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It’d Take Mycroft Holmes

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Mycroft shuddered inside him and leaned onto his body, draping himself over John’s back, pushing him into the leather bench seat. They both breathed deeply as the black car meandered its way through the streets of London. John’s post orgasmic haze began to melt and he began to take stock of the situation. Mycroft’s cock was buried inside him. He’d come all over the leather seats of Mycroft’s car. He’d been thoroughly fucked by his best friend’s older brother. Sherlock was going to be livid.

Mycroft gently pulled out, causing John to sigh sharply. John could feel Mycroft’s seed dripping out of his arse and then jumped when he felt Mycroft bend down to tongue the mess away.

John shivered and keened and moaned under Mycroft’s ministrations. He forced himself to stay still; oversensitivity be damned, he hadn’t been rimmed since high school. When the last of Mycroft’s tongue circled his loose, twitching hole, Mycroft, ever the gentleman, handed him a flannel.

John wiped his come off the leather seat, slid his trousers up from his thighs over his hips and sat back. He glanced back at Mycroft, who, in a feat that supremely irritated John, looked completely unaffected.

“What the bloody hell was that?” John tried to sound stern, but his voice was still breathless.

“I am not my brother. I recognize the value in taking care of my ‘transport.’ One such method is to satisfy my sexual needs.” Mycroft sounded like a bloody textbook and John wanted to hit him.

“Oh, fuck off. If that’s all you needed, you’d rent. There’s a reason you came for me. Seduced me.”

Mycroft sifted through a dozen facial expressions before he settled on reluctance.

“I suppose, Dr Watson, that if you can handle my brother’s eccentricities, then you are well equipped to handle my own.”

“Is that your way of saying you’d like to fuck me again?” John smirked.

“Must you be so vulgar? ‘Will minus intellect constitutes vulgarity’” Mycroft quipped in his ever lecturing tone of voice.

“’Nothing is more exhilarating than philistine vulgarity.’” John quipped back, and Mycroft’s eyes lit with a soft smile.


They rode in silence for a few moments longer before John cracked. “What am I going to tell Sherlock?”

Mycroft beamed and John witnessed the never seen before look of unadulterated excitement cross Mycroft’s features. His grin angled the nasolabial folds and his eyes squinted, yet seemed wider than ever, stormy blue eyes bright, and finally, finally, a tuft of hair dislodged itself from the perfect coiffure and curled in the middle of his forehead.

“God, you’re gorgeous.” John blurted out, the filter from brain to mouth still shorted out by the overwhelming orgasm he’d had just minutes prior.

Mycroft’s expression immediately darkened. “There’s no need to be cruel.”

John frowned, why was that cruel? Surely he knew – oh! – he didn’t. He didn’t believe John. “No, I’m serious. You like to hide behind that stoic, British Government demeanor, and yeah, you could probably pull anyone just like that. But that smile you just had? That genuine joy? Bloody gorgeous, you are. I don’t know what I said to make you light up like that, but I’ll say it a million times over if it’ll put that look on your face again.”

“Ah.” Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, but the darkness had been replaced by a light blush. “Thank you, Dr. Watson.”

“That’s another thing.” John felt more confident now, and he leaned forward, held Mycroft’s eyes and spoke with a husky rumble, “You’ve used your tongue to lick your own come out of my arsehole. I’d rather you call me John.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened and the blush across his cheeks spread down his neck. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Then another. Suddenly he flicked his eyes open and flashed John the genuine beam from before.

“Very well, John. As for your flat mate, and my brother, I am well prepared. In the eventuality that my advances were successful, I have brought the appropriate tools to derail his deductions.”


“I believe I told you once before, that it would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me? The opposite is equally true.”

“This is why you’re so giddy, isn’t it? You get to put one up on your brother.”

“I do so rarely get to play, John.” With that, he opened up the same compartment he’d fished the lube out from and pulled out several items. John saw a change of his own clothes, a few tufts of hair – animal, not human, a few dried insects, a jar of dirt, a small vial of water, and something brownish that looked like-

“Is that feces?” John asked, apprehensive.

“Yes. Of Meerkat, specifically.”


“I thought my brother had properly trained that dull repetitious behavior out of you.”

“Oh, sod off. Surely you can understand the unspoken question in my ‘repetitious behavior.’ I thought all that government work would have properly trained you not to be a prat.”

Mycroft chuckled at that, and the sound delighted John. He denied the urge to swoop towards Mycroft and plant a chaste kiss on his lips, it’d likely be too intimate for their relationship. “So tell me, oh genius, what exactly will Sherlock be seeing in me?”

“Keeper for a Day.” John quirked an eyebrow. Mycroft continued, “London Zoo has a Keeper for a Day program. You skived off from the clinic for a delightful day of traipsing after a zoo keeper and caring for meerkats.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I’ve not been to the London Zoo save a field trip in primary school. Sherlock’ll never buy it.”

“On the contrary. He will seeing nothing but the evidence of his eyes and he will believe, without doubt, that you spent the day coddling to the little rats. He’ll have no idea why, nor will he be able to understand why he had missed this interest of yours. He’ll have quite the tantrum.”

“Fantastic. A whole evening with a stroppy Sherlock Holmes.”

“Made tolerable by the knowledge that he is completely wrong.”

John smirked, and Mycroft handed him the change of clothes; a pair of comfortable khaki pants, a old soft t-shirt, socks and hiking boots. Once dressed, Mycroft went to work, putting insects and hair and dirt and water and feces in strategic locations on John’s clothes and body. He sat back and examined John under a scrutinous eye. He seemed pleased by what he saw, relaxed, and knocked on the divide separating them from the driver.

“Back to Baker St, my dear doctor.”


Mycroft was absolutely brilliant. Sherlock took one look at John and out spewed a wealth of observations and deductions based on evidence Mycroft had planted. Not for a moment did Sherlock suspect he’d been deceived.

John spent the evening chuckling to himself, watching Sherlock gripe about having missed John’s affinity for wildlife. “I’ll be in my mind palace,” he finally announced, a few minutes before eight.

“Adding some new information?” John smirked.

“I’ve got to rearrange your entire room. This disrupts my whole organizational system.” Sherlock flopped down on the couch, two patches clearly visible. “How did I miss this?!”