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.
no subject
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…”
no subject
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?"
no subject
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…”
no subject
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."