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
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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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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."