Sherlock Holmes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
clueingforlooks) wrote2014-02-12 12:18 am
clueingforlooks) wrote2014-02-12 12:18 am
Entry tags:
The art of losing isn't hard to master
Sherlock had known that things would change. He wasn't actually an idiot, despite his dear brother's insistence otherwise.
Things had already changed. It wasn't just he and John against the world anymore. It was he and John and Mary. And he and John and Mary's ever growing reminder that there would be a baby. And then Sherlock would lose him again, but this time would be so much worse, because the baby will do what all babies do. It will change John. It will tether him to their flat, keep him up all hours so that he's not available to come out and solve crimes with him, and worst of all, the baby is going to make John responsible. He isn't going to be game for weeks on end of risking his neck, because he's got a baby at home to take care of, a wife that he could leave a widow. John has something to lose now.
The baby, as it happened, had come early. It's some two weeks later, and all the congratulations have passed and left the new parents thrust into parenthood. Just as he'd predicted, John is always tired, always helping Mary, and not free to come pay attention to him. It isn't as though there's anything to do, really. There's no word on Moriarty yet, just this waiting game that's weighing heavily over them all.
Sherlock isn't coping well, which is to say he isn't coping at all. He's blitzed out of his mind, or just to this side of it. It's hard to tell anymore. It's been days that he's been here, holed up in his flat, the curtains drawn against the milky light of London. He'd had to travel outside of London to get these drugs. He's furious about that, but the anger has ebbed away for the moment. Now, he's floating. Heavy, warm, drifting within his own mind, stretched out on the sofa, pajama bottoms and unzipped hoodie the only things he's wearing. There's a mess around him, clothes he's worn in the past few days and shucked off. Drug paraphernalia on the table.
His phone is somewhere across the room. It's been buzzing intermittently. It's Mycroft. He doesn't need to look at it to know. Mycroft has been calling and answering the phone to talk to his dear brother is the very last thing he's going to be doing.
Things had already changed. It wasn't just he and John against the world anymore. It was he and John and Mary. And he and John and Mary's ever growing reminder that there would be a baby. And then Sherlock would lose him again, but this time would be so much worse, because the baby will do what all babies do. It will change John. It will tether him to their flat, keep him up all hours so that he's not available to come out and solve crimes with him, and worst of all, the baby is going to make John responsible. He isn't going to be game for weeks on end of risking his neck, because he's got a baby at home to take care of, a wife that he could leave a widow. John has something to lose now.
The baby, as it happened, had come early. It's some two weeks later, and all the congratulations have passed and left the new parents thrust into parenthood. Just as he'd predicted, John is always tired, always helping Mary, and not free to come pay attention to him. It isn't as though there's anything to do, really. There's no word on Moriarty yet, just this waiting game that's weighing heavily over them all.
Sherlock isn't coping well, which is to say he isn't coping at all. He's blitzed out of his mind, or just to this side of it. It's hard to tell anymore. It's been days that he's been here, holed up in his flat, the curtains drawn against the milky light of London. He'd had to travel outside of London to get these drugs. He's furious about that, but the anger has ebbed away for the moment. Now, he's floating. Heavy, warm, drifting within his own mind, stretched out on the sofa, pajama bottoms and unzipped hoodie the only things he's wearing. There's a mess around him, clothes he's worn in the past few days and shucked off. Drug paraphernalia on the table.
His phone is somewhere across the room. It's been buzzing intermittently. It's Mycroft. He doesn't need to look at it to know. Mycroft has been calling and answering the phone to talk to his dear brother is the very last thing he's going to be doing.
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The baby had come with due congratulations, despite the premature birth throwing everything for a loop. His normal failsafes, his usual eye on Sherlock had grown weak in the face of Moriarty's return, and while he had been all too happy to send his dearly beloved brother back home, turn the plane around -- it exhausted him, spending so much time calculating and mapping and following whatever little leads they could find. He had expected his brother to take the forefront, but Sherlock Holmes hadn't been reachable for days.
A visit to his flat (not physically, no, no need until he knew he was there) with the CCTV told him that he wasn't available. Not home. Danger signs that send warning bells off in his head, because he had left for a somewhat extended period of time. He put the alert on his brother higher, made sure to keep two men's eyes on him in order to tell him when the lanky young man would be arriving, put full security on Mary and John and the baby, and god help him Sherlock, if you allowed Moriarty to get to you now --
It wasn't a shock when Sherlock's dear little seven percent solution was out and about again. A kit with a needle and a vial and a syringe, and Sherlock's absence becomes all too clear. He attempts him by phone, first. Calling, not texting, because he refuses to do anything but speak to him in person, refuses to do anything until he hears his dear brother's voice. The landlady becomes the best ( and only ) option -- John needs to be with his family now, no time for these games with Sherlock, despite however he knew the man would be the best to keep him away from it.
Ms. Hudson shows him upstairs, and allows him in the room.
He's not surprised when he opens the door to see his darling dear baby brother (christ, he remembers when he only came up to his chest, remembers when he didn't think Sherlock knew what smack was, remembers when he wasn't addicted to morphine and heroine and vacillating between highs and lows) lying on the couch as though the world is in slow motion. To him, it likely is.
He stares.
"Sherlock." Clipped, formal. Attempting to be polite. He had been emotional with him in the past, but showing one's weakness to Sherlock Holmes is an invitation for disaster.
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Sherlock spent his childhood honing his senses so he’d known when Mycroft was coming. It wasn’t always sinister, a younger brother afraid of an older brother’s wrath. Sometimes it was a game. Sherlock had so often been wrapped up in some game or another, imagining that Mycroft was the villain in his mind’s play. But sometimes it wasn’t a game, sometimes it was real, though Sherlock often was the root cause, having done something to Mycroft first to earn a scolding. He’d never admitted it aloud, never told Mycroft, but so often when they were young and he crept into his room to steal something of his, most often books or other things that were dear to him, it was because he wanted to be more like him.
Now, he wanted anything but.
“Speaking,” Sherlock answered, his voice a dull hum of sound like he’s answering the phone he’s been ignoring all day, instead of speaking to his brother who’s standing in the same room. He doesn’t even bother looking over at him. Sherlock isn’t attempting to be polite.
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Sherlock isn't the only one who memorizes small little things. He knows even without seeing the tools what Sherlock has been doing. He asks (politely) for Ms. Hudson to leave the room, a silent fury coming over him. At the very least, he had expected Sherlock to feel guilt for putting him through such a thing, again. It echoes sentiments of finding a seventeen year old, gangly teenager with dark long hair, finding him strung out of his mind on something or another, unable to even formulate coherent sentences. It echoes the times where he's had to rehabilitate Sherlock, where he's had to go through sock drawers and shoes and find hiding spots that the man keeps all over the house.
If Sherlock doesn't care to communicate, he allows himself to go through things the hard way. Taking a rubbish bin, throwing the bits of paraphernalia out on the table in the garbage, starting his way around the house. Mummy and Daddy never knew. Why would he want to break her heart?
No one's heart should have to break but his own. He starts in the usual places, cabinets in the kitchen, the utensil drawer, finding bags of white powder and syringes and bottles of solution. He knows Sherlock is bound to stop him, at least attempt any moment, for what he's hoping for. Until then, he'll have to rid the place of any and all evidence. "Scotland Yard stops by here to consult you on cases, Sherlock. You can hardly leave these things lying around."
Cleaning up after his brother's mess. It's childhood in a nutshell, all over again.
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He can hear Mycroft in the kitchen, going through cabinets, dropping things into a bin. His drugs. Drugs that it had taken nearly a full day to get his hands on. He’d had to travel beyond London, he’d had to track down someone who didn’t already know who he was because of Mycroft. He’s scowling as he listens to him slamming drawers and cupboards, but then he makes it worse by opening his mouth and speaking. That just rubs it in, the fact that Mycroft’s the reason the hunt for them was so hard in the first place, and he’s here trying to take it away.
Sherlock kicks his feet untangled from the blanket at the foot of the sofa and storms into the kitchen. He’s still smaller than Mycroft, but just barely. He’s caught up to him, and what he lacks in height and breadth he makes up for in sheer will. His brother has never been keen on the dirty work, on exerting himself, but Sherlock is more than willing. He manages to look imposing in the doorway. At the very least, he looks unhinged, the same look as the last time they were here in his flat, Sherlock high and Mycroft with his hands where they didn’t belong.
And this time, if he pins Mycroft to the wall to prove to him that he can’t push him around like a little kid anymore, John isn’t here to stop him.
“Put that down,” Sherlock says, trying hard to enunciate every word, make them hard, make them commands, but his rage is leaking through. His control is gone, torn away from him, leaving him raw and sparking with emotions. He’s still sharp, still very much himself but there’s less filter than there ever was, and there wasn’t much to begin with.
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He's the most powerful man in London, or one of them, and far be it from him to allow his stupid little brother to make him cower down. Mycroft finishes the kitchen - clean as a whistle, bags and syringes and powders and all sorts of drugs and chemicals thrown into the garbage like they're only bits of rubbish.
"I don't think so, Sherlock." His voice is quiet, and he's near bordering on cruel with how distant he's made himself, watching the man and holding the bin in hand. He comes to him in the doorway, quiet and demanding. "Please move. I don't have all day for this, dear brother." Polite, as though they were children again and Sherlock was being stubborn, trying to force Mycroft to stay home with him rather than allow him to go on with friends and a new life.
"This can either end with me, or I can call Lestrade to bring you in. We'll put you in a rehabilitation center, and you and I both know you don't want that. Not again." His voice sounds weary to him, as he hears it aloud. "Not with Moriarty out and about still, or someone, someone trying to pretend he's still alive. It took me ages to convince them not to criminalize you for what you've done. Breaking that would ruin my reputation, Sherlock, and I do not. have. the time."
A stress, and he massages his temples. "Do try to be logical for once."
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“Stop pretending you don’t. have. the time,” he nearly spits the words at him, mimicking his timing and delivery as he’s refusing to let Mycroft by.
“You have nothing but the time. You have cameras on my flat, you have men you send to tail me, you pay off every drug dealer inside of London, and you stand there and tell me you don’t have the time?”
He’s curling and uncurling his fist. He’s thinking about taking a swing, or maybe he’s trying to convince himself to instead of going for his throat, instead of pinning him to the wall again because he doesn’t trust himself not to break his arm this time.
“I don’t need you to clean up after me, Mycroft. I’m not eight years old and acting out to try and get your attention,” he says, reciting a line that Mycroft fed him over and over again throughout their childhood, scolding Sherlock for being stupid and needing attention. “I don’t know how I can make it any clearer that that’s the last thing I want anymore.”
It’s harsh and maybe he doesn’t mean it, but it certainly feels like he does. He’s hurt; there’s a lifetime of hurts that are suddenly at the surface again and he’s so very close to doing something he’ll regret later.
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"You're a grown man, and you're in your pyjamas at four in the afternoon, high as can be, and you're telling me you're not acting out for attention? Obviously you do need looking after, and if John isn't around to play your nanny, that responsibility falls on my shoulders."
Mycroft knows fully well the man is thinking of hitting him. Knows it from his stance, his defensiveness and the way that fist curls and unfurls, knows that there is a punch that's going to be swung his way at any moment if he isn't careful. He's got his jaw set, watching him closely, watching because he knows what is going to happen.
"You may not want me to be the one who helps to clean up the messes you've made, but you've proven ineffective at doing so yourself."
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Mycroft knows it’s coming, but there’s no avoiding the attack that comes. It’s not a punch, not a well-executed martial arts attack; it’s a savage lunge like a rabid dog going for the throat. He hits Mycroft with the full force of his body and they land awkwardly, Mycroft surely struggling to catch himself and Sherlock’s scrabbling to finish what he’d started.
He knocks the bin away from Mycroft, and some of the baggies inside are tumbling out, needles scattered over the floor as he tries to wrestle Mycroft down. He’s not making this easy and that’s only making Sherlock angrier, and he is quick to take out his frustration on him. He winds back to punch him, but he’s out of control and it’s hardly well aimed, but it’s hard regardless. It’s going to hurt.
Sherlock doesn’t stop moving until he’s got Mycroft pinned beneath him and he hits him again, because he’s there, and he’s still looking at him like he’s a stupid little kid who needs to be picked up after and punished to make him behave. He wants to punch that look off his face, wants to hit him until he stops talking.
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He's not the fighter of the two of them, so he mostly blocks blows with his arms over his head, letting those fists rain down over him, and there's one punch that connects to his jaw with a crack. It's sore, it hurts, and he writhes to try to get free.
Unexpected results. Or not so unexpected one might say. He doesn't enjoy being pinned any longer, fighting relentlessly to shove his brother off before evidence of any betrayal of the bodily kind becomes apparent. He's not a teenager, hardly one to explain away the natural order of things, because having someone sitting on you and beating you with their fists isn't supposed to make you aroused. At least, not in such a setting with his darling baby brother.
So it shouldn't to him, and he twists his body to the side, snarling back in kind with Sherlock on top of him and attempting to shove him away. More vigorously now, jerking up and trying to hit him, punch him, throw him down, do whatever he possibly can to get him away enough to the point where he can throw him off of him and get him to stop writhing the way that he is. "Don't tell me your life is your own - " he hisses, snarls, and manages to connect his gaze with him, clenching his jaw. "You don't even know how to keep yourself alive."
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At first Sherlock looks startled, eyes wide as if he thinks he must be mistaken, but then it changes to shock. Indignation, perhaps. Revulsion, even. It’s hard to know which, because Sherlock finds Mycroft’s entire existence so repulsive right now that his face reflects the storm of emotion he’s feeling.
“Really,” Sherlock says when he finally says something, and his tone is as hard as Mycroft’s cock, but crueler, like a moral judgment on Mycroft’s apparent desires. There’s a mean curl of his mouth as he mocks him, “So I was right…”
He’s almost talking more to himself. The things he’d noticed, compiled together, gathered over time, they all fit. Mycroft’s occasional, apparently uncharacteristic sentimentality, his constant obsession with Sherlock’s health and wellbeing… if this is what he wanted it made sense that he didn’t know what to do about it, didn’t know how it would be received.
Sherlock looks uncomfortable. It’s part of the point. He wants to make Mycroft as uncomfortable as possible, wants him to feel that this is unwelcome, that Sherlock thinks less of him for it because he wants Mycroft to know how it feels to be judged inferior.
“I can’t believe you, coming in here all high and mighty to take away my drugs and tell me how poorly I manage my own life, and now this?”
He sounds completely aghast, like he’s not quite sure if he ought to hit him again or get off of him entirely. But for the time being, he does neither, he just holds him down and stares into his eyes, unrelenting.
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Discomfort doesn't even begin to describe it. His eyes are closing, and he's counting backwards from a hundred. Thinking about baseball. Doing whatever he can to settle his own body down, because he knows fully well what Sherlock may be doing. Calculating. Deducing. Making an educated guess. It's there where he finds his solace, that Sherlock is dreadfully woefully unprepared when it comes to any carnal act, and he stands, straightening his suit.
"You're not right about anything." He grabs the rubbish bag and ties it, obviously prepared to take it out, to be able to run as far away from this situation as humanly possible.
Despite whatever fronts he'd put up, whatever shields he may have lifted, he immediately felt shame. Shame for feeling so amorous towards man so directly related to him. Shame for it being Sherlock. Shame and discomfort for everything he had felt for years regarding his dearest, lovely little brother. "It's a bodily function. Unfortunately one that is not always controlled."
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Wondered about it, about just what Mycroft’s interests might be. It was almost amusing, as rational and cold as Mycroft is, to imagine this is hiding beneath. An interest, a desire like this. If he’s right, he knows it isn’t just a desire for sex. If it is, there’s plenty of opportunities for a man like Mycroft to satisfy that discretely. No, if Sherlock’s right, this is a great deal more than just that.
Maybe he’s wrong, but he doesn’t think he is, and right now, that’s more than enough to encourage him right now. Mycroft managed to get away from him, and while his brother climbs to his feet, Sherlock doesn’t do the same automatically. He’s watching for Mycroft to betray himself again, more than he already has, to give something else away. He sees his eyes slide shut, the way he always does when he’s counting to calm his nerves so he doesn’t, for example, kill Sherlock after he’s done something awful. Mycroft straightens his suit, but it’s still apparent that he hasn’t managed to completely control himself once more.
When his brother’s hand goes for the rubbish bag, Sherlock finally moves, standing again. He’s not between Mycroft and the door anymore, but it hardly matters, he can still stop Mycroft if he tries to leave.
“You’ve got feelings for me. Intimate feelings,” he ventured, voice a little harder than he’d intended it to be, staying Mycroft’s exit with those words, a hook to keep him here. It’s selfish; he doesn’t want him taking the rubbish away. And it’s curious, needing to know if he’s right, and interested, genuinely interested in what else Mycroft would give away if he were called out on it.
“You’re absurdly focused on my whereabouts and wellbeing, regardless how many times I’ve told you to just leave me be,” there’s more than a touch of annoyance there, though he continues, “You’re lonely, and yet you’ve never once pursued a relationship of any kind. And you’re ashamed,” he adds, remarking on the shame he’s noticed before and the shame he continues to read off of his brother as he speaks, “And not just because of a bodily function.”
Sherlock can tell it’s deeper than that. As he talks, shares his deductions aloud, his whole tone changes ever so slightly, becomes less hard and accusing and more genuinely curious, even interested.
“I’m right,” he pushes again, unable to let it be.
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He was good at covering himself up. Good at masking his gaze, good at averting his eyes even when Sherlock would trample around bare as could be in a sheet in the middle of Buckingham Palace. He was good at making certain that his interests were masked by worries; he made certain that he maintained a respectable distance. Personal visits were usually forgone in place of cameras and CCTV and bodyguards. Drugs were thrown out because the way that Sherlock looked, sallow and pale was nothing compared to the way he normally was, beautiful and full of life. He had felt "stirrings" of events, had immediately squashed such urges and tailored his behavior and speech to make certain nothing was immediately obvious.
His expression in something blank, watching Sherlock as he figures it out. intimate feelings. Focused on my whereabouts. He's frowning as he watches, observes. He was not entirely focused on sex. Not entirely. Feelings for his brother had transcended such physical and physiological reactions, thus his desire and need to consistently hide such "feelings" as it were. He watches as Sherlock remarks on his state, eyes flicking down - shame. Certainly shame.
Who wouldn't feel shame in having feelings for their younger brother?
"Whether you're right, or wrong Sherlock, it's irrelevant." He's cold and icy in response. The iceman as it were. He had grown adept to being able to mask such emotions and feelings on his part, grown adept to being able to order assassinations and cause governments to topple, and far be it from him to spare his own feelings (or his brother's) in the name of something that could never - would never - be able to happen.
There were reasons he kept it so quiet. Reasons he had distanced himself so far away from the very notion.
"This will never happen."
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In concealing everything, he’s giving himself away. If there was nothing to give away there would be nothing to hide, so then why is he hiding? It’s not new. It’s the same distance Mycroft has kept for all these years, visible in his face now the same as it is every time they’re in the same room together. The difference is the extremity of it, how in his face it feels to have Mycroft refusing to confirm or deny, as though Sherlock is some political opponent calling him out.
In the end, it’s a toss up as to what finally set him off. Mycroft’s coldness, the threat of losing his hard-won stash on the heels of coming down from his high unpleasantly fast, or the fact that, whether he’s right or wrong about Mycroft’s interest, Sherlock’s interested too.
He’s getting something out of Mycroft, his drugs or a reaction. That much goes through his head clearly, though most of his thoughts right now aren’t terribly coherent. What he finally does, lunging at Mycroft again so soon, isn’t well planned out. It’s messy, and it’s awkward, and a testament to the inexperience Mycroft thinks defines him. With the wall nearby they don’t topple to the floor. There’s a moment where he’s maybe going for the rubbish bag that holds his drugs, but then it’s clear that’s not what he’s actually doing at all.
He kisses him hard, and it feels like a challenge in the face of this will never happen. Now it has, even if it goes no further, it has happened. He knows he’s not wrong because being wrong doesn’t add up, but the truth is he still might be. He’s not facing that right now, hasn’t really thought at all about what he’ll do if he’s wrong.
On any other day, this might not have happened. If he wasn’t high, if Mycroft hadn’t come to take his drugs, if Mycroft hadn’t paid off every bloody dealer, if John wasn’t home with his new baby, wasn’t married, wasn’t so agonizingly absent. But maybe it was inevitable. Maybe they always would have ended up here, somehow.
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Out of all the outcomes that could have been suggested, this was one that was on the very low end of probability. Sherlock was his virginal little brother, his little innocent young thing that didn't know a thing about sex, who was overwhelmed by the very notion of a woman hurting men for money. Sherlock was the untouchable in his life, the thing he swore to protect against depravation despite his own horrible, horrible degeneracy that he had kept hidden so well until now.
He knows fully well that Sherlock is intelligent. More keen than he would first appear, and most on first appearance find him to be overwhelmingly intelligent. There's lips pressing against his, a hot breath against his face and the bag that had been clenched with a grip like an iron vice had been all but forgotten. Instead, his mind is being blown, overblown by the very idea that Sherlock had his lips pressed against him.
There's a challenge, of course, but Mycroft has always seen it as an impossibility, as a complete and utter factor in life that was never meant to be. Therefore he had never tried to conquer such a challenge, seeing his feelings for his younger brother as a desire only for him to be safe and kept happy and comfortable to the best of Mycroft's ability, considering the lack of himself in his brother's life for so long. He knows that this is something that he wants, and knows simultaneously that this is something he could, and can never have.
That doesn't stop his lips from returning the kiss. That doesn't stop him from grabbing his younger brother hard, hands cupping his face, tangling into dark curls that are reminiscent of their mother (Mycroft is the unfortunate splitting image of his father) and he kisses him furiously, so angry, so upset that the younger man would dangle this in front of him only to inevitably take this away. He's shoving him away and gripping his hair, a hair's breadth away, breathing against him, drinking him in. It's all he can do not to shove him bodily up against the wall and take and take and take.
Instead, as he always does, he restrains himself.
"Why are you doing this?" It's hissed, and it's more emotional than he means it to be, less controlled than he is normally. He's restraining himself with everything he has and there's even the very slightest hint of tears that prick at his eyes. "Sherlock. We can't." He's high, and that's the reason why he's doing this. He's entirely blown out of his mind, there's absolutely no reason for this otherwise, other than to prove a point in his drug-addled haze.
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Sherlock is anything but innocent anymore. One can hardly remain innocent for very long undercover as an addict, or in their real life when every dealer refused them. Sherlock had experience with sex, in some measure of variety, but none of it something he’d consider a high in and of itself. He’d gotten off, it had felt good enough, but there had always been something missing, something more, some dark edge that set his pulse racing.
Everything now feels so rushed and out of control, but he notices some things, scrabbling to hold on to anything that he can hold over Mycroft later. He notices that he’s kissing him back. For a moment, however brief, he’s actually drawing him in, hands on his face, fingers in his hair, and it’s then that Sherlock realizes he doesn’t know what to do with his own hands. They’re on Mycroft’s arms, not intimate, but like he’s trying not to be thrown off.
The kiss is angry. That’s fitting, because so is Sherlock, but for very different reasons. Sherlock isn’t dangling anything in front of Mycroft that he plans to take away; no, he’s angry at Mycroft for meddling. For being so controlling, for taking the only high he can have right now away, for not trusting him enough with his own life to let him live it his own way. He’ll never admit that he needs it, that without the solid presence of Mycroft, his pursuit of the next greatest high would have killed him years ago. He needs that guiding hand, even if he isn’t the innocent that Mycroft imagines he is.
Or maybe, he thinks as Mycroft pushes him away, hand fisted in his hair, this is the next greatest high. They haven’t done anything more than kiss, and already Sherlock’s pulse is racing, eyes blown with lust or drugs or both. Perfect, plush lips parted, he exhales one shaky breath and stares up into Mycroft’s face.
“Because I want to,” he breathes.
He broke through. There’s emotion in his voice, emotion he’s never heard there. It feels like a victory, and there’s just the barest a hint of a smirk, but it hardly lasts because there’s so much about this that is better than just winning. It’s more important, more real than any exchange they’ve had in these past decades, and more dangerous all at once.
Mycroft is still fighting him, restraining himself and holding Sherlock at a distance and it’s infuriating. Mycroft is always keeping what he needs at arms length from him. “Shut up,” he snaps back, refusing to accept we can’t. Instead, his hand finds something better to do, curling at the back of his neck to draw him in for another kiss.
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For a man who prides himself on keeping himself in constant control, he cannot win. For the first time in god knows how many years, he cannot win against his own basest desires, his own primal lust that he covers up in rent boys that he pays off well enough to avoid a scandal, or nights in Underground London that have nothing to do with the tube. He's always been so perfect, the perfect son and the perfect brother and the perfect countryman. For Sherlock to unlock this, something he's held back for so long is nothing short of terrifying, as though for the first time in all of his life he's walking a tightrope and taking a risk with nothing below him to catch him if he falls. And oh, does he fall.
That hand on the back of his neck, that snapped out phrase telling him to shut up - reminiscent of earlier days, when a young Sherlock would get angry at him, and despite the words bringing up echoes of early childhood memories before this all started to go down hill, the kiss brings him back to reality. He's grabbed again, fingers sliding into cropped short hair and gripping the back of his neck, and whenever he kisses Sherlock this time it's almost sweet. The anger in his movements, the furious way he had torn out strands of hair before melts away into his fingers sliding over Sherlock's shoulders, as though guiding him on what to do. He slides his hands down, shows Sherlock what to do with his hands, slides one around to the small of his back and the other a bit up, and he kisses him gently.
He doesn't say anything, as per his brother's (if not bratty) request, and he's allowing the kiss to say it for him. He's never been a man of words, never been one to tell someone just how special they are, least of all Sherlock. But there's something to be said for the gentle way he cradles him, for the way he just barely plays at his lips with his tongue, everything in slow motion as though he's trying to remember the way this feels.
He knows he can't win, he knows he's already lost, and when Sherlock is concerned, he always is. No other man or woman on Earth can get to him the way Sherlock can. Moriarty knew that. So did Magnussen, and every other enemy the two of them had ever faced off against one other worth their salt. Even Irene Adler knew that big brother would come running to save Sherlock if he was in any danger whatsoever. And now, he's completely in such a state. Entirely enraptured by the beautiful detective, such a smart and brilliant mind, so smart that even he would know.
If anyone would have been able to see past that protective big brother gaze into his heart, it would have been Sherlock.
He parts their lips for a moment, looking at him, watching him as though trying to understand. It doesn't make sense that Sherlock would return the sentiments. Sentiment is not an advantage, hadn't he told his brother that years ago? Caring was a weakness, and by allowing him to express his only true weakness, he felt exposed. Desperate to have an answer. He kisses him again, this time of his own volition, this time completely with himself in control, and he exhales as he parts again.
"You do want this." He repeats, because there's no way. There can't be.
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Or maybe he’s just chasing the high.
Sherlock hasn’t wanted this like Mycroft has. Not to the same extent, anyway, and certainly not for as long. He’d begun to suspect this in Mycroft some time ago, a few years back, and then he’d begun to push here and there. He’d gathered information and made deductions and wondered why, but then he’d begun to consider what it might be like. He imagined it would be different than the experiences he’d had before, because Mycroft was different. He was sharper, formidable, a challenge. And he meant more to him, though he’d hardly admit that aloud.
It is different. Even just kissing him is different from what he’s known before. Even though it changes and he misses how it was a few moments ago, that edge of anger and the way fingers gripped tight in his hair, this sets his pulse racing, too. He’s never known Mycroft like this, gentle, sentimental. He’s never imagined him like this, but then, right now, he’s not sure how he had imagined this. In truth, his mind is quickly receding, quieting more than the drugs even had allowed him.
Now, he’s not piecing anything together. He’s just feeling and reacting. Mycroft’s hands move over his shoulders and it’s slow. He’s drawing him in rather than pushing him away, and Sherlock mimics the moves, hardly thinking about the fact that Mycroft is guiding him at all. He wants to touch, and being touched is permission enough. Sherlock’s hand moves down his neck, traces the collar of his shirt, the fabric of his suit and follows the collar down his chest.
He’s slow to follow, wrapped up in this as he is. Mycroft’s tongue is playing against his lips for a few long moments before Sherlock thinks he maybe means to steal inside. His lips part and hardly a moment later, Mycroft is pulling away. Sherlock tries to follow, leans after him, a sound that’s close to a breathed moan escaping his still parted lips.
Sherlock blinks at him as Mycroft stares back. Mycroft is thinking something, and right now he’s not in any frame of mind to try and figure out what that might be. He’s afraid he’s going to push him away again, for real this time, and leave, and then what? But that isn’t what happens. Instead, he kisses him again, and it’s different this time, like he’s coming to it willingly rather than Sherlock taking it from him.
“I want this,” he repeats, breathless and eyes shining, not from drugs, but from desire. He hadn’t imagined that it would be quite like this, that it would feel this good. That hand that hadn’t known what to do is now undoing the top-most button of Mycroft’s jacket, and he’s pressing forward for another kiss, lips parted and inviting him in.
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It's what he needs to allow his control, so carefully guarded and so dearly held to be released. It's like floodgates, and he can't even bring himself to be as refined as he should. The fantasies would wake him up in the middle of the night, his darling younger brother spread out for him as though he actually wanted it, and he would immediately throw such horrible thoughts aside as soon as consciousness claimed him once again. He doesn't hesitate anymore, and despite however gentle he could be, there's a renewed desire that rears it's ugly head as he's finally given permission to do whatever he wishes.
The darkest fantasies are discarded, of course. He's in no shape to be harmed in any way, and all the shape to be slid against, Mycroft using the momentary lapse in judgement to swap their positions and pin him down, and he's breathing slowly through his nose as he guides him down, down down. Down to the floor in Sherlock's kitchen - for a moment he rescinds and grabs the younger Holmes brother, yanking him to his room in a matter of moments.
There are so many fantasies he wants to carry through, and none of them occurred on a floor littered with mouse bones and remnants of experiments and the slight scent of sweat and cocaine permeating through the air. Instead he practically tosses Sherlock to the bed, pinning his shoulders down and kissing him for everything that he's worth. And god, is he worth so much. His dear, precious little brother. He's practically a prize to be won, something to be coveted and cherished and loved all over, and it's harder than ever for him not to simply tear him apart. He wants to rip skin with his teeth, tear imperfections into that perfectly smooth skin, slide his lips over trackmarks to cover them with bruises and hickeys to where Sherlock will never touch a needle again.
The man has restraint, however, and pleases himself for the moment with lips against lips, somehow not able to stop kissing him for even a moment. The fact that this has been allowed is all that runs through his mind, and he nearly fears that if he lifts away, there would be a change of heart. Sherlock might sober. But there's something in him that still wants for so much from the man, and his lips tangle over the detective's, sighing against him as he fumbles. His suit is complex, so he takes instead to pulling apart Sherlock's clothing, unbuttoning and shifting, desperate for bare skin beneath his fingertips.
"You'll make me angry if you're lying." He murmurs against his neck as he sucks out a bruise - just one, just to remind him, and he's whispering against his ear as he shifts the shirt out from under Sherlock. His own blazer is tossed atop of it, and he's sitting up on his haunches to start unbuttoning it. "I really do hate when you lie."
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The gentleness faded away somewhat, the almost reverent way he’d kissed and caressed his face and neck, and gives way to not roughness, but a firm hand that shifts their positions and pins him to the floor. The weight of Mycroft on him, moving against him, is unexpectedly perfect.
Then it’s gone, but that’s short lived, and soon enough he’s sent tumbling back into his unmade bed with Mycroft following him down. The warm solidity of his body is there again, on him, and there’s nothing left in Sherlock that even remotely resembles control and the position has him breathless.
He never wants this to stop, except that he wants more. He’d never really fantasized about this, but now he’s overwhelmed with just how much he wants. He wants to try absolutely everything, even things he’s already tried, wants to do it all over again to compare because even just this is good beyond words.
Mycroft’s mouth abandons his, and there’s a moan in a moment of protest, but the attention shifted to his neck and, oh, but that’s almost better. He can feel Mycroft’s breath hot against his skin, the edge of teeth as he sucks and it sends a tingle through him, a sensation he’s never felt before. His lips part in a silent gasp as his hands curl into Mycroft’s clothes; he’s afraid he’ll stop, that for whatever reason he’ll pull away and stop doing that. He barely registers his words. At first he’s aware of them only as far as they mean he’s not still biting, sucking at that place on his skin. Sherlock leans into the whisper of his lips still close, silently willing him to do it again, do it harder.
It doesn’t happen. Instead, Mycroft moves away, and the moan that escapes him is low and longing for him to come back down. The words click then at the same time that Sherlock realizes just how much effort it’s going to take to strip Mycroft’s suit away. There’s too many layers, too many buttons, and Sherlock’s attention follows them from the ones still concealed behind his tie down to the one at the fly of his trousers.
“Does it really look like I’m lying?” he hardly recognizes his own voice, low and thick with desire. His hands move to help Mycroft, but his fine motor skills have seen better days. He tries at the bottom buttons of Mycroft’s shirt, and failing, his hands slip down over the bulge at the front of his trousers. This time, feeling the evidence of what Mycroft wants doesn’t come with anger or accusations. It’s slow, like maybe he’s not sure it’s entirely alright, or perhaps that he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. He’s staring and he doesn’t realize it, eyes fixed on Mycroft where he’s touching him. Without warning he stops, his hands smoothing over the fine fabric and settling on his hips and pulling him forward just enough that the weight he rested on Sherlock was something he could move his hips against. He’s eager and chasing what he wants, and he’s demanding.
“Hurry up with the buttons…”
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He's pulling away entirely after a moment. "Now, then. If you're patient, and can stay still - no touching yourself, Sherlock - then perhaps I'll give you a reward once I've finished folding my suit." Because far be it from him to waste a 6000 pound suit crumpled on the floor where it could be damaged. Instead Mycroft pulls off the bed, slowly unbuttoning one button after the other after the other - loosening his tie, pulling it off completely (oh, he could use that later) and discarding it over the top of a chair. The blazer is folded and creased to follow, then his shirt.
He's never been quite pleased with his body. Vanity had a price when you passed thirty, and skin wasn't as tight, muscles not as strong or as used as they once were. He's proud at the very least that his stomach doesn't hang quite as much, a product of running and a strict exercise routine. Mycroft slips off the shirt and folds it, stopping short of removing his belt to sneak a glance towards Sherlock, still lying there on the bed.
"You're surprisingly being very good. Trust me when I say, it will be worth it."
And then back to his belt, slipping it off to unbutton his trousers. Those follow in a crisp, clean fold to hang over the back of the chair, the blazer and suit folded on the seat. He very nearly forgets to remove his pants, the underwear gone - leaving him bare and vulnerable. "Now then. Where were we?"
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The spell seems to break when Mycroft pulls away. It’s not so much the teasing perhaps-promise that does it, but the absence as he pulls away, and it leaves Sherlock with nothing dull the need that’s pooling within him. Patient. His hand had begun to move to replace Mycroft’s weight on him and then it registers, no touching, and he exhales a moan at the loss he can’t replace.
He looks thoroughly fucked already, if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s not yet undressed. His hair is a wild mess of dark curls against the pale bedding, face uncharacteristically flushed with lips to match. His eyes track Mycroft’s every move, silently willing him faster. If he were allowed, he’d tear that suit away from him just to get him back atop him to soothe the ache.
He’s never considered his brother really attractive, at least not in the way that stirred most people’s desire. Not even when he was younger and a few stone lighter, the way he’d looked when he’d come home from Oxford; long and lean and firm. He’s not unattractive, but his appeal doesn’t emanate from his skin. It’s deeper than that. It’s how he moves, it’s in the control that he keeps close and how rare it is when he lets it go. Still, he can’t look away as his clothes come off and he folds them - ridiculous - over the chair.
It’s his voice too, he realizes now, as Mycroft praises him for being good, promises it will be worth it. Sherlock hates to be agreeable, especially for Mycroft, but if it will earn him a reward he can’t help but make an exception. Maybe next time he’ll misbehave as an experiment, to see if it will earn the opposite, a punishment. Mycroft’s asked him a question, and Sherlock can hardly formulate a response. It comes belated, stuttered in a voice that’s distracted and thick with need.
“You were going to reward me…”
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Mycroft can't help but hang back for a moment, appreciating the debauched image of the poor man with the same scrutinizing eye he might associate with a fine work of art; something etched out in marble with a delicate touch, and the way that his brother writhes and seems to struggle with his words, that voice that seems all too impatient, and he takes his time as he slowly strolls around the bed.
Strolls around the bed and touches for a moment. Just a brush of fingertips over his skin, just a sigh that manages to escape despite his personal wishes. He simply appreciates, and knows fully well that his decision to drag this out is going to have Sherlock bucking up and whining for him eventually. He's already expecting his reward straight off.
"Not yet." He murmurs, because he's still appreciating, he's still slowly, slowly drinking him in.
If this is still some addled dream, some sort of one-of drug-addled event, then he's going to take the moment to be able to appreciate him for all that he is, all that long, lean-bodied gorgeousness.
"In good time, dear brother." And then he leans close, murmuring a dark, soft growl against his ear. "I have plans for you."