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Uncle Dragon

Chapter Text

Mycroft hates legwork.

He thinks this as he rides his horse, Malaga, across the Great North Plains – a truly mind-numbingly dull landscape; the same green grass, the same trees and good god – the same annoying mosquitoes for days!

All for some foolish report of a dragon that has been rumored to be wracking havoc on some little village at the edge of his Father’s territory. In Mycroft’s personal and humble opinion – dragons do not exist; it is the likely tale of some village elder who got a little too high on the local flora. Nevertheless, Father had ordered him to go on the mission, and like the dutiful first-born son – he had gone.

How he wishes he could be more like Sherlock – his little brother would have wrinkled his nose in disdain, launched a scathing retort and flounced off. And Father would sigh and laugh, but such is the privilege of the child who is the spare and not the heir.

Ah… Sherlock... Mycroft sighs – his beloved little brother has not been seen in years after announcing to the family one day that he was leaving to go study magic. In his wildest fantasies, Mycroft would find some way to turn back time, confess his undying and most inappropriate love for his little brother and convince him to stay home and forego his studies.

But alas, it is not meant to be.

Mycroft is no mage.

The hot summer sun beats down mercilessly upon him, causing perspiration to drip from his forehead and neck, and into his light-weave tunic. He sighs in relief when his destination, the little village of Kilerth, finally comes into view, at the foot of the fabled Argent Mountains.

.

.

Mycroft rubs his fingers impatiently against the pommel of his broadsword, as he listens to the umpteenth man talk about the latest gossip in regard to the legendary dragon. Over the last day or so, Mycroft has been busy sitting at taverns, pubs and even the daily market, buying a pint for a thirsty villager, or crossing a village elder’s palm with silver in the quest for tangible information.

“Ah… the dragon. Quite a scary fellow. A few heads of cattle disappear every few months or so. But, if yer crazy enough to go looking for the bastard, I would recommend you go up Mt. Baker. I’ve seen the blighter fly towards there once. We’ve even left tributes –“

“Tributes?” Mycroft’s eyes widened in horror. “As in…”

“Children!” The old man exclaims as he takes a draught of his ale. “Yes, two girls, one boy – over the course of a year. Didn’t seem to change the status quo much, but the children vanished. The womenfolk of the village got into a big uproar about it, so we don’t do that anymore.”

“God, I sincerely hope so.” Mycroft shudders with disgust. The fingers of his right hand are now clenching the sharkskin wrapped hilt. He even deigns to have a mouthful of the beer that is better off classified as horse piss just to keep himself calm.

“But that was at least three years ago.” The old man says in a placating way. “But, yes, go up Mt. Baker, and perhaps you will find what you are looking for, ser.”

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Mt. Baker is the tallest mountain of the Argent range of mountains. The colossal wonder of nature looms above Mycroft, a daunting task for anyone to summit. Provisioned with a week’s worth of supplies, Mycroft starts trekking up the well-worn path that the villagers have been trampling over on for centuries.

He still can’t believe he is doing this – this is not how he had envisioned his summer to go.

In addition to his tunic, Mycroft wears a heavier fur-lined cloak. From the villagers, he has learned that the nights on the mountains can be a frigid experience. The vegetation on the mountain is sparse; there are little green shoots poking out of rock, delicate flowers stretching for the sun and lichen slathered on the rocks. It is a cloudy day, at least, thankfully obscuring the potentially scorching rays of the summer sun.

For hours he follows the meandering path taking him in circles around the mountain. The path grows narrower and the surroundings quieter. He stops to eat a chicken and mushroom pasty from his provisions when his stomach rumbles.

It is truly a monotonous experience.

When the night arrives, Mycroft finds a comfortable nook to have a bit of shut-eye.

.

.

Mycroft has no idea where he is when he wakes up. From what he can see, he is in a cave – a massive one. The stone of the cave glows an unnatural shade of azure, with the base of the rock being a dark gray, similar to the stone that made up the exterior of Mt. Baker. There is an unearthly, but oddly beautiful sparkle to the rocks of the wall. Strange torches, made from a black wood, are slotted into cunningly carved grooves in the rock; silver flames dance on top, illuminating the surreal space.

There is an even bigger problem; he cannot move his limbs. His wrists, arms, ankles and thighs were bound tightly by living vines – dark green ones – that seems to originate from the floor of the cave. One tendril actually snakes around his waist twice. The only comfort is that the plant material is soft and cushiony; Mycroft deduces that sitting on the hard cave floor would make his arse ache within a few minutes.

A shriek of laughter startles him. On the far side of the cave, he sees the silhouette of a young girl running through the cave, chasing after another smaller shadow with what looks like a sword in her outstretched arm.

The other shadow appears to be male. “Lady Arya of the seven black seas – please don’t make me walk the plank! I implore you!”

“Argh! You will walk it if I say you’ll walk it, you wretched cur.”

“Language, Arya!”

Mycroft watches the mini-drama unfold from his vantage point. It contains three children – who go by the names of Arya, Mitch and Frieda, one wooden sword, one dog of indiscriminate pedigree and a wild imaginative game of pirates similar to the ones he and his brother once played as children.

Speaking of swords – Mycroft realizes that both Umbra – his broadsword – and his provisions are gone. He sighs; reflecting that perhaps he is lucky that he was permitted to keep his clothing – he’s read enough fairytales and legends over the years to know that not every captive was so lucky in that area.

His mind finally stumbles across a genius solution.

“Help!” He cries out into the space of the cave.

The flurry of activity stops. The three children – Arya the dark-haired, Frieda the dirty blonde and Mitch the brown-haired stare curiously at him – the captive, for the first time. The dog rubs his head against Mitch’s leg and whines.

Arya the Bloodthirsty skips boldly forward, waving her wooden blade perilously in Mycroft’s face.

“A real prisoner!” She exclaims, pointing the tip of the wooden blade towards one of Mycroft’s jugulars.

Frieda, the eldest, immediately grabs Arya’s arm and pulls the scratchy sword away from Mycroft’s throat. “Mind your manners! He might be a prisoner, but he’s not our prisoner!”

Feeling rather bemused, Mycroft asks, “Are you lot in the habit of obtaining prisoners?”

“No, you are the first one!” Mitch claps his hands with glee, setting off the dog who barks – the sounds echoing throughout the cave.

“A true honour.” Mycroft says dryly. “Can you free me?”

“Even if we can,” Frieda replies seriously, “It’s not our place.”

“Well, why ever not?” Mycroft finds that he could drop his arms at least – whatever strange plant this is, it seems to have finally permitted some slack in its unforgiving coils.

“You are here at the pleasure of Uncle Dragon!” Arya still has her blade pointed at Mycroft.

“And who is this Uncle Dragon?” Mycroft presses on.

“A very nice man!” Frieda praises.

“The best!” Mitch says adoringly.

“And a very awesome dragon!” Arya beams.

“Let’s go grab breakfast!” Mitch rubs at his belly.

“You will meet him soon.” Frieda says, in what Mycroft perceives as a reassuring manner.

The children and dog scamper off, leaving Mycroft alone with more questions than he had started with.

Chapter Text

An interminable amount of time seems to pass when Mycroft finally hears the sound of something approach him. He first catches a glimpse of the scaly snout, followed by the maw full of lethal teeth, the iridescent blue-green eyes, the four massive clawed limbs, the two tightly furled wings and finally the one long pointy tail with vicious spines.

A dragon.

Mycroft thinks that he ought to be terrified, but bizarrely enough he is calm. If the dragon had wanted to eat him, he would have been dinner a long time ago. An intelligence seems to be lurking under those bright eyes. And there is something rather striking about the silver scales; they shimmer beautifully under the silver torchlight.

The dragon approaches, each step deliberate. Mycroft does not flinch when the great beast’s nostrils are close enough to breathe a puff of warm smoky air on his face. There is surprisingly what seemed like amusement flickering in the irises of the dragon’s eyes – it seems to be saying with its countenance, ‘You fool – you are not afraid?’.

Mycroft almost wets himself in terror when the dragon rears back and breathes a jet of real silver fire directly at him.

The flames surprisingly do not hurt. If he is ever pressed to describe this singular experience, Mycroft would have said that the sensation of the fiery tongues licking at his skin was pleasant. But, the fire decimates the vines holding him captive, causing the organic matter to transform into a pile of ash. When the vines were fully burnt, the flame vanishes without a trace.

“Um… thank you?” Mycroft feels completely out of his depth; his bum now rests on the cold stone floor that is just as uncomfortable as he had deduced earlier.

A rumble of what seemed like laughter seemed to vibrate from the dragon’s larynx.

And, Mycroft watches in amazement as the beast disappears before his eyes, seeming to collapse in upon itself, revealing a familiar figure that Mycroft could have sworn that he would have never seen again.

“Sherlock?”

His brother looks at him, wearily, crouched on all fours. He looks older and thinner; his black curls tumble down to his shoulders. There is a feral look about him that was not there when Mycroft had last laid eyes upon his brother.

Sherlock is skittish, almost hesitant.

“Brother mine?” Mycroft gets up, and crawls towards Sherlock.

He wraps his arms around his long-lost brother; letting his face nuzzle against Sherlock’s grey tunic just below the neck. Words come out of his mouth, “God, how I missed you, little brother.”

“You are not disgusted?” Sherlock is amazed.  

Mycroft looks at him in astonishment. “No. Why? At the fact that you can change into a dragon?”

“More like cursed.” Sherlock says a tad bitterly.

“I thought you were dead.” Mycroft says – letting his old pain and sorrow creep into his syllables. “You have no idea, how much I wished that I could turn back time and convince you not to leave all those years ago.”

“I had to.” Sherlock replies desperately. “Not for the magic – I could have learned at home with what resources we had – but because of you.”

“Me?” Mycroft is truly baffled.

“I felt things for you that were not what brothers should feel towards each other. And you are the eldest – the heir to our Father’s title – I couldn’t – couldn’t destroy your future like that; you would be expected to marry some highborn lady, sire some children and rule the old roost as our forefathers had done before us – if you haven’t done so already. And, I couldn’t have stayed and watched that all happen. So, I left. God, Mycroft…”

Sherlock buries his face into Mycroft’s tunic, and actually sobs.

Mycroft does not know what to feel. What is one supposed to feel when the object of all your affections confesses their love to you? To feel when one was the source of a decade’s worth of anguish for his most beloved person in the world? He wishes that he had acted on his urges to confess his undying love for his brother before he had left all those years ago.

Alas, he is a coward.                              

He cradles his brother’s body in his arms and presses a kiss against his beloved’s forehead.

“Sherlock…” He begins to say but stops – the emotions suddenly overwhelming him. Trying again, he proceeds, “Little brother, know that your feelings are returned in full. There is no highborn lady and no offspring. Just me – your big brother – your lover, if you wish it.”

His brother only cries harder; his face completely obscured by Mycroft’s tunic.

Mycroft runs one of his hands comfortingly through his brother’s silky curls and uses his hand to wipe the tears off his brother’s face.

He would seize this second chance with both hands.

Mycroft Holmes might be a coward at times, but he is not an idiot.

.

.

Climb up on me.

Mycroft carefully approaches the silvery back of his brother sitting on his haunches. It turns out that as a dragon, his brother can use his skills as a mage to project thoughts into the minds of nearby individuals.

Gingerly, he clambers up on his brother’s rough scaly back, using Sherlock’s bent hind legs as a stool. He wraps his arms tightly around his brother’s neck, his legs around Sherlock’s scaly sides, and he feels the rush of wind when Sherlock’s magnificent wings unfurl. The wings beat a few times, before his brother slowly launches himself into the air.

They hover for a bit; Sherlock presumably allowing Mycroft some time to get used to being airborne.

Hang on.

Mycroft feels his stomach lurch when Sherlock shoots upwards like an arrow, towards the vast ceiling of the cave. Hanging on for dear life, Mycroft could not enjoy in the view, but he soon finds himself in a smaller and cozier cave – Sherlock’s private space or rather roost.

It is surprisingly comfortable – the floor is lined with furs, blankets and even pillows. Books are stacked haphazardly in the corners, and there is even an elevated flat stone surface that served as his brother’s desk. The same silver flame torches illuminate the space here as well.

His brother morphs back.

“I actually do have a proper dragon saddle, which would be more comfortable – and safer.” Sherlock says as he throws himself into his furs. “But you know I would never let you fall.”

“You would let me ride you, little brother?” Mycroft is fixated on the first part of the conversation.

Sherlock winks mischievously, “And more, big brother – if you are interested.”

“You are a scoundrel.” Mycroft crawls into the furs after his brother.

“Noted.” Sherlock says. He then grins widely. “You do realize, brother mine, that this makes you the princess?”

Mycroft laughs heartily. “I am a willing enough captive.”

“Mm…” Sherlock pulls Mycroft towards him, “Kiss me, princess.”

He does; Mycroft would have happily been called anything right at this moment to be allowed the privilege of kissing his brother.

They shed their tunics, their undergarments and everything else physical that served as a barrier between them. Mycroft hovers over his brother, using his knees to keep his brother’s thighs captive. “I will show you who really is the princess, brother dear.”

He proceeds to kiss, suck and lick every inch of pale skin that is available on his brother’s decadent body. Sherlock writhes against him, whimpering loudly when Mycroft catches a pink nipple bud in his mouth and sucks on it. His little brother cries out when he lets his teeth graze against the sensitive nub, following up with a whine when Mycroft blows on the abused flesh. His brother jerks up when Mycroft repeats the same treatment on his other nipple – his mewls of pleasure going straight to Mycroft’s cock, fueling his arousal.

Sherlock pants, “Are you going to fuck me, brother?”

Mycroft lets his fingers trail down to that secret spot hidden under his brother’s generous butt cheeks. He gently presses against the hole, eliciting a gasp from his brother.

“Do you want me to?” Mycroft asks tenderly.

“I’ve never done it before.” Sherlock admits. “Maybe not now. Later.”

“Mm…” Mycroft bends down to kiss him again. “My virginal princess.”

Sherlock huffs, “I doubt you’ve had anyone there either, brother.”

Mycroft smiles. “You’ve got me there, brother.”

“We can be virginal princesses together.” Sherlock tosses a vial of fluid at Mycroft.

Mycroft pops the stopper of the vial and pours a quantity of the lubricant into his palm.

“My mighty dragon.” Mycroft says as he reaches down to encircle both their cocks with his large hand.

They frot, as Mycroft maintains a steady pace.

“My brave warrior.” Sherlock moans. He demands, “More!”

“Patience, brother mine.” Mycroft slowly increases the speed of his strokes. “Good things come to those who wait.”

“Nggh!” His little brother complains petulantly. “Should have caught another princess.”

Mycroft shuts his brother up by kissing him salaciously, dipping his tongue to caress his brother’s mouth. Little groans, pants and whimpers arise from them both; the quality of the sounds getting needier with every passing second. Mycroft is not sure which sounds are emitted by who; alas, he finds that he does not care. His own need rises higher, so Mycroft frigs them both with the speed and pressure they both crave.

Sherlock comes first – his beautiful neck flung back, his lips in a sweet ‘O’ shape, roaring out his pleasure like the dragon he is. Mycroft, undone by the sight of his brother’s capitulation to hedonistic pleasure, spills straight after. He collapses straight into the evidence of their mutual desire. Finally, he wraps his arms around Sherlock and presses his face against the junction of his brother’s shoulder and neck.

The stickiness gluing them together suddenly vanishes. His little brother smirks at Mycroft’s suddenly confused expression.

“You forget that I am a mage, brother mine.”

.

.

“Come back home with me.” Mycroft pleads, as he runs his fingers in his brother’s curls – as he had done many times when Sherlock was a child; his brother’s head a comfortable weight in his lap.

“You do realize – brother mine – that I do have to live as a dragon half the time?” Sherlock replies, looking grim. “If I don’t transform, I will get terribly ill. And what would Father say?”

“The castle and the lands are more than large enough for a dragon.” Mycroft rubs at his brother’s scalp, eliciting a groan of pleasure. “And I highly doubt Father or Mother would care as long as you are back. I am certain they have witnessed stranger happenings in their lives.”

“What about us?” Sherlock lists another concern.

“We carry on as we are. I highly doubt Father would care about what we get up to in our spare time, little brother.”

“What about marriage and heirs?”

“Mother and Father have given up on foisting eligible maidens upon me, brother. Besides, Father has named Uncle Abraxas’ son, Xander to follow us in succession.” Mycroft then winks, “You do know… about our Uncle Monty and Uncle Edmund, do you?”

Sherlock’s eyes widen comically, “Oh no!”

“Oh yes.” Mycroft grins widely, “It turns out that we were both right.”

His brother groans; Mycroft knows that Sherlock is reminiscing about a certain game of deductions that they had played together years ago at a Winter Solstice celebration. The targets had been unsuspecting family members. Mycroft had deduced that the two uncles had a relationship that went beyond the fraternal, while Sherlock had said that they had a mutual interest in the same stable boy.

“Apparently, it runs in the family.” Mycroft concludes.

“Hopefully sans stable boy, brother.” Sherlock makes a face.

“No, you would not appreciate the latest crop of boys – ow!” Mycroft winces when his brother pinches his side, hard.

“Mother must have been crushed.” Sherlock changes the topic, referring to the lack of future grandchildren.  

“Oh, she was.” Mycroft replies. “But, if I bring you back, she will forgive me for all my sins, little brother.”

“Ah, so I am just a means to an end for you to get out of Mother’s bad books.” Sherlock remarks dryly.

“Among many things.” Mycroft idly twirls a long strand of his brother’s hair around a finger. He then thinks of something. “The children – are they the tributes?”

“Of course, they were.”

“And you are their Uncle Dragon.” Mycroft states fondly. “Why didn’t you send them back?”

“To the village?” Sherlock is appalled. “Where they were sent out to die, Mycroft?”

“What were you planning to do with them?” Mycroft asks.

“Let them grow up, teach them a trade and release them out into the world.” Sherlock replies. “It would certainly be less monotonous than their original lives. Also, Mitch has the gift of magic, like me.”

“But you couldn’t get rid of your curse?” Mycroft treads carefully.

Sherlock shook his head; he says forlornly. “It’s permanent; a curse type that we call an Irreversible.” His brother then smiles a little, albeit grimly. “But I reflected a portion of the curse back on the idiot who cast it. He turns into a huge ugly lizard for a good half of a day. Mutual destruction, brother.”

Mycroft laughs, happy that at least Sherlock had gotten the better end of deal. “We could bring the children back with us. They could get some formal schooling. And Mother would be happy – they would be the grandchildren she will never have.”

“Mm… you are full of good ideas, brother.” Sherlock sighs as Mycroft continues massaging his scalp.

.

.

“I want to ride Uncle Dragon!” Arya complains, as Mycroft finishes buckling the exquisitely made dragon saddle around his brother’s silvery and scaly chest. He winces a bit at Arya’s wording, thinking about a previous conversation he’s had with his brother.

“You are too small, Arya.” Frieda, the usual voice of reason, steps in. “The straps are too large for you.”

Sherlock lowers his chest to the ground, so Mycroft could mount himself onto the saddle. He harnesses himself in, his hands grabbing onto the saddle horn in front of him.

They are on top of a fearsome ledge – high enough to overlook some of the mountain peaks in the range. It is a beautiful summer’s day – the sun is at its zenith, the cloud coverage sparse and the air dry. Without warning, the massive wings – the webbing between the slender finger bones almost translucent in the sunlight – spread out like enormous fans. Mycroft suppresses a shout when his brother throws himself off the ledge – and just as he thinks they are going to hit the rocky outcrop below them, the wings of his brother catch lift and they soar.

Trust me, brother. I am an excellent flyer.

Mycroft wishes that their conversation could go both ways. There is no way he could make himself heard in the roar of the wind hurtling past them as Sherlock levels out their flight.

You could learn, brother mine. It’s not difficult.

‘For you, maybe.’ Mycroft muses. He does not possess any of the innate magic his little brother wields. Instead of ruminating further at his deficit, he decides to look around him – marveling how miniature and toy-like everything below them is. The speed that Sherlock flies at has slowed down to a leisurely pace.

Mycroft feels like a protagonist from some legendary tale – a dragon rider – all he is missing is Umbra which lies in Sherlock’s roost back at the mountain.

Now you are being all fanciful. I am your brother – your lover, not some steed.

‘How is he doing this?’ Mycroft thinks to himself. His brother’s deductive capacities seem to have been improved by an enormous amount since a decade ago.

You think too loudly, brother. Let me show you something.

Mycroft clings onto the saddle horn when his brother plummets from the sky without warning, the wind howling in his ear and tearing at his body, and soon they are skimming the lush treetops of some pristine, untouched by man, forest. The white-barked trees are enormous, there are animals roaming about – Mycroft spies a herd of white-tailed deer grazing, an unidentifiable species of furry primate swinging from the branches with acrobatic dexterity and even a wolf pack stalking out their next prey  –  and finally, an enormous lake. The colouration of the lake is a gorgeous shade of blue – gem-like – and the sunlight adds an ethereal sparkle to its still mirror-like surface; it looks like a portal to another fantastical world.

I could land in the water.

‘Don’t you fucking dare!’ Mycroft thinks as loudly as he can, as his brother lands perilously at the lake’s edge with a thud.

Get the saddle off me, brother mine.

Mycroft dismounts and does what his brother requests.

Sherlock reverts to his human form.

“You were never one for nature, brother mine.” Mycroft reaches his hand out for his brother’s.

Sherlock takes the offered hand. “Things change when one is forced to live in exile, brother.”

“It is serene here.” Mycroft observes, allowing Sherlock to pull him away from the lake.

“Mm…” Sherlock sits down on a patch of the softest grass that Mycroft has ever seen.

They are directly underneath the overhanging branches of a willow tree. Mycroft allows himself to be tugged down by his brother.

“You have a reason for bringing me here.” Mycroft says after a few moments. His eyes widen when Sherlock pulls out a vial of lubricant from the folds of his tunic and passes it over.

“I fantasized about it.” Sherlock says quietly, looking towards the lake. “I would sit here, on days where it was particularly lonely – and I was missing home. I imagined that you were here. And we would do things. Sinful things. Pleasurable things.”

“Was there love in your fantasies?” Mycroft asks.

“Tender things. Loving things.” Sherlock appends, “We did everything, brother mine.”

“I don’t think we have time to do everything.” Mycroft moves to wrap his brother’s too-narrow waist around his arm.

“I don’t expect us to.” Sherlock says, “Especially if we are leaving soon.”

“Should I take you?” Mycroft inquires, “Make love to you? Right here?”

“Yes. There’s no poison ivy or anything here.” Sherlock replies, leaning over to kiss his brother.

“Good.” Mycroft proceeds to playfully pin down his brother into the grass. With a distinct glee, he smirks, “And there will be no one around for miles to hear you scream, little brother.”

“That’s why – mmphf!”

Mycroft cuts off his brother with a kiss.

.

.

Never in his wildest dreams, did Mycroft ever think he would be making love to his little brother in the middle of a forest, surrounded by nothing but flora and fauna. Sherlock’s delectable bum rests in his lap, and Mycroft has two well-slicked digits buried in a deliciously tight virginal hole. Alternating amongst caressing the sensitive walls, brushing against the prostate and scissoring, Mycroft patiently works his brother open, gradually reducing Sherlock into an incoherent mewling mess.

I can take a third!

Mycroft rolls his eyes; his brother’s mind is a little too functional for his liking at the moment, despite his physical state. “Let me be the judge of that, little brother.”

Mm… Not some fragile virgin princess, brother mine.

“I am sure some, if not all of those descriptors pertain to you.” Mycroft lets a third finger tease the rim of his brother’s stretched hole, eliciting a visible tremor that traveled throughout Sherlock’s entire body. He says more gently, “I refuse to hurt you more than this is already going to.”

I want it anyways.

Please.

Need you.

Sighing, Mycroft carefully slides his third finger in, watching his brother’s face carefully; he distracts his brother from the additional intrusion by stroking Sherlock’s prick with his other hand. For minutes, he works, taking the time to memorize the entire scene, saving it in his own formidable mind palace; the sounds of foreign birdsong, rustling branches and the faint roar of a waterfall hidden deep within the forest’s unknown depths accompanied by the needy whines and groans of his lover; the image of his naked, lean but beautifully sculpted brother with his tumbling dark locks splayed over the grass – not at all dissimilar to pictures he had seen out of an illustrated erotic text based on mythological gods and goddesses that he had accidentally stumbled upon in his Father’s library when he had been an adolescent.

You are being distracted!

“Just simply slowing down to smell the roses, brother dear; admiring the view, as they say.” Mycroft replies back, returning his full concentration to Sherlock.

His brother wriggles his hips, trying get more of Mycroft’s fingers.

Your view wants you to fuck it!

“How crude!” Mycroft says with fond admonishment.

Mycroft!

With one hand, Mycroft proceeds to undo and pull down his trousers and pants, freeing his neglected cock. His brother scrunches his face up in concentration, before a pillow suddenly appeared in front of them. Mycroft grabs the royal-blue pillow and shoves it under Sherlock’s bum, deducing the position his brother would like for his deflowerment. He slicks up his own prick with the lubricant.

Divest me of my virginity, already!

His brother wiggles his bum enticingly; Mycroft instinctively slaps one of the delectably impertinent cheeks with his non-lube covered hand.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock verbally voices his displeasure, contrary to the evidence of his hardening prick.

Mycroft grins evilly; he could foresee some fun experiments in the future – maybe in front of that lovely fireplace in his . The traditional adage might have been ‘never tickle a sleeping dragon’, but it certainly didn’t mean he couldn’t spank one that was awake. But, he takes the glans of his cock, and rubs it teasingly around his brother’s hole.

“My…” Sherlock whines.

Deciding that his brother has had enough teasing, Mycroft lines himself against Sherlock’s entrance and gently pushes in. Despite all the preparation – his brother is still so tight – and Mycroft knows that the act of penetration cannot be a painless experience for Sherlock. He stills his hips when he sees his brother visibly wince – to give him the chance to adjust or to change his mind about the whole thing.

Just give it to me, brother mine. Men have been fucking men for ages – I will eventually get used to it.

Mycroft simply shakes his head. Not like this – he thinks.

Would it help if I beg, brother? Please fuck me.

His brother attempts to move his hips, but Mycroft forcefully holds him down by his thighs.

Mycroft…

There was something about that projection that conveyed the depths of Sherlock’s need; Mycroft – who never really could deny his brother – finds himself pushing slowly forward. He gazes into Sherlock’s ever-changing blue-green eyes – and sees the shimmer of sentiment. It touches him – it really does.

He groans when he finally sheaths himself fully in his brother’s tight heat.

“Move…” Sherlock gasps as he attempts to buck his hips under Mycroft’s hands.

Experimentally, Mycroft gently rocks his hips – fighting his instincts to thrust hard into his brother. The friction is amazing, and he can see that Sherlock thinks so as well – the pain from the initial intrusion is disappearing and is replaced by a look of contentment – nearing bliss on his brother face.

He leans forward to kiss his brother, feeling his knees dig deep into the moist soil beneath him.

I wish this could last forever.

“As do I, brother mine… as do I…” Mycroft says, as he feels the familiar rise of climax build up within him. He gradually speeds up his thrusts – beginning to actually fuck his brother.

Sherlock grunts in pleasure when Mycroft’s cock hits him just right against his prostate – his brother then demands, “More!”

Mycroft throws all caution to the wind and starts chasing for his completion – his own little death, fueled further by all the delicious noises that his brother was making under him. He tries to stave off the inevitable, trying to prolong the experience – but it is futile. “God, brother – come with me!” Mycroft finds himself crying out as he moves to stroke his brother’s prick – unsure if his brother is the type to be able to come untouched. His brother cries out “My!” when he finally comes with a flick of Mycroft’s wrist, and Mycroft capitulates when his brother’s passage contracts intensely against his cock – milking the seed.

They both collapse against the soft grass, struggling to catch their breaths.

.

.

“You are it!” Sherlock taps him on the shoulder after lying bonelessly on the earth – bringing Mycroft memories of a much younger and a delightfully mischievous Sherlock.

His brother scampers off – as naked as the day he was born.

Seriously – he is too old for this. Mycroft thinks as he pushes himself up from the grass – still slowed by the post-coital chemicals. His brother winks salaciously at him from behind the willow tree – barely a few steps away and darts off again when Mycroft is standing on his own two feet.

Nevertheless, he chases after his brother – who ducks and weaves amongst the trees like a giant tease – never straying more than a few metres away from him. Before Mycroft even was aware of what was going on – his attention concentrated entirely on his brother – they are running full-tilt towards the lake. At the last second, there is a brief shimmer of light, and his brother transforms into his beastly form and leaps majestically straight into the water – tail extended. Mycroft stumbles into the sun-warmed shallows and almost trips – opting instead to flop into the deeper waters of the lake. He manages a leisurely front crawl, while his brother has flipped onto his back further in – an odd dragon-shaped boat floating calmly in the clear water.

He climbs on top of his brother’s scaly belly once he has caught up to the buoyant dragon. Sherlock lets out a contented noise that sounds oddly like a purr – just more growly and deeper than your average housecat. But, dangerous though – Mycroft can’t help looking at the claws, the teeth and the spikes – a powerful apex predator on of any food chain in the kingdom – and beyond.

His brother snorts.

You like my dragon form.

“Just admiring how lethal you look, little brother…” Mycroft rubs at a spot on the dragon’s belly – the scales are rough under his fingers – but they sparkled beautifully under the sunlight.

Mm…

Sherlock hums contentedly while using his tail and wings to propel himself and Mycroft through the lake.

Mycroft has noticed that the animals of the forest have made themselves scarce – there had been a deer with antlers that had sipped at the lake water moments ago but had immediately scampered off upon seeing the dragon. Even the fish in the lake stay a healthy distance away. The birds – who had been singing when his brother and him had been having sex under the willow tree had vanished too – their birdsong is quieter; coming from further away in the forest.

I do hunt here – brother mine.

His brother fixes an amused eye at Mycroft.

They know I am a predator. 

“Have you…” Mycroft trails off – wondering if he is asking an indelicate question.

Eaten a human? Nope.

Sherlock then winks flirtatiously at him – a bizarre look on a dragon.

Wouldn’t mind eating you.

“Naughty brother.” Mycroft admonishes; never has he ever imagined fighting off advances from a sexually aggressive dragon.

That’s your fault. I was celibate until you came along.

This time an accusatory look is leveled at him.

Mycroft finds himself wondering if dragons had sex. He turns his head around to briefly survey his brother’s nether regions.

A rumble of delighted laughter emanates from Sherlock, the vibrations traveling to where Mycroft is sitting.

Nasty brother. Yes, I do have a penis in this form. It’s not very aerodynamic, so I keep it tucked in.

Mycroft feels himself blush – his brother is too damned good at reading him. He glimpses backwards again, and gawks when something long, big and distinctively phallic shaped extends from Sherlock’s pelvis; essentially, it is a larger version of Sherlock’s human cock – and coloured silver like the rest of his brother. His mouth goes dry – and there is a loud splash when he finds himself tumbling off his brother and straight into the water.

The lake is deep here, so Mycroft treads to stay afloat when he resurfaces. His brother is busy rolling in the water in mirthful dragon-y laughter, flailing his tail and limbs – splashing water everywhere.

I’ve never fucked anything with it – considering that there are no other dragons that exist these days – brother.  

“Would you consider it if there was?” Mycroft finds himself asking – feeling rather jealous of hypothetical dragons.

He finds himself suddenly embraced from behind – Sherlock has returned back to his human form. His brother nuzzles him affectionately, rubbing his face against his back, shoulder and neck. Mycroft finds himself being led back to the shallower part of the lake – so that they could stand on the sediment below.

“I adore you, big brother.” Sherlock mumbles in his ear. “When I first laid eyes on you – walking up my mountain – I realized my feelings were still the same from almost a decade ago. It is a long trek up – so I decided to save you the trip.”

Mycroft snorts in incredibility, “By kidnapping me – like those stories I read to you as a child.”

“But I was afraid.” Sherlock says rather sadly, “That you would reject me for my curse – and also for having feelings – I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer – you see. Besides the children, I haven’t spoken to anyone in years, Mycroft. I thought I liked solitude – but it’s awfully lonely.”

“I would never reject you.” Mycroft reaches over to hug his brother and to kiss him. “Even if the bastard turned you in to a rat – or something else unpleasant. I adored you when you were a child – and realized that I loved you before you had left. It hasn’t changed – no matter how many eligible women Mother and Father threw at me.”

“I thought you would pick duty over me.” Sherlock admits, “You were always the perfect son – while I was just getting into and out of trouble.”

“Never.” Mycroft says firmly.

He kisses his brother to physically show his devotion.

.

.

They eat dinner outside Sherlock’s cave. A bonfire made of his brother’s silver flames illuminate the darkening skies. Twinkling stars emerge as the sun sinks beneath the horizon. Frieda stirs a pot over the fire – a fragrant thick stew made from venison that Sherlock had recently caught, wild vegetables, mushrooms and potatoes. They break bread from the provisions Mycroft had brought – dipping the hard but hearty and crusty bread into steaming bowls of stew.

Arya and Mitch eat peacefully, using a flat rock as a table. The dog – who goes by the name of Mooch – begs for scraps and scrapes the meat off a few long deer bones.

His brother sits on the grass, leaning against a rock, with his knees bent towards his chest, chewing on stew-sodden bread. Mycroft walks over to him with his own bowl and bread; he lowers himself onto the grass.

I am going to miss this. It’s been my home for so long.

Mycroft lets his eyes wander around Sherlock’s domain – wild, uncultivated land – a range of mountains that stretch beyond the capabilities of his vision – an enormous forest full of interesting prey – and the enormous cave that had served as Sherlock’s home.

“We will have our own adventures, brother mine.” Mycroft replies, after swallowing a tender piece of meat. “I promise.”

You will have to gradually assume more of Father’s duties – presumably he is not getting any younger.

“We will do it together.” Mycroft grabs another piece of bread from a plate. “And there are other not-so-useless members of our family as well.”  

“Uncle Dragon!”

Mitch’s voice interrupts the conversation. “Is it true that we are going to a big castle tomorrow?”

“Am I going to be a princess?” Arya asks.

“Yes, we are going home.” Sherlock says – there is something fond in his voice, “Where I grew up.”

“I don’t want to be a princess!” Arya whines, “I want to be a warrior-pirate!”

“Then you can be that too.” Sherlock agrees – with surprising patience. “You can be whatever you like – Lady Arya – scourge of the Seven Seas.”

The mongrel, Mooch, nuzzles his face into Sherlock’s lap.

It is an adorable sight – Mycroft thinks – as his brother deals with the two children and the dog. It couldn’t have been easy – being the surrogate parent to three children. His brother even makes inquiries about homework – arithmetic for Arya and magic for Mitch.

“Watch this, Uncle!” Mitch holds out his hands and concentrates hard. The smallest tendril of purple fire shoots up from his hand – and coils into a fireball. He lobs it at Sherlock, who immediately parries it back. They pass the fire back and forth – with Sherlock giving pointers on how to control the fire better. Both Arya and Mycroft simply spectate – both somewhat envious.

“It’s getting late.” Sherlock finally looks at the moon. “You two better go take a bath and go find what you want to bring with you tomorrow.”

Arya looks put out, but Mitch simply pokes his step-sibling and says, “You are it!”.

Unable to resist, Arya runs after Mitch back into the cave.

“That one –“ Sherlock says reflectively, “Is a master manipulator. Quiet – and a schemer. Even Frieda can’t manage Arya as well as Mitch. He just lets Arya think that she runs everything.”

“Uncle Dragon?” Frieda sits down on the grass, her hair tied in two neat braids. She asks curiously. “Are you and Uncle Mycroft together?”

“Together?” Mycroft raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Like my Mother and Father before they died of the Great Sickness.” Frieda says, a tinge of sadness colours her tone.

Mycroft looks at Sherlock; he is unsure what to answer.

“We are.” Sherlock reaches over to wrap his arm around Mycroft’s waist. “But it isn’t something that people need to know – Frieda mine.”

“I understand.” Frieda nods, “Back at the village – they would have called you queers. That’s what they used to call Uncle Andrew, before he drank himself to death.”

Mycroft suddenly understands why Frieda – despite being barely an adolescent – is so serious. Too many grim and unpleasant things have happened in her all too short life. Not everyone is fortunate to have grown up under fortunate circumstances like his brother and himself.

“Well, people are not so accepting of those who are different.” Sherlock sighs. “Sometimes, my dear, it is easier to blend in, than to stand out.”

“I guess I should go prepare for bed too.” Frieda gives Sherlock a peck on the cheek – and after hesitating for a few seconds – one on Mycroft’s as well, before heading back to the cave.

.

.

“You did a good job raising those children, brother mine.” Mycroft says while curled up in the furs and blankets in Sherlock’s roost.

Thank you.

Sherlock has opted to sleep as a dragon today, his scaly body curled up protectively around Mycroft’s huddle of sleeping materials. It made sense – his brother has spent more time as a human today than as a dragon. He is not exactly sure what the consequences of his brother spending too much time as a human are – but he is sure that it would be unpleasant.

It starts with a fever – followed by the shakes – then sometimes I throw up – but I feel incredibly weak afterwards – like all the energy has been drained from my body. The symptoms, brother, go away as soon as I transform.

“Sounds unpleasant.” Mycroft says. “I am sorry that you have to go through that, brother mine.”

Don’t be sorry for things that are out of your control – big brother. You have always wanted to protect me, but sometimes I have to pay the price for my choices – whether if I deserve it or not. You used to take all the blame for me for all the naughty acts that I pulled. And I never thanked you once.

“Ah… I still remember when you broke Mother’s priceless heirloom vase.” Mycroft sighs.

Father actually spanked you for that. If I had known – I would have confessed. You can always repay the favour – you know.

“Sherlock – any spanking I do to you will be for our mutual satisfaction – I am not a sadist. And I disagree entirely with the concept of corporal punishment. It is ghastly.”  

Ah, so you do want to spank a dragon. Your fantasies run amok – brother mine.

“Your bum would look so nice with my handprints on them.” Mycroft imagines red prints on a plump and pale bottom. “And then when you are whiny begging mess, I would fuck you – maybe in front of that lovely fireplace in my chambers.”

I do not whine. Nor do I beg, brother dear.

“You say the sweetest lies, brother.” Mycroft grins, “It will make it all the more satisfying to prove you wrong.”

Hmph.

Mycroft has spent enough time around Sherlock-the-Dragon to understand that his brother is aroused by the scenario he has described.

“I would never harm you – you do know that? We can even come up with a safe word.” Mycroft says seriously.

I know. I might even like the begging and the spanking and the fucking. I am sleepy now brother – love you – night…

Smiling, Mycroft readjusts himself in the blankets and sleeps – knowing that they have a long journey ahead of them tomorrow.

.

.

The next day, under the light of the rising sun, Mycroft is traversing once again the Great North Plains on his horse Malaga – who had spent a restful time in a barn while Mycroft had gone to climb Mt. Baker. Mitch sits behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist. Behind him are two more horses – carrying his brother, Frieda, Arya and Mooch. Sherlock has managed to magically shrink and lighten all their items, so that they could be carried in six bags instead of needing a wagon.

Mycroft cannot believe that he had almost refused to go on this mission – and he is beyond glad that he has spent his summer chasing a dragon – that did turn out to be real, and his brother and lover. There would definitely be difficult challenges ahead – but Mycroft knows that with Sherlock by his side – they would be able to accomplish anything.

Plus – anyone that gets in their way would find that a nasty, snarling and magical dragon is a formidable opponent, indeed.

~The End~