have certainly described as ‘cute’ – probably even Mycroft…

*****

Damn… He had not expected that it would make him feel that weird to be up here again…

Sherlock slowly walked across the rooftop off which he had jumped almost four years ago. He was hyper aware of Mycroft's presence right behind him, but in his mind’s eye, he saw Jim Moriarty waiting for him, to play his last game with him – and even though Sherlock did not believe in ghosts that haunted the place where they had died, it felt as if the spectre of the dead criminal was still there. Handsome, insane Jim. The craziest part about his confrontation with the Napoleon of Crime had been the genuine mutual attraction that had been there instantly when they had met at the pool. And it had not been Jim’s admittedly pretty face that had fascinated Sherlock. It had been the man’s enormous intellect. Brains had always attracted him. Nothing had changed about that…

“I came here often,” Mycroft said, standing side-by-side with him now, looking down at the ambulance station that had blocked John’s view from seeing Sherlock jump onto the pillow. “When you were away.”

They sat down on the ledge – the same spot on which Jim had been sitting when Sherlock had come out. It felt completely surreal. The sun was shining, it was a warm day, and Sherlock could hear the chattering of people walking past the hospital, as quiet as the tweeting of the sparrows that he heard in the early morning hours when he woke up on his bed in 221B. And yet it felt like walking through his past. “Why?” he asked his brother, reaching for Mycroft’s hand, and the feeling of his warm skin soothed him, grounded him.

His brother looked at Sherlock's fingers around his own in what could only be described as wonder, before he gently squeezed them. “I somehow felt close to you here. It was as if you were with me.”

They had met again after Sherlock had jumped. He had been driven to a secret house near the airport, where Mycroft had been waiting for him – allegedly to go over their plans again. How naïve he had been… Now he knew that Mycroft had just wanted to say goodbye in person, not knowing if they would ever meet again. And what had Sherlock done? He had been wired and nervous and shaken by his conversation with John, and he had not been nice to his brother at all. But of course that had been nothing new whatsoever, had it?

“Sometimes I snuck into 221B when I knew the house was empty, too,” Mycroft confessed. “But the dustier your flat got, the more depressing it felt to be there. You were gone too long, little brother. And here… The breeze, the sun…” Mycroft shrugged, looking sheepish. “A sentimental fool, that’s what I was.”

“You still are,” teased Sherlock, and Mycroft chuckled and lifted Sherlock's hand to brush a kiss onto his knuckles.

“Guilty as charged. Only you are doing this to me.”

“I should hope so.” Sherlock reached for Mycroft’s face with his free hand and turned it so they could kiss. It felt almost decadent to do this here. High up. Still sort of a public place. A loaded one, and not in a good way, but their kiss shooed the awkward feeling away, contained the ghastly memories of pale, dead Jim Moriarty. “I wish… you had told me. That you were missing me. If you did,” he added, then he wondered why. Of course Mycroft had missed him. And they had been in contact rather frequently. Just to talk about Sherlock's progress and the challenges he was facing, naturally.

“I doubt that would have gone down well,” Mycroft said, softly.

Of course it wouldn’t have. Sherlock had always thrown Mycroft’s brotherly concern into his face. And he would have definitely not been able to deal with feelings of the not-brotherly sort at that point…

“I’m sorry,” he said, quietly, knowing there were a million things he had every reason to regret regarding his brother.

“Hush, Sherlock. I told you – no wasting time with regretting the past. I just… Maybe I shouldn’t have brought you up here.”

“I like it that you did.” And wasn’t that the truth? Mycroft had shown his vulnerable side by telling Sherlock that he had come up here and to his flat when Sherlock had been far, far away. And Sherlock did like that side.

“Maybe I came here to punish myself, back then,” Mycroft said, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze. “I should have done better regarding Moriarty. I -… I could have lost you that day, Sherlock. We both know it. He could have used his gun to shoot you instead of himself. He could have tried to push you over the edge.”

“He was a dwarf; I would have beaten him easily in unarmed combat,” Sherlock said, half-jokingly. Because Mycroft was right. If Moriarty had been so inclined, he could have put a bullet through Sherlock's head instead. Or commit murder/suicide. But Sherlock had been feeling so… invincible. A common theme in his life, it seemed. Applying to the drugs, the dangerous cases in general, the mission. Somehow, he had felt as if nothing could truly harm him. And very recently, the Norbury case had just shown him how quickly everything could be over… Which had turned out to be a good thing as it had opened his heart to his brother.

“I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself,” Mycroft said, rubbing Sherlock's fingers between his own. “If anything happened to you in dealing with Moriarty. Or Magnussen. Or at all. I know you have a dangerous occupation, and you love it. But promise me that you will always try to get back to me unscathed. Or at least – alive. Because I won’t be there all the time.”

A lump had suddenly occupied Sherlock's throat. He nodded. “I promise,” he said, not even thinking of reprimanding his brother for suggesting that he was not able to look after himself. He knew very well that Mycroft had a point. “I have too much to lose now. I would miss out on all the ghastly films in your DVD collection!”

Mycroft gaped at him for a second before he threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, brother mine. I love how you make me laugh.”

And I love you, Sherlock thought, but he didn’t say it. He didn’t have to. Looking into his eyes, Mycroft bent over to kiss him on the lips, and they went on letting their mouths and tongues dance with each other until it was time for Mycroft to return to the office – not without telling Sherlock that he would be at home as soon as possible. And there was a promise in his voice that made Sherlock's knees go all wobbly.

There would be sex. There would be fun. And there would, most certainly, be love.

Chapter Text

Mycroft had not expected to get addicted to this so soon. Not just to the softness of Sherlock's lips, snogging the living daylight out of him when Mycroft had basically just entered the house, awfully late and rather exhausted. Not just to how great and perfect Sherlock's edgy, muscular frame felt in his arms. To the prospect of even more delicate intimacy. To spend time with his gorgeous, fascinating little brother.

No, what was even more addictive than all that was the fact that he was now coming home to someone, and not just someone. Sherlock. Who had seemingly forgotten that his home was officially the flat he had once shared with John Watson. Sherlock felt at home in Mycroft's house now, was moving around and about here as if he had been living here for ages, and it just felt so right, so logical, and so good. Mycroft wished dearly that Sherlock could give up his flat and move in with him but that would have been unwise in many ways. Not only because that would make even John Watson suspicious, let alone their parents… They both needed their space, too. They were both middle-aged men with set habits and unique preferences. Mycroft was not that fond of listening to violin-playing at four in the morning, even if it was done virtuously. He did like his peace and quiet. And sleep, which Sherlock found boring.

And it would be dangerous. Mycroft was a man of power, and therefore, he had enemies. Of course, Sherlock had always been his weak spot; people like Charles Augustus Magnussen did not miss out on that fact. But nobody was allowed to exploit their relationship, to threaten them, to even just disturb them in their new bubble of romance and closeness. And Mycroft couldn’t have anyone hostile figuring out just how close they were to each other now. He knew he could trust Anthea with his life, and they both already knew each other’s secrets – his relationship with Sherlock might be the most delicate one but he did have other things he wouldn’t want people to know about, and so did Anthea. Mrs Hudson would never betray Sherlock, so much was sure, and she was, as old as she was, a very liberal woman.

If he was honest, he assumed that in the long run, all of Sherlock's friends would probably find out about them. It was not a prospect that made him exactly happy as he could hardly kill John Watson off if he got worked up about an incestuous relationship… Before they had parted after their tête-à-tête on the roof, Sherlock had told him that Molly Hooper had figured out that he was seeing someone, just not whom exactly, which could change eventually. But they would deal with these challenges when they arose. Mycroft had not been idle though. Sure – he had dirt on basically everybody who could attempt to make him fall, but he couldn’t rule out that circumstances wouldn’t let him play these cards. So fake identities – five for each of them – were in the making. He had started to search for property in nicely-tempered, gay-friendly countries for them to retreat to. It would mean the end of his career, and Sherlock's, too, obviously. But with more than twenty million pounds at his disposal, neither of them would have to work another day if push came to shove. They would find ways to occupy their minds and they would for sure know how to occupy their bodies... For now, they would take one day at a time and just enjoy what was developing between them. And for sure, Mycroft very much enjoyed kissing little brother.

And when Sherlock finally disentangled himself from him, his plush lips bruised and swollen, his eyes dazed with lust, and pulled at Mycroft’s arm to urge him on, life just got that little bit better.

“Hungry, little brother?” Mycroft asked, innocently. In fact, he had not had much time to eat anything, and a little dinner wouldn’t have gone amiss. Not that he would get it so soon, judging by the way his lover was vibrating with anticipation… And not that he cared about that, really…

“Yes,” Sherlock purred. “For you.”

So predictable and lovely, his beautiful brother. “Oh, dear me.”

Sherlock grinned and slapped Mycroft's thigh. “Let’s go, old man. Show me.”

Mycroft reached for his hand. “Oh alright, I’ll show you, you impertinent boy.”

Yes. This was imminently worth all the hassle it might cause in the near or far future. It was worth everything.

*****

Sherlock was shivering. From head to toe. Almost violently. His cock, untouched, was so hard that it hurt, and clear drops of pre-seminal fluid were dribbling onto Mycroft's leg. His face was nuzzled against a warm, furry chest, and he was breathing his brother in, sniffing loudly, a grin pulling at his lips as the broad chest was moving from Mycroft's delighted chuckling.

A detective’s tongue darted out to lap at a little pink nub, poking out of the fur. Sherlock grinned broadly now when his efforts were met by a deep moan. These useless remnants of evolution seemed to have a direct line to Mycroft's penis, so much bigger than his own, hot and heavy in Sherlock's hand and twitching fetchingly now.

“You want to suck my large cock, little brother?” Mycroft purred, and Sherlock looked up to meet his gaze, licking his lips at the prospect.

“You seem to be getting off of calling me that.”

“Problem?”

Sherlock winked at him. “Not one. It is… sexy.”

“Forbidden things tend to be sexier than boring, normal ones,” mused Mycroft, stroking Sherlock's shoulder.

“Neither of us have ever been interested in boring and normal.” The sheer thought was appalling.

“And why would we. We are two of a kind.”

Sherlock tilted his head, his hand sliding up and down Mycroft's long, fat appendage. “Nobody can live up to us.”

Mycroft nodded. “Nobody.”

There was an odd look in his eyes, for so short a moment that Sherlock almost missed it. He gazed at Mycroft curiously, and then it was his turn to moan when his own left nipple was tweaked by devious fingers none-too-gently. The pain was sharp and sweet, and it sent sparks of arousal through Sherlock's system. At this rate, he would go off like a rocket again in no time at all. He should masturbate before getting down and dirty with Mycroft next time to take the edge off it…

“Go on, brother mine,” Mycroft said, his voice hoarse. “I’m dying to have your lips around my crown. If you want to, that is. I can do it for you instead, or first, or -… Oh fuck.”

Ah, what a pleasure to elicit such words from the Iceman’s lips. While Sherlock was probingly nibbling at that soft, flexible head of Mycroft's cock, lapping up the tiny driblets of fluid, he was listening to all kinds of encouragement, begging and praise for his skills. Mycroft’s large hand was on the back of Sherlock's head, his thumb stroking his scalp, and it felt warm and reassuring. A caress and a plea, not a demand to take him deeper. Mycroft was not pushing him down, for which Sherlock was grateful. He was sucking a cock for the first time in his life after all, and it was not the easiest task he had ever committed himself to. Having an inedible object in his throat felt weird and the taste was strong and alien, and Mycroft was hung so big that it made Sherlock gag inevitably.

But he was still enjoying himself, and so was Mycroft. It was an act of selfless worship, but also a display of power. Making Mycroft feel good in this primal, intimate way was a tremendous turn-on for Sherlock, and it also felt like saying sorry for how he had fucked up their brotherly relationship for the past three decades. All the malevolent jokes about his brother’s weight and general appearance were hopefully being contradicted by how much Sherlock desired him now. He was making up for always refusing to help Mycroft out or at least making a huge fuss before reluctantly doing it. The odd bite and the rather ghastly noises and all the drool he was producing during his task apparently didn’t offend Mycroft too much, Sherlock assumed. At least big brother kept moaning and asking to apply more pressure or pull at his balls or tease his hole.

Eager to learn more than ever, Sherlock did everything he could to make this first ever blowjob he was giving his brother an experience Mycroft would never forget – or regret. He filed away every reaction to what he was doing, every delighted gasp, every twitching, every variation of Mycroft's hand digging into his neck in ecstasy. He hurried to do what Mycroft was asking him to do, and he couldn’t help but admit that all his talking about his body being just transport and not needing sexual fulfilment had been bullshit. He was thoroughly enjoying what he was doing, and he couldn’t wait to do anything two men could do with each other, as long as it was consensual and not seriously painful. That opened up endless possibilities, and the prospect left him shivering even more while he was sucking and slurping and writhing in arousal, his testicles feeling like hot balls of steel between his legs.

The end came as a surprise to both of them. Mycroft cried out when Sherlock had just taken him in deeper than ever before, bucked up, and shot his load down Sherlock's throat – and since he had not come before, it was a load of large dimensions.

Spluttering and coughing, tears in his eyes, Sherlock managed to not choke on the semen and to swallow a part of it, while the rest, mixed with a lot of spit, landed on his brother’s groin. It was messy and embarrassing, but that was sex for you, Sherlock thought while he was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Sorry, little brother,” Mycroft mumbled, sheepishly. “Happened too fast to warn you.”

Sherlock soothed him by patting his wet thigh, feeling both a bit shaken but all the more proud that he had made his brother lose control like that. His hair thoroughly tousled, his fine forelock curling into his reddened, sweaty face, Mycroft was the picture of debauch and sexual pleasure, and it was an image Sherlock thought he could very well get used to. From now on, it would serve as decoration for one of the walls of Mycroft's room in Sherlock's mind palace.

He bent over to kiss his sibling, who had slumped into the pillows like a sack of bones, moaning when a long-fingered hand found his own so far neglected cock and started massaging it.

Sherlock was way too aroused to last long. A few devious twists and turns of Mycroft's wrist were enough to drive him over the edge. Biting at Mycroft's neck, he came over the caressing hand, the sheets and Mycroft's leg, sagging against him.

“Your bed is a lost cause,” he mumbled, knowing their semen was basically everywhere, mixed with sweat and saliva.

“I’ll take care of it, don't worry. We won’t sleep in this mess.”

Weird – how quickly they had become used to spending the nights together. How easy it all had been – them, being together. The pleasures of the flesh were only part of this. When he had been thinking of Mycroft before, the dominant associations had been exasperation, annoyance and automatic opposition. Now it was trust, affection, and peace. And yes – love.

Sherlock snuggled against Mycroft's chest, enjoying his brother’s arm around his shoulders. “Won’t let you get up again,” he protested.

Mycroft chuckled. “We’ll be glued together in the morning if we don't freshen up and change the sheets.”

“Don’t care.” Sherlock raised his head just enough to look into his brother’s eyes. He was feeling deliciously sated and tired, but still his heart rate was increased. “Mycroft.”

“That’s me.” A hand was placed on Sherlock's cheek, and their gazes bored into each other.

“I love you.” There – he had said it, and the words had left his lips so easily. Never in his life had he said something that true. He might have realised these feelings only very recently, but they had been hiding in him for a very long time; there was no doubt about it. And without Mycroft literally saving his life, they would have probably never bubbled up to the surface. How ironic that he owed what they had now to the late Vivian Norbury. And to Mary, ultimately, because without her, they would have never found out about the secretary’s betrayal.

The probably most telling fact was that he didn’t even consider that Mycroft could make fun of him and mock him for being sentimental. Those days were over for good, and Sherlock did not miss them.

Mycroft looked at him in a way that made Sherlock want to crawl under his skin or at least hug him for eternity. “I love you, too, little brother.” He blinked a few times in quick succession and opened his mouth as if he wanted to add something, but then he simply pulled Sherlock in even closer and kissed him, and neither was giving a damn about being sticky and icky anymore, and soon they both drifted off to sleep, still as closely intertwined as humanly possible.

Chapter Text

“Hey, Sherlock. Come in! John’s in the shower but dinner is almost ready.” Mary, dressed in a chic black skirt and a red blouse, beamed at him, and Sherlock smiled, entering the Watson flat with the bottle of wine Mrs Hudson had given him after admonishing him that he had not thought of a gift to bring.

Mary took it. “Will be perfect to go with our spaghetti. Martha?”

So the two women were on first-name-terms. His landlady had never offered him to call her Martha. “Yes,” he admitted, not surprised at all. Mary was not like John. She did not just see. She was very well capable of observing and making deductions of her own. Of course she wasn’t in his league, let alone Mycroft's…

Not thinking about Mycroft, no, no, he told himself while he was hanging up his coat. Not a good idea. Because that would instantly remind him of how his brother had basically eaten him alive in the morning. He had given Sherlock a blowjob that must have cost him a few thousand brain cells at least, so hard had he come down Mycroft's throat. He had screamed the house down – thank God for Mycroft not having direct neighbours – and had blacked out for a few seconds. When he had been able to see something again, he had watched Mycroft beating off while straddling his legs – big brother had forbidden him to touch him, and the show he had pulled off had been so fucking hot… Then they had showered together, and Sherlock had not gotten enough of the slippery eel that was his lover, covered in deliciously smelling body wash. And then Mycroft had washed his back, and had ended up on his knees, ‘washing’ Sherlock's hole with his tongue, making him spurt all over the blue tiles. Had Mycroft not held him afterwards, he would have melted onto the ground of the shower cabin like a puddle of goo.

Feeling his cock filling out in his suddenly too-tight pants, Sherlock was – silently cursing himself for letting his thoughts go astray when he had absolutely not wanted that to happen – following Mary through the flat. Of course he had not heard a word she had been saying, and when she stopped in the middle of the living room, making him almost bump into her, and turned around to him with a questioning look and a happy smile, he knew she had asked him something.

While he was still trying to deduce what she might have been talking about, she sighed and shook her head. “Didn’t hear my question, right?”

“You were talking?” Sherlock turned it into a joke, and to his relief, Mary just laughed.

“You are really something else, Sherlock. Sit down, would you?”

Sherlock let himself drop onto the couch obediently, glancing around. The room had been hastily tidied up. The odd toy had been pushed under a chair, and he could spot one of Rosie’s rattles on the far end of a board. His goddaughter was in bed at this time of day, naturally.

Feeling a bit at a loss, alone in the room that was the heart of the flat of a happy family, he wondered if he could dare pull out his phone and text Mycroft. His brother had told him he would stay at the office longer and give him a ride home – because yeah, his brother’s house did feel more like home than Baker Street these days – and that Sherlock should take his time as it suited him fine to get some work done for which he had not had the time during the past hectic days.

Sherlock was missing him. Badly. It was all most amazing. He felt like a schoolboy with a crush. On one of the older, cooler boys. The up-to-no-good ones. Which was weird in a way. Mycroft had always been the good son after all. No problems, no slip-ups, no trouble. Sherlock would have sworn that Mycroft had never touched an illegal substance, other than for taking it away from his wayward little brother. But Sherlock would not be fooled. Mycroft being a good boy, a protective son for Mummy and the carer of his troubled younger sibling was just one side of him. He carried his codename ‘Antarctica’ for a reason. The Iceman. The fixer. The manipulator. Mycroft was a dangerous man. Sherlock had teased him for allegedly being lazy and a pencil-pusher for years, but he had always known that was hardly more than a ruse. Mycroft might prefer whispering into the ears of the mighty and hatching intrigues from the comfortableness of his office, a good glass of whiskey next to him when it had become late. But that didn’t make him any less intimidating. And very obviously, Mycroft had his minions for the dirty work but he was very well able to do it himself. One just had to ask Vivian Norbury…

“You are scaring me.”

Sherlock almost shot up from his spot on the couch. John was standing in front of him, freshly showered and shaved and looking at him with a mixture of amusement and concern. Apparently, he had been talking to Sherlock for quite a while…

“Oh, there you are,” Sherlock stated, nonchalantly. “Long day at the clinic?”

John let him get away with it. “Very. And I’m starving. Ready to come into what we laughingly call our dining room?”

Sherlock got up. “Sure. I brought wine.”

John nodded. “Mrs Hudson?”

Dammit… His friends knew him too well…

*****

Mary was a great cook. Sherlock was not picky anyway, let alone a gourmet, but the pasta with the spicy tomato sauce was perfect, as was the green salad with the sour crème dressing and lots of onions – a recipe of Mary’s German colleague, Sherlock was told.

It was fun to be here. Listening to the couple’s chattering. One finishing the sentences of the other one. It was so hard to believe that John had been risking this relationship for a cheap affair. Even if it had just consisted of exchanging texts with another woman. They were pretty happy, he and Mary. They were not as cosy with each other as Sherlock's parents were, though. Of course, Mummy and Father had been married for more than forty years. But somehow, there was something going on here that couldn’t be blamed on the shortness of this marriage. Most certainly, Mary’s secrets were still standing between them even though they must have mostly been revealed. Surely, Mary had told John more about her assassin past as of late. The disasters with Ajay and Norbury would have forced her to. Perhaps John had still not fully forgiven her for all the lies – and for shooting Sherlock.

To him, it didn’t matter anymore. He had never hated her for it. She had been feeling cornered, and she had been used to solving problems with the help of a gun… He had survived, and he had acted on his vow when he had betrayed Mycroft to confront Magnussen. God… What an idiot he had been. That was something he would never get over…

“More?”

Grateful that he had apparently heard her the first time, Sherlock raised his plate so more delicious food could be scooped onto it. Some great guest he was… Enjoying the meal but not adding anything to the conversation. Of course, they were used to him being lost in thought. John probably thought he was turning some or other chemical experiment over in his head, or had entered his mind palace to find a solution to a case from two-hundred years ago… His indulgent smile said it all. Mary on the other hand… She was clearly not angry with him, but there was an odd look in her eyes when she handed him the salad bowl.

“…lately?”

Sherlock winced. Dammit. John had been talking to him. “Sorry?”

The doctor grinned and shook his head, a fond look on his face. “I said, have you seen Molly lately? She’s been very busy but I thought you might have met her at Bart’s.”

Sherlock cleared his throat and then he stuffed his mouth with a load of pasta, chewing it while thinking. What was he supposed to do and say now? If they were not in contact with her, she couldn’t mention his boyfriend. But she wouldn’t be AWOL forever, and she would certainly not forget about that juicy piece of news. “I, um, saw her yesterday, actually.”

“Oh, good. Was she still so pale?” John asked, while Mary was watching Sherlock curiously.

“She’s always been pale,” Sherlock mumbled. “Um, I… Listen, she clearly likes me.”

John actually laughed at that, a bit of salad flying out of his mouth, landing on the table cloth, which made Mary groan almost inaudibly. “Do tell. Never reckoned! Don't tell me you’ve just figured that out.”

“No, of course not.” God, he hated this conversation… “I just thought, suddenly, that I shouldn’t let her go on believing that she, you know, stands a chance. So I told her that I was seeing someone. In a way. A man. So, if she mentions it, which I think she won’t because I told her not to, but who knows with women, right? Anyway, just remember what I just said but don't tell her the truth. Damn, Mary, this pasta is just so… good!”

Both Watsons were staring at him as if he had fallen from space, and then the baby phone on the table came to life, making them hear Rosie crying, and John got up and used his tissue to wipe his mouth. “I’ll look after her. Hold your thought!”

Sherlock watched him leave, hopeful that John would have forgotten where their conversation had stopped. And then he saw Mary’s look.

And cursed himself. If he had been able to, he would have kicked his own arse. “Don't,” he said, his hand cramping around his fork.

“It wasn’t a lie,” she said, predictively ignoring his plea. “You are different; I saw it at once when you came through the door.”

“It’s nothing. Can I have more pasta?”

“Your plate is still half full. I’ll pack up the leftovers for you.” Mary’s eyes had not left his face for a single second. She was not even blinking… “You’re in love, Sherlock.”

He closed his eyes. This woman was simply not good. Or rather: too good! “I don't want to talk about it.”

“It’s clearly a man; hell, I saw you’re gay when you played that waiter!”

“That was just a performance to soothe John!” Sherlock protested, listening to said man speaking to his baby daughter now.

“Who can that be?” Mary continued, mercilessly. Her large blue eyes were sparkling. “Who is smart enough to get your attention? Who is strong enough to keep up with you? Whom would you even deem worthy of your time?”

“Not playing this game. Not your business.”

“And who just saved your life?”

Silence fell over the table, the only noise coming out of the little white gadget – John singing a lullaby for his baby.

Sherlock winced when a warm hand was laid onto his. He looked up to meet her gaze, and his heart clenched when he saw her smile.

“Sherlock, you went through hell and back to save me. You convinced John to take me back when I had royally fucked up. You forgave me for killing you.”

“That was only temporary,” Sherlock mumbled, looking at her small hand on his.

Mary’s voice was deeper than he had ever heard it when she continued. “You have protected me, and you will go on protecting me and my family, and you are a part of this family. I love you like a, you know, brother. You don't seriously think I would give away your secret, even to John, when you did anything you could to not let mine destroy my new life?”

A breath he had not known he had been holding left his mouth. “So you… don't mind?”

Her smile was so genuine that it touched his heart. “Mind? I’m just mad I didn’t see how perfect this solution is. I never liked you being all alone. I know I took John away from you.”

“I’ve never been in love with him,” Sherlock protested. “Doesn’t matter that everybody thought so.” Probably many people still did…

“You know what I mean. You shared your flat with him, your whole life, well, almost all of it… I was thinking about how to make sure you don't fall back into all those old habits. It was bad enough that you did that for me to fool Magnussen.”

“Didn’t work that well…” In fact, nothing had worked well when it came to that nasty episode. He cringed when he thought of how he had mercilessly drugged his old parents, and his brother, who had told him his loss would break his heart, as well as Mary herself…

“In the end, it did, and your brother saved you. I should have known it back then…”

“Me too.” God, Mycroft had really saved him so many times, and in so many different ways. Without ever getting so much as a ‘thank you’. In fact, his only reward had been Sherlock resenting him for his efforts…

“He really has to love you very much,” she said very quietly, and he couldn’t have forced the happy smile on his face away for the life of him.

“He does, and so do I. But… Never, really, never tell anyone. It is important!” She wanted to interrupt him but he squeezed her hand, probably a tad too hard. “There can never be the shade of suspicion about it. Especially not considering the people who might still be on your track.”

“I swear, Sherlock, that I will take this secret to the grave. I’m actually sure John wouldn’t mind but I respect your decision to not tell him. And next time someone from my past shows up, I’ll be better prepared.” Her eyes were cold now. “I’m not going to let anyone take away my new life. I was lost, Sherlock, before I met him. Lost and lonely and almost ready to…” She made a gesture towards her neck that was not to be misunderstood. “And I think that’s how you felt for a long time, too.”

It was hard to disagree on that, because she was right…

She saw it in his eyes and nodded. “I won’t let anyone take away what I have now, and right here and now I’m making a vow to protect your happiness as well. Not just because I owe it to you after all you’ve done for me already and for what I did to you, but because you deserve it.”

Sherlock was more than a bit moved. He sincerely hoped that neither would have to act on their vows, but it was great to know her on his side, and for sure he would never forget his promise to protect his Watsons.

They shared a smile, and then they let go of each other’s hand when John hastened back into the room and let himself drop onto his chair again. “So, Sherlock. You told Molly you were seeing a bloke?”

“Problem?”

John snorted. “I told you it’s all fine. But listen – I’m working with a great guy, a doctor, obviously, and he’s gay and single and -…”

Sherlock suppressed a groan and then he met Mary’s laughing eyes and he quickly stuffed his mouth with the now almost cold pasta and blanked out John playing matchmaker until Mary distracted her oblivious husband by telling an anecdote from her day at the doctor’s office.

When dinner was over, they had coffee, and then Mary pretended to be very tired so Sherlock had an excuse to say goodbye, and after discreetly texting Mycroft to let him know he was ready to be picked up, he hugged her tighter than ever when she brought him to the door.

Somehow, he had several families now, and even though they were all so different from each other, he counted himself lucky to be part of each and every one of them.

Chapter Text

This time, Mycroft immediately put up the dark screen between them and his driver when the car had taken off. Mycroft had instantly deduced that something unexpected had happened.

In fact, it shouldn’t have even come as a surprise. Smart Mary with the – literally – killer instinct. Trained to take in people’s appearance, scanning it for unusual signs. Of course she wouldn’t miss that he was in love. Was it merely a women’s thing? Mrs Hudson and Anthea had figured it out in no time, too, and so had Molly, even though she had not understood who it was. But she had met his brother only once, under difficult circumstances – when Sherlock had, erroneously, identified a dead body as Irene Adler’s. And her own infatuation with him had blurred her judgement. Anyway, someone as perceptive as Mary would not miss the changes he had gone through.

And Mycroft had deduced it from his expression and behaviour.

Sherlock planted a kiss on his brother’s lips. “She’s fine with it, and she swore she wouldn’t tell anybody. There is no need to let her disappear.”

Mycroft chuckled darkly. “You think that’s what I would do to someone who poses a threat to us? Have them murdered and buried in the woods?”

“Yes,” Sherlock instantly said, with conviction, because of course Mycroft would do exactly that. He grinned when Mycroft laughed and tousled his curls.

“Cheeky boy. But yeah, I would.” His voice dropped an octave when he whispered into Sherlock's ear, “Actually, anyone who dares fuck with us will be disembowelled by me personally. I will shower with their blood.”

Sherlock’s grin deepened. “Your verbal foreplay is hideous, brother dear.”

Mycroft nibbled at his earlobe. “Is it now?” His hand deviously reached for Sherlock's crotch, squeezing his genitals, and Sherlock couldn’t suppress a moan.

“Yes, it is!” That was a blatant lie, and they both knew it. Mycroft being all dark and dangerous was fucking hot; there was no denying it.

Mycroft laughed again but then he turned serious. “You are aware that if someone else from her past catches up with her, they will go for all the weak spots?”

Sherlock nodded. “I know. But Mary won’t let it happen. I won’t let it happen.”

Mycroft nodded, too, clearly thinking that of course he would do anything in his power, too, and how weird it was that he now had to care about John Watson’s wife. “She has not been that good at dealing with those blasts from the past so far,” he still said, his hand intertwining with Sherlock's on his thigh.

“Just because it was all so new and she was caught off guard. Not going to happen again.” Sherlock didn’t know why he was so sure about that. Another premonition? But he could feel that Mary was safe now.

Mycroft pulled him closer. “You and your damned friends, little brother. A true plague.”

He was clearly only half joking, so Sherlock brushed a kiss onto his cheek. “They made me into who I am now. I wouldn’t be the man I am now without them. What? You don't believe me? Or are you jealous of them?” An expression he could not identify had ghosted across Mycroft’s handsome face.

“Do I have a reason to be jealous?” Mycroft retorted, a sparkle in his light-blue eyes.

“No, you big git. I’m yours and yours alone. But I would appreciate it if you didn’t kill off my friends.” Lovely Mrs Hudson, so useful and caring and cunning. And Mary, so strong and tough, giving John the adrenaline he needed, being a great mother to his goddaughter.

“Ah, so demanding. But yes, they shall live. As long as they don't betray us.”

“Never.” Sherlock shook his head with vehemence. “Actually, they think you are perfect for me.”

“Hm. Not that foolish after all, those women,” Mycroft conceded, winking at him, and then he pulled Sherlock onto his lap and proceeded to kiss him dizzy.

*****

Beautiful baby brother was laid out for him like an all-you-can-eat-buffet. All expectant and eager and cow-eyes and licking his lips. And so Mycroft was feasting. Nibbling at that long, pale neck. Teasing small, dark nipples with his tongue. Licking stripes across Sherlock's torso. Kissing the planes of his stomach. Sherlock was just so damned tasty.

It had not surprised him that Sherlock's little plan to make the Watsons believe that he had told Molly Hooper a pretty lie had backfired. Women, even goldfish women, were often smarter than men, and Mary Watson wasn’t exactly known for being stupid. It was kind of ironic that basically every person really close to Sherlock had figured out that he was in love – just not John Watson, Sherlock's best friend. Hell, perhaps even Greg Lestrade had his suspicions by now. Sherlock had simply… changed. He was glowing. His posture had changed. Lately, he had seemed rather bored of his life, fed up with the cases thrown his way, exasperated by clients wasting his time. Mycroft had had a close look at little brother at all times…

And now he was walking the streets like a God inspecting his realm. His eyes were brighter, his back was straighter, and he was more prone to smile. Mycroft might have watched him on the odd CCTV camera… Of course the people who knew him best would notice this mood shift, and since goldfish’s brains circulated around sex and romance at all times, the conclusion had been rather easy to draw. It was remarkable though that both Mrs Hudson and Mary Watson had also figured out who had caused these changes in the detective – and didn’t have a problem with it. Mycroft did trust Sherlock's judgement on this matter. And he dealt with them regularly and would notice if their acceptance vanished, which was not to be expected.

So Mycroft didn’t waste his time worrying about spilt milk. He really had something better to do.

In fact, he was reducing his brother to a writhing, shivering, begging mess. Not begging for him to stop but to give him more. More kisses, more rubs, more tender strokes and arousing squeezes.

Mycroft chuckled when a large hand was planted on the back of his head, trying to direct him back to Sherlock's cock when he had just spent some sweet seconds nibbling at a muscular thigh. “Anything the matter, brother mine?” he asked, innocently.

Sherlock produced a noise that resembled the very pissed-off growl of a big cat. “Suck my cock, Mycroft! It is right there before your eyes!”

Laughing, the older man closed his hand around the body part in question and gave it a good squeeze. “Is it this one?”

“Yes! I know it’s small compared to yours but it’s still hard to overlook!”

“Ah, no size-envy, little brother.”

“Argh! I hate you!” But a grin was pulling at Sherlock's beautifully shaped lips, and when Mycroft lapped at the shiny crown, freed from the foreskin, he moaned loudly in this sexy, deep baritone that made him even more attractive than his looks already did.

“You do?” teased Mycroft. “Even if I do this?” He closed his lips around the engorged head and licked ever so lightly at the slit.

“Oh God,” groaned Sherlock, shivering as if he had received an electric shock. “I want you to fuck me now, Mycroft, please!”

“Such a mercurial boy. Sucking, fucking – kindly make up your mind.” Mycroft giggled in a most undignified way when he received a well-deserved slap to his shoulder for his mockery. He straightened up, grabbed Sherlock's calves, and pushed his legs up so his brother’s alluring entrance appeared right in front of his face, quivering so nicely in anticipation at the contact with his tongue.

Mycroft had never done this for anyone else, naturally. The thought had not even occurred to him before Sherlock had been gifted to him. The first time had already been a marvellous experience – certainly the naughtiest thing Mycroft had ever done. And so he went to town again with vigour, pressing his long tongue into the stubborn muscle until he tasted his brother as intimately as possible.

Cheered on by Sherlock's moans and gasps and stammered words of praise and begging, he ate his brother out until he was completely out of breath, Sherlock's taste heady on his tongue. He pulled back a little to admire the now gaping hole, cute and pink and inviting, and his cock was throbbing with want. It was time to go all the way, breaking the law for real, coupling with his baby brother, whose eyes had told him that he longed to have him inside.

His hand lubed up thoroughly, Mycroft took his time with preparing Sherlock for entering him, ignoring the cursing and pleading from the impatient detective. Mycroft was built large, and he absolutely did not want to hurt his brother. During their first encounter, he had been carried away a bit, penetrating him ever so slightly without using lubricant other than his pre-seminal fluids and spit. If they were to have full intercourse now, Sherlock needed to be ready. It would still hurt and burn; it was inevitable, but the discomfort should be reduced to the absolute minimum, making sure Sherlock would enjoy it.

And Mycroft, as much as he longed for dominating his lover, fucking him missionary style so they could be watching each other, knew that it was reasonable to let Sherlock control his first time.

So when he was positive that he had prepared him as well as he could, he let Sherlock's legs go and lay down next to him. When his brother glowered at him in confusion, he patted his arm.

“Mount me, brother mine. Ride me.” Like this, they could maintain eye contact too, after all, but it would be Sherlock who decided how quickly to take him and how hard he longed to be fucked.

“Letting me do all the work?” Sherlock retorted, then he blushed, clearly thinking of how often he had mocked Mycroft for being lazy.

“Yes. You know me – I love to lean back and let other people do my job,” Mycroft joked, but he rubbed Sherlock's forearm when his brother grimaced, clearly feeling uncomfortable. “Just kidding, dear; it is simply better for you to be in control, feel how much you can take.”

“Always the protector,” mumbled Sherlock, and wasn’t that the truth?

“You should be used to that by now. Now saddle up before your horse goes off into the sunset by itself.”

“Not a cowboy,” Sherlock muttered, his eyes sparkling, and then he finally straddled Mycroft's groin, his arse pushing against Mycroft's erection.

Mycroft guided himself to the correct spot and nodded at Sherlock, who was sinking down on him, taking him in, hissing. “Slowly, little brother. This is not the time for rush-… Oh, God…”

Sherlock felt incredible around his prick. The more he took of it, the harder it was not to start hammering into him from below, but Mycroft forced himself to lay still until Sherlock was fully seated, his hands firmly on Sherlock's slim hips to stabilise him. And even then he only slightly moved his hips, making sure the angle was right. “Take your time, Sherlock. Don't hurt yourself.”

But he was not surprised at all when Sherlock started jumping up and down in his lap without any further preliminaries, and it felt damned great.

*****

Someone must have set his insides on fire – not just his body but his heart, too. No, not someone… Big brother… Sherlock was not the man to write serenades and wallop in sentiment, but this moment was… magical.

He maintained eye contact with Mycroft – tousled, pink-faced, dishevelled Mycroft – throughout, barely blinking, not wanting to lose this connection. And connected they were, with Mycroft's giant cock so deep inside him that it felt as if it had reached his stomach. It burned. It made him tingle all over. It made his brain go foggy and it sent sparks of arousal through his entire system. His cock was so hard it hurt, and Sherlock groaned when Mycroft's hand closed around it, stroking it in the rhythm of Sherlock's movements. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else even existed. Just the two of them, physically connected at one spot, emotionally though in an all-encompassing way.

He was so in love that it wasn’t funny, but it was fine, wasn’t it. In Mycroft's eyes, devoid of all shields, he could see the same sentiment mirrored. There was no doubt whatsoever that Mycroft would do anything for him. If he asked him to steal the crown jewels, Mycroft would do it. Of course Sherlock would never demand something so silly from him, but he knew with absolute certainty that Mycroft would, if necessary, drop his job, leave his home, flee the country should anyone betray them. This was more important than Mycroft's power, or Sherlock's games. Everything else paled in comparison to this love, a love so forbidden, taboo-breaking and exciting, so grounded in their troubled mutual past, so essential.

Sherlock had his friends, and he valued them. There had been a time when he had valued them, especially John, more than anything. But he knew if it ever was necessary, he would leave them behind, hang up his famous hat forever, and start anew in a fishermen’s village in Brazil, in the jungle of Costa Rica, or wherever they had to go to be safe.

Mesmerised, he was watching Mycroft's wrist twisting, his large hand massaging his cock, and Sherlock increased his movements, taking his brother deeper, and faster, riding him as hard as he dared, producing squelching noises, his balls pulling up, achingly full.

He came in an explosion all over his brother’s hairy chest, and he held himself upright with all he had so he wouldn’t hurt his brother, who was still lodged deep inside him. He sobbed when Mycroft grabbed his hips harder, chasing his own completion, feeling oversensitive and as if all his energy had shot into his crotch.

While finally collapsing, he elicited another spurt of come when he felt Mycroft erupting in him, and his brother met him halfway, sitting up, his arms engulfing him in a sweet, tight embrace, and their mouths found each other, and while Sherlock's brain had shut down, he kissed Mycroft, teeth clacking, lips being bruised, and then it was all bliss and darkness and peace.

Chapter Text

“Earth to Sherlock. You’re still here with me?” Mycroft was saying the words softly, indulgently. This was just the detective in case mode. Really cute, actually. Picking at his dinner – lasagne, a takeaway from Angelo’s – lost in thought, not saying a word.

When Mycroft had gotten home, Sherlock had greeted him with a kiss, but it had not lasted as long as usual. It had been evident at once that little brother was turning something over in his head. He had not been so off to have not laid the table and opened the red wine already since Mycroft had announced his time of arrival via text, but since they had started to eat, he had been completely absent-minded.

Now the younger man looked up, smiling sheepishly. “I’m sorry, brother mine. I’m no good company tonight. I just… had a weird visitor today. Young woman, mid-thirties. It wasn’t just her story that was weird. She was so strange. Prone to self-harm. Scars on her wrist – I didn’t see them but I know they are there. A gun in her handbag. It’s in my drawer now; I talked her into giving it to me.”

Mycroft was listening with interest. What a confusing summary of a client’s visit. Apparently, it had disturbed Sherlock quite a bit. “Good. Suicidal?”

“Yeah. Most definitely.” Sherlock put down his fork. “Do you know anything about a man named Culverton Smith?”

“Oh, sure. One of the richest men in the kingdom. Dallies with television bullshit. Raises a lot of money for charities. Her lover?” As far as he knew, Smith was widowed. A short, ugly man with the most hideous set of teeth the world had ever seen…

Sherlock shook his head. “Her father.”

“Oh.” Mycroft grimaced, but Sherlock shook his head again, with more vehemence this time.

“You’re not that good at making deductions tonight, brother dear. He didn’t abuse her. Not in this way, that is.”

Mycroft had indeed had a very long day. His patience had been tried to its limits by a stubborn PM, a snubbed Foreign Minister and two members of the House of Parliament who thought themselves above the law. Plus, Lady Smallwood had been particularly annoying in her efforts to seduce him. Mycroft would have told her that he was gay ages ago, had he not wanted to keep his private life as private as possible, and his sexuality was none of his colleagues’ business. She had invited him for a drink. Mycroft would have rather downed a glass of acid…

In any way he was feeling rather exhausted, and his brain was probably not running on full capacity tonight. He didn’t even want to think anymore. His mind needed some rest, too… “So what did he do then?” he asked, knowing Sherlock needed to talk about this, and it was an interesting story that had nothing to do with ghastly politicians at least.

“He killed. And probably not just one person.”

Mycroft had not seen this coming. “You are kidding me.”

“Nope.” Sherlock popped the ‘p’ in this way that always made Mycroft want to kiss him dizzy. Not that he needed a particular reason for that… Sherlock's lips just screamed to be kissed, nibbled at, caressed, you name it. But now was not the time, obviously.

“Explain.” Mycroft went on eating while Sherlock was telling him a truly remarkable story about a rich man who had confessed his killing urges to a group of people he had drugged so they would forget about it. One of them was his own daughter, who somehow remembered that story now, three years later. She was in the possession of a piece of paper she had scribbled some words on during that strange conference, and she had sought out Sherlock to help her find out if her father, the philanthropist, was a scrupulous murderer – and Sherlock was convinced that he was, in fact, a serial killer.

“You don't have any proof,” Mycroft said when his brother was finished. “If you go to the police, they will laugh you out of the building.”

“Hence, I won’t. I will provoke him. Tweet about my suspicions.”

Mycroft grew cold. “You seriously think this is a good idea? He could sue you. He could, if you are right, kill you.”

Sherlock looked a bit miffed. “You think I’m that easy to take out by a man who is twenty years older and two heads shorter than me? I’m sure he does his killings in that hospital he financed. Weak, helpless people who just had surgery done. Easy targets.”

He wouldn’t let go of this case. Mycroft knew him too well. Baby brother, the defender of women and the powerless. Hater of blackmailers – with the remarkable exception of Irene Adler, God rest her soul. Definitely fierce despiser of murderers. An angel for justice.

Not that long ago, Mycroft had joked about Sherlock having premonitions. Now he felt as if he was having one, too. This case could be Sherlock’s doom. In a way Mycroft could not specify. All he knew was that he didn’t want his brother and partner anywhere near this creepy old man, whether he was a mass murderer or not. But telling Sherlock that would not go down well. The detective was like a terrier when he had gotten involved in an exciting case. He wouldn’t be told to keep away from it. Not even by Mycroft. And even if he did give up on it, he might resent Mycroft for it, and Mycroft couldn’t have that.

The past month had been sheer bliss. Not just because of the excessive sex they had shared. They just… clicked. They could talk to each other for hours. They could be silent, reading side by side, or watching a film. On the weekends, they often took a train to get out of London, going hiking or swimming in an actual lake. Having a picnic. Getting to know each other more and more. Domestic bliss. They were happy.

“She saw that I was happy,” Sherlock said now, and Mycroft wondered if little brother had deduced his thoughts. “I had deduced that her relationship has been over for a while, and she stated that I was obviously in one.”

“And what did you say?” Mycroft wondered why this didn’t sit well with him. It didn’t matter if any random client knew that Sherlock was seeing someone. That woman didn’t sound like someone who was active on social media, and nobody would give a damn about that sort of gossip anyway. John did not write his blog anymore. With a wife, a child and a career as an actual doctor, he did not have time for that. So Sherlock’s fame, which little brother had never been fond of, had mostly vanished, which was definitely good news for them.

“I said that I was married to my work,” Sherlock said, shrugging. “Changed the subject. Impressed her with some more deductions.”

“And what are you deducing about me now?” Mycroft asked, opening the top button of his shirt – he had gotten rid of his waistcoat and his tie before sitting down for dinner.

Sherlock licked his lips but then he narrowed his eyes. “I’m deducing that you want to distract me from Smith. You think this case will blow up in my face. So you are using sex to manipulate me into forgetting about it, at least for tonight, and you hope I’m going to lose interest.”

Caught… It had really been a blatant attempt, and Mycroft was not at his best after all. “Does it work? Distracting you?” he asked nonetheless, offering a smile that hopefully looked cute.

Sherlock grinned. “Yes and no. Overprotective mother hen.” He snorted. “I’m not letting him off the hook so easily but I won’t rush anything. Satisfied?”

Mycroft grabbed his crotch and gave his genitals a squeeze. “Not in the least.”

Blue-green eyes were rolled, but in a fond way. “And I thought you were tired!”

Mycroft smiled. “Not too tired. Never too tired.” Sometimes it worked to act like a cliché.

A mischievous wink was his answer. “Well, let’s see how much room there is under the table…”

*****

It turned out that Sherlock was fitting well under the table top, his head popping up between his brother’s legs. Sherlock gave Mycroft a toothy grin and was rewarded with a heartfelt laugh and a cuddle to his curls. It was a bit as if Mycroft was petting a dog…

But a dog would probably not do this, Sherlock thought, as his fingers were working his brother’s large appendage out of its confinements, and he produced a satisfied grunt when Mycroft moaned loudly as Sherlock's tongue made contact with the shiny head. Sherlock tasted saltiness and musk, and Mycroft's very own aroma.

Closing his lips around the large crown, his mind was calming down, and when he started to suck his brother in earnest, any thought at this weird visit disappeared into the back of his head. Something had been odd about that woman, but he couldn’t lay a finger on it. As little as he doubted her accusations towards Culverton Smith, some pieces of the puzzle she provided had not fitted. Perhaps simply the cheekiness of her remarks about his own relationship status. That had been rather questionable for a woman who had discovered that her father was a killer… And if he had not been mistaken, she had not been too happy about her… deduction? Well, she was clearly unhappy, so she might just have been jealous. Sherlock had found it remarkably difficult to read her besides the obvious.

But that didn't matter now. It did matter to make his Mycroft feel good, to make him come down from his annoying, exhausting day. Mycroft was working so hard and his job was rather thankless. The idiots he dealt with on a daily basis never seemed to learn from their countless mistakes, and so he was a modern day Sisyphus, facing the same challenges day in, day out. And now big brother was worrying about him, believing him in danger. Which Sherlock doubted but he would at least sleep over it and think about the steps to take to get to the rich man and expose him as what he was – he was Sherlock Fucking Holmes, solver of crimes, and he couldn’t leave a serial killer to his devices!

The least he could do now was take his brother’s mind off his duties and concerns for a while. And Sherlock had discovered that he absolutely loved giving head. It wasn’t the most pleasant taste in the world and it was kind of odd to have someone else’s body part in his mouth but Mycroft's reactions turned him on like mad, and the intimacy of the act was just breath-taking.

Big brother was writhing on his chair, stammering nonsense like, “God, harder” or “My Lock, Jesus”. It was most amusing and definitely arousing.

Sherlock experimented with adding a bit of pressure to the large, hairy balls accompanying the giant cock, and he noticed that slightly pulling at them elicited exceptionally loud moans from his brother and resulted in small amounts of fluid dripping on his tongue. Bravely, he took more of the heavy appendage every time he had stopped for air, trying to overcome his gag reflex. He would have to practise with some sort of stand-in, he assumed. A cucumber came to mind. For now, he was doing it as best as he could, and judging by Mycroft's really funny whimpering, he was doing it quite well. His brother’s hand was caressing the nape of his neck, and Sherlock was enjoying the warmth and pressure of his fingertips, a touch so tender and encouraging.

Slurping and with watering eyes, Sherlock used his hand in addition to his mouth, feeling his jaws tiring. This time, Mycroft gave him a fair warning before he came, but Sherlock would have known the signs by now. Admitting that swallowing was not exactly his favourite thing to do, he took the come shot onto his face instead. Some spurts landed on or rather: in, his eyes, and with his sticky lids and lashes, he could barely open them.

“Oh dear. Bad big brother.” Mycroft produced a handkerchief from his pocket and gently wiped Sherlock's face.

“That’s enough,” Sherlock told him when he could see properly again. “I have some dessert for you.”

“Then up with you onto the table, brother dear,” chuckled Mycroft, shoving his plate to the side.

Sherlock got rid of his trousers before sitting down, his cock dangling in front of Mycroft's eyes. He cried out when it was swallowed to the root in one swift movement, and Mycroft began to all but chew on it, working it over with his tongue, his hands fondling Sherlock's tingling balls.

Thanks to his brother’s technique and skills, it was over far too soon. Sherlock pumped his load into Mycroft's greedily swallowing mouth, feeling boneless and sated, a silly grin pulling at his lips.

“Don’t fall asleep on the table, little brother,” teased Mycroft. “Time for a shower and some cuddles on the couch.”

Sherlock didn't object. Every minute spent with his lover was a good minute. His hand linked with Mycroft's, he let himself be guided to the bathroom, feeling utterly happy with himself. This really had been an exciting day. In the far back of his mind, the woman who had called herself ‘Faith Smith’ was lurking, harbouring secrets Sherlock was sure, but for now, he paid her no heed.

Chapter Text

“What… Where am I? Who are you?”

Mycroft suppressed a sigh. He could have written the script for the man’s reaction. So predictable, those goldfish.

Of course the man who was cuffed to the uncomfortable chair that was sitting in the middle of one of the abandoned warehouses that had proven to be so useful throughout Mycroft's long career did not think of himself as a goldfish. As an ordinary man.

Oh no. In his own eyes, Culverton Smith, entrepreneur and charity VIP, was far above the common population. A genius. One of a kind. How pathetic… Mycroft, who was exactly what Smith erroneously thought himself to be, couldn’t find anything interesting about that ugly little man, whose suit was crumpled now and whose fine hair looked as if he had been attacked by a hungry donkey. It was almost always the short men with the Napoleon complex that caused trouble. Charles Augustus Magnussen had been an exception, but he had been very different from Smith or Moriarty. A businessman who loved to have control over people. Who loved to watch them dance at the strings their own failures and secrets had attached them to. He had not been emotionally involved in his ominous trades. A cool, calculating weasel.

Smith was less mind-driven. Even though he would have probably denied it, he was all emotion. He didn’t care much about being admired for all his allegedly good work though. It was ‘nice to have’ and it did give his ego a boost, but it was not essential. Who in their right mind cared about what the peasants were thinking of them? Even if Mycroft had not heard about his daughter’s accusations, he would have deduced that this man was dark. A killer. Not dangerous per se, unlike Moriarty. But towards the weak and the disabled, just like Sherlock had said, he posed a threat to their bare life. A narcissist, obsessed with his own importance and superiority, even if his mirror image was one to run away screaming from. A philanthropist who hated people – clearly an interesting object for psychologists.

Mycroft was not one of them. He’d had Smith abducted from his office by two trusted agents because he knew Sherlock would pick up this particular bone of contention sooner rather than later. Smith was obsessed with himself and his murderous power, Sherlock was obsessed with wielding justice. He wouldn’t let this man go on murdering helpless people. And even if Smith himself was not a physical danger to his well-trained, strong little brother, he certainly knew people who could take care of a human sniffer dog that had come too close to the man’s dark secrets.

Well, tough chance. He would not leave this place alive. And judging by Smith’s haunted look, he might be suspecting as much already.

But of course, like they all did, he played the tough, strong man who could talk and threaten himself out of such a seemingly hopeless situation. “Hey. I’m talking to you. Do you even know who I am?”

Oh dear. That old chestnut… Mycroft's look met Anthea’s, and they rolled their eyes simultaneously. Smith had not even noticed her yet; she was standing behind him. And even if he’d had, he wouldn’t have taken this attractive young woman seriously. Mighty, corrupted men never did.

“I do know it, Mr Smith.”

“So what? You want money? Forget it.”

Mycroft smiled. “You see the suit I’m wearing and seriously come to the conclusion that this is about money?” Oh, how convenient it was that the public didn’t know his name or his face, and that he bore almost no resemblance to a certain famous detective. Nobody outside the halls of power and Sherlock's friends knew that Sherlock even had a brother, let alone one that powerful. Not that it really mattered in this case… Smith wouldn’t live to tell.

“So what is it about?! I demand you let me go right now, arsehole!” Smith yelled, and then he screeched when a cut opened up in his cheek.

“Just some friendly advice – show some respect,” Anthea said, casually wiping off the blade she had used on a tissue. “It’s not your place to demand anything, and we won’t have any insults from you either.” Oh, she was enjoying this little improvised play. She had even dressed up all black for the occasion.

Blood dribbling down his face, Smith stared up to her, swallowing hard. Finally, realisation dawned on him that he was in a losing position. “Let me go. Please,” he turned to Mycroft again, his voice raspy and subdued now.

The string-puller raised his eyebrows. “Just as you let your victims go, Mr Smith? In St. Cadwalla’s?”

Smith paled. “I… I have no idea what -…”

“…I’m talking about, of course not.” Oh Lord, people were just so annoyingly predictable. Even a cunning murderer was talking in clichés. “Don't bother. I know what you do there. You kill people. I assume you have added secret paths to reach the patients’ rooms when the building was constructed.”

“You can’t know -…” Smith closed his mouth with an audible noise.

“Oh, but I do.”

The ugly blond man leaned forward in his chair as far as he could. “Who told you? Nobody knows anything about it.”

“You. You told people. At a little conference.”

“But I drugged them! None of them can remember anything about it!”

Mycroft shook his head, grinning. “That is obviously untrue. I’ll give you a tip – this person is related to you.”

“What? No way. She has no fucking idea.” Smith’s face was a mask of confusion. “I had tea and dinner with her yesterday and she was in such a good mood. She’s not that good an actress.”

Mycroft grew cold. Something that had been simmering in him was bubbling to the surface. The premonition he’d had regarding Smith came back in large, screaming letters. DANGER. DANGER for Sherlock.

“Check the camera feed at Baker Street from last night,” he said to Anthea, who was already pulling out her phone. “And google his daughter.”

“On it, sir.”

Smith was looking from one to the other in absolute confusion. But then he narrowed his eyes, grinning even. “So you think my daughter went to see… Sherlock Holmes about this fictional case of me being a killer? Oh, this is precious. She was never there.”

Mycroft didn’t make a comment about the man having seemingly already forgotten that he had only a minute ago admitted that the accusations were true. He did believe him about having spent the evening with his daughter though. Whoever had sought out Sherlock's help about this case – it had not been Faith Smith.

While Smith was talking to him, asking to be let go, Mycroft wandered through the warehouse, his brain spinning. What the hell was going on here? Why did this all feel like a trap? For Sherlock, and ultimately, for himself.

“I got pictures now. I don't think it’s her.”

Mycroft was at his PA’s side in an instant. The woman who had visited Sherlock had kept her face away from the camera so he couldn’t see her properly. But what he did see from her facial structure looked different to the picture from the real Faith Smith, visiting a charity event with her father – using a cane for walking which the ‘client’ had not had with her. A horrific suspicion was creeping up on him, and then a memory from a few weeks ago made itself known.

“I need to track down a phone. There were texts from a random woman to John Watson. He must have deleted them but…”

Anthea gave him an almost scandalised look. “Sir, I will have them in a few minutes. Any idea from when?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No, Sherlock didn’t mention it.”

“It’s no problem either way. It will just take a bit longer.” She was feverishly typing now.

Mycroft rubbed his face. This was quickly turning into a nightmare. The strong feeling that Sherlock was in some kind of danger made him vibrate with anxiety. He took out his phone and called him.

And he almost dropped the phone when instead of brother’s deep baritone he heard a well-known female voice sing a song he had not heard in decades but recalled in great detail.

“I that am lost, oh who will find me?

Deep down below the old beech tree

Help succour me now the east winds blow

Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go!

Without your love, he’ll be gone before

Save pity for strangers, show love the door.

My soul seek the shade of my willow’s bloom

Inside, brother mine -

Let Death make a room.”

“Sir? Are you alright?”

Mycroft’s throat was closed up. It didn’t matter anymore how long it would take to find out about the woman John Watson had some sort of affair with. He knew it already.

It was Eurus. The East Wind.

“Are you still there, big brother of mine? I’ve got someone you like. Come and get him.”

Musgrave, or at least near the old house. He had no idea how he could be sure (and he would have that confirmed immediately) but he just knew she had brought Sherlock to wherever she had killed little Victor Trevor. She was even speaking like a little girl. She must have lost the rest of her marbles… But how to find his brother? They had never found Redbeard after all… And of course they could track Sherlock's phone, but there was a forest. Any coordinates would not be exact enough. Where had she had Sherlock abducted? Because she couldn’t have done it all alone. She must have had help. Converted prison guards most likely. And he had foolishly been thinking that Sherrinford was secure. In fact, she must have taken over the prison, coming and going as she liked. Right under his nose. And Sherlock was bearing the consequences for his laxness now.

“Don't do anything to him,” he heard himself plead, not knowing why. He was not in the position to demand anything. Just like Smith – oh the irony.

“Come alone. Not bringing all those fancy boys in the black gear. I see a Secret Service agent and our beautiful, beautiful brother is dead. Got it?”

Mycroft nodded as if his psychopath of a sister could see him. “Got it. I… need some time.”

“Of course you do.” Mocking laughter came through the line. “You’ve got two hours.”

The line was dead, and Mycroft knew there would be no sense in another try.

“I have heard enough,” Anthea said, softly, her large blue eyes full of compassion. “We’ll know in five minutes where he is. Or at least his phone.”

Mycroft nodded, doubting that it would help that much. This required brain power, not technology.

He would not inform the Secret Service. But he would also not go confronting his sister alone. She had even given him a way out. Stressing that she would kill Sherlock if she saw an agent had not been a mistake. It had been a challenge. Eurus loved games even more than baby brother… Mycroft proceeded to stalk towards the exit, his head spinning. And one question was circling in his mind the hardest – had she figured out what was going on between Sherlock and him? But why did he even wonder… Of course she had… He didn't even want to imagine the consequences.

“Hey! What about me?”

Oh. Smith… Mycroft turned to Anthea, who nodded. “I’ll take care of him.”

“And what does that mean?” Smith sounded rather hysterical now.

Mycroft looked at him. “It means that you will very soon have the opportunity to say sorry to all the people you killed. If there is an afterlife, that is…”

“No! You can’t just murder me!”

“You will find out that yes, yes I can,” said Anthea, and while Mycroft was leaving the warehouse to get to the car, already taking his phone to start organising things, she went back to the man who had scrupulously killed God knew how many people and was now begging for his own miserable life – to no avail, obviously.

*****

It was the smell he noticed first. Mouldy, brackish water. Old stones, covered in moss.

When he opened his eyes, realising that it was night and the full moon was shining its sickly pale light, he glanced at the cadaver of a rat, drifting right next to him, the little teeth bared.

Sherlock batted it away, disgusted, then he slowly looked up. He was in a well. A very old, very deep well. He was fully dressed, and the heavy, wet clothes were pulling at him. He searched for his phone in his inner coat pocket, not being in the least surprised to find that it was gone. Someone [who the fuck] had pulled him into a sitting position so his head had been leaning against the wall. The water was reaching up to his chest. Slowly, he dragged himself up, realising that he was more than a bit unsteady on his feet. At least his legs were free.

Was this a nightmare? How could he have ended up here? He wrecked his brain about what was the last thing he remembered. Groceries. He had bought groceries. He recalled now that he had left the shop with the tea and the milk in a bag. And then… nothing. Obviously, someone had pulled him into a car. Sedated him first, probably, and very thoroughly. A professional abduction. Had anyone seen it happening? Apparently not.

But… Why was he here? Would someone hide him in a deep well to negotiate about ransom? It just didn't seem to make much sense. There were so much easier targets for that. An enemy, then. Moriarty? No. He was dead. There was no doubt. Someone allied with him? But why wait so long? Another fiend he had no idea about?

It made no sense to think about it. He needed to focus on the most important task – finding out if there was a way out.

He wasn’t an accomplished climber but he was sporty. His hands tried to find purchase at the slippery rocks the well was built off. They kept sliding off of them. He managed to dig his fingers into a space between two rocks and crept up a few inches but then he slipped off again and landed next to the dead rat.

Cursing and spluttering, overcome by a sudden, fierce rage, he attacked the wall again. He wouldn’t give up. He wouldn’t just die in this fucking well, and he didn't want to still be here when his kidnappers returned. It just wasn’t fair. He had done nothing to deserve this. A childish thought as he very well knew but still true. This time, it really was not his fault.

Cutting his hands on the sharp rocks, he fought for working himself up again – and then a gush of more water hit his face. He let go and fell back, staring up along the well. Water was flowing into it from an opening on the other side, two metres below the entrance. He knew it would only fill the well to a certain level but sooner or later, he would still drown if he couldn’t stand anymore. Only if hypothermia didn’t get him first, that is… He stared at the moon, despair creeping into his heart [Mycroft where is Mycroft] and he let out a loud scream of [fear] frustration.

And then he screeched when a face appeared far above him.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

A woman. Long, dark hair. Big eyes. The moon was bright enough tonight to make him see these details. She seemed familiar. And he had heard this voice before – just with a different accent.

God… Could that be? The hair colour was different as well but… “Faith?”

“Ah, not bad. Not true, either. I’m Eurus. Your little sister.”

Sherlock stared up at her, wanting to scream that he did not have a sister – but somehow, he was sure she was telling the truth. And then she started to sing in the voice of a child, a silly song that made no sense but was so familiar, and it was as if hidden gates in his mind were opened, the contents pouring through.

It made him feel as if his whole world was crumbling around him.

Chapter Text

Sherlock was boring his forefingers into his temples, screaming. Pictures from a forgotten past were flooding his brain, causing his head to hurt like mad as if those memories were made of acid, or had tiny but sharp barbed hooks that were digging into his brain. The little girl that had been his sister, showing their parents her bleeding hands – “Which one’s pain?”

A day at the beach, him and chubby teenage Mycroft playing ball, Eurus, the East Wind, standing on the side-lines, watching them, her eyes full of wrath and furious jealousy.

And Redbeard, smiling from one ear to the other, his curly, auburn hair tousled by the wind. Not a dog. Never a dog. His best friend. His first John. “Victor Trevor.”

He had only mumbled the name but somehow, the black-haired woman above him understood it. “Oh, yes. That ghastly little boy. You’re standing right on him by the way.”

Sherlock was close to hitting his head against the wall. “What?” This couldn’t be true. Nothing of this could be really happening.

He heard her sing again over the pouring water. It had reached the midst of his thighs now.

Before he was gone - right back over my hill

Who now will find him?

Why, nobody will

Doom shall I bring to him, I that am queen

Lost forever, nine by nineteen.

She had killed him – his friend. Right here, in this well. Sherlock recalled now how his parents had interrogated little Eurus about the boy’s mysterious disappearance. All she had said was, “The song is the answer.”

Nobody had been able to decipher it, obviously. Not even Mycroft.

No, no, no thinking of him now. It was too painful. Not that his brother had lied to him for all those years and even over the course of the past days – a few exchanges they’d had had just received a very different meaning. That did hurt. But he didn’t have all the data. Mycroft must have had his reasons [he doesn’t want to lose me; it’s as simple as this], and Sherlock didn’t want to be angry at him. Especially not now that he might never see him again – and that was the part that really pained him.

“Little Victor. He drowned in here. Such a loss.” Eurus’ voice was completely monotonous. She didn’t regret anything. She probably wouldn’t even know how to do that.

Where the fuck had she been all this time?

“Do you remember now?” she asked, still in this flat voice. “I killed your friend, and then I burned down our house, and they took me away. Locked me into a cell. You never came to visit me. Did you bring my hairband?”

“Your… what?”

“My special hairband. The one I made you steal, from Mummy. It was the last thing I said to you, remember, the day they took me away.”

She was crazy. Utterly, hopelessly crazy. In his mind’s eye, he could see the huge house that had obviously been his first home burn, the flames seemingly reaching into the sky. Was that a real memory? One he had somehow hidden in the depths of his mind palace? Or was his ever-whirling mind now producing the pictures to the story that had been unfolding? Did it make any difference though? Hardly.

“That’s not true,” he said, not knowing why he was even trying to have a reasonable conversation with this… thing. “We’ve already established we’ve spoken since then. You just came to me, pretending to be a woman named Faith Smith.” Now he knew why ‘Faith’ had set off alarm bells in him – they had only not been loud enough… Where had she gotten that note from? How had she met Smith? Did that all matter? No. “You must get me out of here.” The water level was still rising. “I will drown. Or freeze.” The water was not even particularly cold but it would still damage his body eventually. He moved his legs, just in case.

She completely ignored everything he had just said. “Let’s play a game.”

Oh, Lord… She was like him… [the game is on] “What game?”

Eurus showed something that was probably supposed to be a smile. She apparently didn’t have much practice at that… “If you do something for me, I’ll get you out of there, and let you go.”

“Do what?” Somehow he was quite sure he didn’t want to hear it…

“Make me a baby.”

“What?!”

“It would be perfect!” she suddenly screeched, her face a grimace of fury. “Our brains, combined! Your weird beauty! It will rule the world! And it’s the perfect time of month for impregnating me.”

Nah. She was not crazy. Any definition of that concept was completely insufficient. “I’d rather die down here,” he retorted, with absolute certainty.

“You piss-head of a traitor! You fuck our big brother but you won’t touch me?!”

The profanities were almost comical, coming from this ghostly creature. But God… How could she know about them? If she had deduced that from his – totally professional – behaviour during their initial conversation or simply his cool answer to her impertinent remark about his own relationship status, she was better at doing deductions than he and Mycroft combined, considering that she had never met him before… A true genius… But one without any qualities that could take the edge off this unsocial talent.

“If you don't agree, I’ll kill you,” she went on talking in this annoying monotone sing-sang.

No, no. Mycroft would find him. Mycroft would already know that he had been abducted and was feverishly working on locating him, and he would come with the entire MI5 backing him.

Eurus smiled down on him, and the mockery and the hatred in her eyes took his breath away.

She will kill me, no matter what…

“Big brother will come too late. You have about ten more minutes until the well is so full that you’ll have to swim to keep your head above the water. I gave him two hours to get here, and there is still almost a full hour left. By then, you will be long gone.” She grinned when she saw the despair he had, to no avail, tried to hide. “And I told him to not bring any agents. He won’t come alone though – he did understand me right. Perhaps that policeman who gives you cases? Nah. He will want to keep a lid on my existence. But he will bring along Mr Cheating-On-My-Wife-After-She-Has-Just-Given-Birth and probably his cunt of a secretary. The ageing doctor and the tea lady. Scaaaaary people.” She chuckled, but Sherlock barely registered it. “It will be even more fun to take them all out, one by one.”

Eurus had been John’s affair… How else should she know about that? “Did you… sleep with John?” he asked, the sheer thought making him shudder.

“Oh, no. We just texted. But he would have been in my bed within the blink of an eye if I’d just snapped my fingers.”

That was probably true… She was completely insane but she knew how to play a role, and she had probably looked a lot less horrific when John had met her… “In your cell?” he provoked her, not knowing why.

“Good one,” she conceded. “I can go wherever I want. Or sometimes, big brother brings me treats. Like Jim Moriarty.”

Sherlock winced. “You… knew Jim?” How could Mycroft have done that to him?

“He was my Christmas present. Some years ago. I programmed him to go after you. But he was weak. Didn’t kill you.”

“Why did you want me to die?” Sherlock saw the rat swimming towards him again. He didn’t bother pushing it away again. If Mycroft did not come in time, he would soon be exactly as dead as his furry friend here…

“Because you never saw me! You just had your stupid little friend on your mind and our fat brother! And now you fuck him! You will both die,” she added, almost casually. “I will just let him live long enough so he can mourn you. Then I will kill him, too.”

“With your bare hands?”

She gave him a knowing smile. “Smart. Trying to figure out if I’m armed. Which I am, of course.”

The next moment, Sherlock screeched when the dead rat exploded next to him, pressing himself against the wall. Not that this would help much if she chose to fire at him next. She surely was an accomplished shooter…

But then… He could hear something. The noises of a helicopter. It was hard to say how far away it was. Probably hardly more than a hundred metres.

“Oh, he’s early. Shall we, then?” The gun was being pointed at Sherlock.

“Please. Don't do this.” He was not even ashamed of begging her. “I… was so unhappy. For a long time. Life wasn’t easy when I came back from… pretending to be dead. Because of your friend Jim… But now… I have a chance at happiness. I didn’t know about you. It seems I… forced myself to forget about you when I was a child, or maybe Mycroft did that. If I had known you existed, I would have come to visit you. Do you like playing the violin? We could play duets.” He didn't mean a word of this, and he knew it wouldn’t fool her.

He saw her jaw tighten and her eyes darken. “Nice try. And it’s too late. I have to kill you. You deserve it. And you, blathering about being unhappy! You had your friends and Mycroft, and our parents. I had no-one!” The finger around the trigger started to move, and Sherlock braced himself – to go underwater. Not that that would buy him more than maybe a minute…

“No, Eurus. Leave him alone.” The voice was calm but the fear in it was hard to miss, and there was a breathlessness to it that revealed that Mycroft had been running to get here.

Sherlock’s heart made a jump, and at the same time, he felt more anxious than ever before in his life. Mycroft was here, of course he was. But would he be able to talk her out of this? Or overwhelm her? Had he brought his umbrella?

“Brother,” Eurus said, sounding miffed but not surprised – she had clearly noticed him approaching. “How nice to see you…”

*****

Mycroft would never forgive himself for how hard he had fucked this up. For underestimating his sister. For never going to Sherrinford to check on her and the security of the prison in person. He had not been there for five years – since he had made the insane decision to let her talk to Jim Moriarty as a reward for her help on identifying threats. Five minutes, unsupervised.

And now Sherlock was suffering for his failures. Again. Sherlock too would never forgive him – how could he? Mycroft could have as well thrown him into this well himself. At least Sherlock was not injured, he assumed after overhearing the last part of their conversation. His voice had sounded rather desperate, and who could blame him, but not as if he was in physical pain.

“We just had such a nice chit-chat,” Eurus said, a cruel smile on her face. “He knows everything now. About Redbeard, and Moriarty… I suppose you never mentioned that to him when you were fucking him?”

There was no way this could get any worse. Well, there was, of course.

“Stop the water,” he all but begged her. “Get him out of there.”

“Nah. I gave him a choice. He could fuck me, like he fucks you, and make me a baby. He said no. I told him I would spare you if he did that, and he still didn’t want to.”

“That’s a lie!” came out of the well. “It was only about my life. I would have done it if I could have saved yours.”

Mycroft’s heart clenched. Poor, poor Sherlock. He was completely innocent of this mess. And Mycroft had to get him out of it. Of course their relationship was over. There was no way Sherlock would want to maintain it. That he even cared about whether Mycroft lived or died was already more than he deserved.

“I see you didn’t bring your silly gadget. No weapon?”

“No.” He had left the umbrella at home. He had thought it would have been futile. His clothes were more than casual – tight, black jeans and a dark-blue shirt, showing at first glance that he was not hiding a revolver. But he knew that Eurus would have deduced it at once if he had come armed.

“And all alone,” she mocked, looking around ostentatiously.

“I sent my agents to Sherrinford.”

“Ah. Performing an exorcism?”

Sort of… Mycroft had assumed that all the guards responsible for Eurus as well as the governor had to be compromised. “In a way. But the demon is not coming back.”

Eurus actually laughed at that. “Do tell. You want to kill me? Or… Are you waiting for your abettors to sneak up on me and finish me off from behind?”

Mycroft refrained from telling her that he could have done that himself when he had walked here – if he had just brought a gun after all, he could have shot her from a distance. Another stupid decision, in hindsight. “You have no eyes in the back of your head.” How different she was looking from when he had last seen her at Sherrinford. She had been wearing trousers and a matching shirt, not a ghostly white dress. Her hair had been rather short and neat, not long and with split ends. She looked like a creature from a horror film, and probably not without reason.

“I don’t need them,” Eurus spat out. “You really think I’ve come here alone? You’re stupid.”

“Sherlock, are you okay?” Mycroft called out, ignoring her, walking closer to the well. He hoped his tone was transporting how sorry he was, and how determined he was to save him.

“Yes,” he heard from down there. “But soon I’ll need to swim.”

It wouldn’t last much longer – if everything was going according to plan. It just had to.

“Is he good, our brother?” Eurus asked Mycroft, a naughty sparkle in her eyes. “Does he satisfy you?”

“Just let him out. What did you think you’d gain from this idiotic game? His affection? His sympathy?” Mycroft shook his head. “He hates you, and you will go, knowing he does. For once in your life, do the right thing and let me free him.”

“Ah, but it’s just getting interesting. Look who we’ve got here.”

Mycroft turned to see an angry- and sheepish-looking John Watson. Behind him was a man, dressed in black from head to toe, including a black cap. He was pressing a gun against John’s temple.

“You are disappointing me,” snarled Eurus. “Bringing in such amateurs.”

“He had a gun,” her accomplice informed her. “Wasn’t hard to overwhelm him, though. Was stomping around like a deaf elephant.”

Mycroft had seen the man’s face before. He was one of the guards in Sherrinford – Jack Lawson, missing from duty. There had been nothing in the man’s past that could have been a red flag. Eurus had simply meddled with the guard’s brain, turning him to a willing servant.

John gestured at the well. “Is he okay? Sherlock, are you okay?”

“Splendid,” came the dry reply, and John managed to both grin and fume at the same time.

“Let him go, you idiot bitch.”

Eurus glowered at him with a look so hateful that a lesser man would have turned to stone. “Didn’t you tell him that we were all evaluated as children, and I was the smartest?” she turned to Mycroft, her tone pure accusation.

Little sister didn’t like to be insulted for an alleged lack of intelligence. What a surprise… She was all brains, no heart… Or empathy, or compassion… “I didn’t have time,” Mycroft retorted.

“Oh, sure. Needed to track his phone. Decipher the song,” Eurus nodded. “Only took you three decades.”

Mycroft could hardly argue with that. It had not been his proudest hour. Or his proudest three decades indeed… In his defence, he had been a boy himself when Eurus had kidnapped and then killed poor little Victor Trevor. Then the house he had grown up in had been burned to the ground. He had left with his parents and Sherlock, and he had never really thought much about the boy Eurus had let disappear.

“I remembered the gravestones,” he said, not knowing why he was even talking to her. “Then it was a piece of cake.” In fact, someone else had asked if there had been anything that could have served as the source for the code when he had, from his memory, written down the entire silly song… Sherlock's phone had guided them to the ruins of Musgrave – the house had never been rebuilt again – but he had known he wouldn’t find Sherlock there. Baby brother would be where she had killed Victor. Symmetries were everything to hyper-intelligent sociopaths...

“Good, brother,” Eurus mumbled, condescendingly, dangling her gun from her forefinger in an insultingly casual way. Then her face brightened up as she turned back to look at a spot behind the well. “Ah, there they are. Welcome to our party, tea lady.”

Like John before, Anthea was at the receiving end of a gun, holding her in check. With an apologetic frown, his trusted PA endured being pushed forward by another person, dressed exactly like the other one. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Stick to brewing him his coffee, pretty girl,” Eurus mocked her. “Hey, what do you think of him banging his own baby brother?”

Mycroft saw the guard next to John open his mouth in surprise, and he sighed internally. He should have seen that coming of course… Well… Collateral damage… At least anything else had happened according to plan – so far. The biggest concern had been that the guards could fire at the people he had brought here. Their bodies were protected, but their heads were not.

“I think it’s great,” Anthea said, provokingly, and then she stumbled forward when her attacker pushed her. She dropped to the ground, rolling to the side.

The next moment, John headbutted the slightly distracted man that was holding him hostage, and he fell to the ground like a sack of spuds, John grabbing his weapon and kicking his head for good measure.

And the gun that had been held against Anthea’s face was being pointed at Eurus now. “Drop yours, baby, or you’ll have a hole right between your pretty eyes.”

Mycroft saw his sister furrow her brow in deep confusion. “Who the hell are you?! Oh…”

“Yes, oh,” said Mary Watson, wearing the gear of the prison guard Lars Anderson, who was already being transported to one of the cars that would bring him to one of the other two helicopters that had landed a few kilometres away from their actual destination to not give away that a full team had arrived – mostly medics, and someone who was very familiar with climbing in the most difficult and challenging areas. The moment Mycroft had understood where Victor’s remains could be found, he knew what Eurus had done to Sherlock. Time had been very, very rare, but he’d had help. And the people he needed to free and treat Sherlock were waiting to be called in, just out of sight and earshot.

“You’re his wife;” Eurus said, grinning from ear to ear, not feeling defeated in the least. “Do you know he wanted to fuck me?”

Oh dear… Why had he not seen that coming? The worry about Sherlock had made him slip worse than ever, apparently… But if he had hinted at that possibility in the helicopter, things would have been really awkward… And after all, Mary had suspected as much. What they had talked about was the truth about his and Sherlock's relationship. Mycroft knew there had been no other way. He had known that Eurus would spill the beans, and it was a lot better if John heard it from him first – since Sherlock was not available. The doctor had reacted surprisingly well to it. His mouth had opened and closed in quick succession for a few seconds, but then he had mumbled, “It’s all fine, always said so.”

Now, he was not in the least calm. “What the fuck…?” The next moment, John paled, the hand that was holding the guard’s gun shivering. “I… I didn’t… I…”

“Later, John,” Mary said, her focus completely on their enemy. “Drop. The. Gun. Three…”

“You won’t shoot. You don't even know how,” Eurus mocked her, but Mycroft could see that she had now realised that Mary was not just a young mother whose husband had sort of cheated on her. Not merely a nurse who treated ill people. A woman with a certain past. Someone dangerous. It was a miracle that Mary’s past had gone unnoticed with Eurus before.

“Two…”

“I won’t!” And predictably, Eurus raised the arm with the weapon, pointing it at Mycroft, not Mary, and for a split second, Mycroft thought that was it.

Eurus hated him, had always done it, for having Child-Sherlock's admiration, for keeping her locked up after Uncle Rudy had died – and now for being loved by Sherlock.

He heard his brother scream from the depths of the well, and then a shot echoed through the night, and Eurus fell backwards without so much as a gasp, dead before hitting the ground.

“Oh, fuck,” the injured guard groaned, rubbing his bloody forehead. “I… God, what happened to me? And… I didn’t hear nothin’. I won’t say nothin’.” He sounded hysterical, and Mycroft almost felt sorry for him when he turned away.

When Mycroft was hurrying to the well to look after Sherlock, knowing Anthea was taking out her phone to inform the medics and the climber that they were needed pronto, as they had agreed, he heard the noise of a neck being broken, and he thought that he owed Mary Watson a whole fucking lot.

When he bent over the edge of the well, he saw Sherlock paddling in the dark water, looking up to him. Thank God – little brother was conscious and looked unharmed. “They’ll be here in a second to get you out,” Mycroft rasped out, and when Sherlock smiled at him, tears of relief just fell out of his eyes.

Chapter Text

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, blinking against the bright sunlight that was falling into the room. He wasn’t sure if he had even moved all night – or what had been left of it when they had finally gotten home.

Of course they had wanted to fly him to a hospital but Sherlock had vehemently refused. Feeling exhausted and like a cat that had been pulled in from heavy rain, he had allowed himself to be dried off, put into fresh clothes, and his vitals taken by the medic and a very concerned John. Everything had been fine so he had insisted on just going home – to Mycroft's, that is.

His little tantrum had taken the rest of his strength so he had spent the car ride slumped against his brother, Mycroft's arms holding him up. They had barely spoken but Sherlock remembered how Mycroft had repeatedly mumbled into his drying curls, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” And Sherlock had told him it was okay, also several times, before he had dozed off, only to be woken when they had reached the helicopter, in which he had just fallen asleep again.

Somehow, he had ended up on their bed, the blankets stuffed around him, Mycroft lying flush against his side. He must have fallen asleep at once, but he was sure that it had not been quite like that for Mycroft.

Where was big brother now? Back to work? Surely there was a lot to clean up regarding this prison Eurus had been living in. And how would he explain the dead guard? Well, of course they could blame him on Eurus. Mary would have made sure he was covered in Eurus’ DNA. The ex-assassin had been wearing gloves when she had killed him. Sherlock, as tired and weak on his feet he had been when they had pulled him up, had taken in the scene with at least half of his usual brain capacity before he had sat down on the stretcher.

Mary had saved the day. And John knew now that she knew about his affair. The Watsons had been brought home in an extra car as they had to get Rosie from Molly. Surely, talking had been in order, too. John would come over later to check on him.

And Mycroft was here, too. Sherlock wondered how he could have thought Mycroft would just leave him alone. He could hear him talking now, obviously organising anything that had to be organised via phone- or video call. Anthea would take over for at least half of today.

They had worked together so well – Mycroft, John, Mary, and Anthea. Each of them playing their part. It could have gone horribly wrong though. The compromised guards could have shot Sherlock's friends or Mycroft's PA – even though they had clearly been wearing bulletproof vests, a shot to the head or throat would have still done the deed. Eurus could have killed either Mycroft or himself.

But the plan had worked. They were all okay.

Only that Mycroft clearly thought that ‘they’ were not okay; it was impossible to overlook when he now entered the bedroom with a shy smile and a tray.

“Good morning, little brother. You look really good.” Mycroft put the tray with two steaming mugs, a plate with sandwiches and a small bowl with biscuits onto the bed stand.

“I’m fine. Nothing like almost drowning with only a skeleton and a dead rat as company. I’m just joking,” Sherlock said when Mycroft's face turned into a grimace of guilt. “Mostly, at least. It wasn’t fun. But it wasn’t your fault.”

“But of course it was!” flared Mycroft. “I should have made sure she was locked away safe, not running havoc, pretending to be John’s… flirt, and your client, and then kidnapping you! You could have died, and what then, Sherlock? What then? I couldn’t endure it. I just couldn’t.”

“Hush, come here, you big git.” Sherlock smiled when Mycroft all but dropped onto him, shivering and grabbing him as if to reassure himself that he was really here. “She said she was the smartest of the bunch, and she certainly was the craziest. She would have found a way, no matter what.” He stroked Mycroft's fine hair, which smelled of shampoo. “That’s why you decided to take her out, no matter how this would have ended.”

“Yes,” mumbled Mycroft against his neck. “There was no locking her up again, hoping for the best. A second attempt would have been deadly for all of us.”

“And you brought our crack shot, Mary, to do the deed.” Fulfilling her very own vow to protect him.

Mycroft pulled away so he could look into Sherlock's eyes. “Yes. I didn’t want to risk using an active agent for several reasons, and I know how good she is. It was our plan from the start that John would get himself arrested by Eurus’ accomplice, and Mary would take out the other one while he was busy with Anthea, and take his place.”

A smart move indeed. In that way, Mary could get very close to Eurus without causing suspicion. A kill-shot from afar might have worked, too, but it had been a safer bet this way.

Suddenly, Sherlock realised something. “You must have told John about us. God, why am I just getting this now?”

“It was necessary,” nodded Mycroft. “And he took it well.” He took a slightly crumpled piece of paper that had been lying on the bed stand. “In fact, he scribbled something down and asked me to give it to you on our way back to London.”

Sherlock didn't ask if he had read it – of course he had. And Sherlock didn't mind. He smiled when he read John’s words:

Of course my wife and Mrs Hudson knew it before me.

Good for you two.

Special Holmeses, special love.

Go for it.

Your friend John.

Talk soon! XXX

Sherlock should have never doubted him. And he hoped John and Mary would be fine. The doc would suffer enough from the fact that the woman he had desired had been a murderous psychopath who had just tried to get close to him because he was her brother’s friend. “She was obsessed with me – Eurus.”

Mycroft finally reached out and handed Sherlock one of the mugs and a sandwich. “She was. She had always been, even as a little child. I swear I had no idea that Moriarty had been the culprit in your very first case. I don't know how Eurus could have known that…”

There were so many things they would never know. What had her connection to Smith been? Well, they could ask him. Only that… “Smith is dead, too, am I right?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. I couldn’t allow him to destroy you.”

“So much faith in my abilities,” Sherlock mumbled, but he smiled when Mycroft frowned. “I know you want to protect me. I do think I would have been able to handle him. But I won’t cry my eyes out because you spoiled my case. In the end, I stupidly fell for Eurus’ ruse. Maybe it’s time to retire…” He sipped at his tea, which was good and strong.

Mycroft gaped at him, trying to figure out if he was serious. Was he? Not entirely, but there was a true core. Sherlock needed a break. Too much chaos and murder around him. A sister he had forgotten about, who had crept into his and even John’s life, who had almost finished him off, just to be killed by one of his friends. What would her endgame have been if Mycroft had not figured out that she had been the one to pretend to be Faith? It wouldn’t have been good, so much was sure.

“Whatever you decide to do, I’ll support you,” Mycroft said, grabbing his forearm. “If you still want me to, that is.”

“Did I give you the impression that I don’t? I mean, you should have told me about all that when Moriarty targeted me…” It would have hardly changed a lot about him going on his mission. Nothing, actually. Or would he have gone to that prison then instead, telling Eurus to call back her hellhound Jim?

“Yes, I should have. I have no excuse, really. Other than that I thought you would hate me even more. I couldn’t even imagine telling you that we had a sister you chose to forget about because she murdered your friend.”

“You checked on me to see if I still didn’t recall her,” Sherlock mused. “Your remarks about Redbeard and the East Wind…”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, his hand cramped around his mug. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t suddenly remember and, you know…”

“...go crazy?”

Mycroft grimaced. “Something like that. I’m sorry, Sherlock. I should have been open about it long before. Then she wouldn’t have had a chance to sneak into your life with such nasty consequences.”

“Ah, I’m fine. I just took an extended bath. We must get him out of there, Mycroft. Victor!”

“It is being done already,” Mycroft assured him. “His parents are dead, so we will just bury him discreetly. You can visit his grave if you want, though.”

That would not make much sense, Sherlock thought, feeling a bit melancholic. He had forgotten about his little friend thirty years ago. Because he couldn’t cope with the loss? Wouldn’t he have remembered him long ago if he had really been that important to him? “I don’t think I want to,” he concluded. “I just want him to rest in peace.” Hell, if Eurus hadn’t shot it, he would have even opted to get the rat out of the well. “The fucking well must be closed so nothing and nobody else can drown in it anymore.”

“Consider that done. It actually was secured, but either Eurus herself or someone else before had removed the covers.”

Another mystery – how had five-year-old Eurus gotten Victor to this well, a few kilometres away from her home? How had he ended up down there? It was futile to speculate…

He downed the rest of his tea. “Mycroft, I don’t resent you for any of this.” It needed to be said. “But I want you to be open with me about everything else that happens from now on. I’m a big boy. I can bear the truth.”

“Yes, you are. Thank you, brother mine.” Mycroft took the empty mug from Sherlock’s hand and pulled him into a tight embrace, and Sherlock slung his arms and legs around him, simply enjoying having his lovely big brother so close.

After an extended hug, Sherlock hastened to the bathroom to relieve and refresh himself and brush his teeth, then he went back to bed, where Mycroft was waiting for him, still dressed but with a few of his shirt buttons opened. Sherlock threw himself onto him, eliciting a soft ‘oof’ from his brother.

They kissed with increasing passion for several minutes, and Sherlock felt the rest of the tension that had been holding him in its grip leave his body, making way for a much sweeter and nicer kind. “Any more dark secrets you wish to share with me before we forget all this hassle for good?” he teased his brother – and straightened up when he saw the hint of discomfort in Mycroft's eyes. “What? What is it? Another awful sibling, waiting to get hold of me to play games?”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Nothing of the kind. Only a small confession. The times your phone moaned since you… went to save Irene Adler...”

Oh. Mycroft knew he had snatched her away from having her head cut off? Oh… “It wasn’t her?” he concluded, feeling an inappropriate giddiness blubbering up.

“Nope.”

There was not much doubt left to what had happened to The Woman. She hadn’t escaped her fate for very long… “Oh, brother mine. What am I going to do with you, hm?”

“Fuck me as a punishment?”

Sherlock grinned. “You know, you are full of good ideas as of late. Undress, my cute, murderous big brother.” God… How much he loved this man… And no matter if he was still overprotective, overbearing and a horrible menace, Sherlock would never let him go, his sexy, dark, awesome man, and he wouldn’t allow anyone or anything to get between them. No nasty secret, no Queen, and certainly not some pesky guilty feelings.

Not on my watch.

The End