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It’d Take Mycroft Holmes

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Sherlock set down a cup of tea on the end table on John’s left hand side. He sat in his own chair and looked at John with intensity. John ignored him and continued to read his paper.

“John,” he said seriously.

John looked out from behind his paper. Sherlock was sitting upright, elbows on knees. His brow was knit, his lips tight, and his fingers steepled under his chin. John shuffled his paper back together, folded it, and set next to the tea. He looked back, concerned. “Sherlock? Are you okay?”

“John. I think you need to see a doctor.”

John laughed, relieved. “I’m perfectly fine. What’s this about?”

“You’ve been acting erratically. Your most recent participation in the tea party reenactment concerned me, especially with your strong sense of British pride. Coupled with your erotic dancing, despite having heard “not gay” near four dozen times. You talk to yourself in your bedroom. I’ve done some research, and such drastic deviations in behavior can be caused by mental illness or brain tumors. I think you need to see a doctor.” Sherlock tried to relax back in his chair, to exude nonchalance, but the tension in his frame remained evident.

John felt a twinge of guilt, but then recalled vividly the terror of being a caged rat in a lab at Baskerville, and the guilt dissipated as quickly as it came. He stared down Sherlock with his patented bedside reassure, “I’m fine. Really, I am.”

Sherlock jumped up and feigned nonchalance, “Too bad.”

“Sherlock, what did you do?” John demanded slowly, the drawn out words etching his wariness.

“I’m deadly serious, John. I’ve already called Mycroft.”

“What?!” John exclaimed, “No. no. no. Tell me he didn’t agree to this.”

“He said, and I quote, ‘Tell John I am delighted to care for him.’ He’s sending a doctor.”

John put his face in his hands to cover his blush. He groaned, “I can’t believe you called Mycroft.”

“Of course I called Mycroft. You’re the best doctor I know, and since you’re clearly delusional, I needed another.”

“So I’ve gone from eccentric to delusional, have I?”

“Oh, you know what I mean.” Sherlock dismissed with a flip of his hand. In the silence that followed, heard the door downstairs open. Two sets of feet ascended the staircase, with the gentle tell-tale tap of an umbrella.  “Go away, Mycroft! We only need the doctor.” Sherlock hollered out the door.

Mycroft stood, impeccable, in the doorway. “Nonsense, Sherlock. I will personally see Dr Watson receive the attention he clearly needs.” Mycroft’s smile was tight, a show for Sherlock, but his eyes gleamed brightly at John. He stepped aside to allow entrance to the man behind him.

“This is Dr. Harper,” Mycroft introduced the man to John. “He will examine you.”

“Dr. Watson, if you’ll come with me,” Dr. Harper said. His fine black hair was short, his sideburns outlining cheekbones that might have been considered dramatic if he weren’t in a room with Sherlock Holmes. John stood up and followed Dr Harper, who seemed to naturally know the way to his bedroom. Compliments of Mycroft, surely. When they reached the room, Dr Harper closed the door and turned to him.

“I’ve been dragged into this ruse by Mr Holmes. Apparently, my boss owed him a favor. Remember, whatever I say when we go back down, it’s all him. I’m a competent doctor, I promise. Just go with it.”

John laughed, “Yeah. I know what it’s like, being between the Holmes brothers.” He flushed, “Not literally, of course.”

“Not my place. You do whatever you want.”

John passed the time by asking benign questions about where the doctor was from, what type of medicine he practiced, how did he enjoy London, until Dr Harper decided enough time had elapsed to constitute a reasonable exam time.

John walked down the stairs, back into the living room, where Sherlock sat in his chair, bouncing his leg, and Mycroft occupied his chair like a statue. They both looked at him with curiosity as he took a seat on the couch.

Dr Harper spoke with a grimace, though John wasn’t sure why. “Dr Watson allowed me to share this information with you both. It appears, after careful examination, that Dr Watson is suffering from hysteria.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up so hard John thought it might fall off. “What?!”

“No, Sherlock, it’s okay. He’s a doctor.” John placated Sherlock whilst turning his head away. The wide eyed dumbfounded look on John’s face would most certainly betray everything, and it was just starting to get interesting. Sherlock was thirty seconds from a conniption. John affected his most falsely innocent voice, “I’m afraid I don’t understand. My partner has been ensuring I have regular orgasms every few weeks.”

Sherlock jumped up and rounded on Mycroft, “This is the doctor you bring to evaluate John’s health? The man is utterly incompetent! Hysteria? Really? A quack medical diagnosis from the 1800s made only to allow doctors to give women orgasms? This is insane! You…” Sherlock’s eyes began to flicker.

“You know better than this… You wouldn’t allow…” Sherlock faltered, then looked at John, “Partner? What… who?” He closed his eyes and held his fingertips to his temples. He danced jerkily around the room as he weaved his way through deductions. “Oh. Oh! OH!”

John caught Mycroft’s eye before watching the realization wash over Sherlock. He spotted the precise moment when Sherlock’s face went from the bright-eyed joy of solving a puzzle to the personal horror of solving this particular puzzle. Sherlock’s face contorted in disgust.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, “What the hell? Mycroft? Him? How long has this-” He cut himself off with a dramatic flair of his arms, “Of course! Since the London Zoo!”

He turned on Mycroft and glared, “You. You planned this.”

Mycroft’s gorgeous smile broke out again, “It has been a pleasure, Sherlock. In all the ways imaginable.”

Sherlock turned back to John, clearly to deride his choice in partner, but something on the wall caught his eye. “THAT thing! I can’t believe you let me hang that monstrosity! I defended you! I told Lestrade to piss off when he mocked it!” He pointed in revulsion at painting.

Mycroft chortled heartily, “Take pleasure, dear brother, that this ploy encompasses his Octopush enthusiasm.”

“That hardly excuses this monstrous behavior!” Sherlock snapped at Mycroft, then turned to John with a softer, but still cross, expression, “Though don’t think this allows you pursue that forsaken sport.” John’s laughter finally broke his restraint.

Then Sherlock caught notice of Dr Harper, who clearly hoped to be completely ignored, and began ranting again, “And this imbecile!”

“Oi!” Dr Harper spoke up for himself, “I’m here on orders from your daft brother. He’s the one who suggested bloody hysteria!”

“In fairness, Dr Harper has a point,” John gasped, between gales of laughter. “I would like to get off more.” He looked at Mycroft and winked, “Think you can handle that, love?”

Sherlock shuddered at the sentiment the way most would shudder at a pus-filled open wound, and let out a high pitched growl. He stormed from the flat, this time remembering his trademark coat. The door slammed petulantly behind him, if such a thing were possible. John held his sides as he struggled to regain his breath. Mycroft took the moment to dismiss Dr Harper, whose reddened face attempted the hide the amusement behind it.

John calmed himself, and looked warmly at Mycroft, “That went better than expected. Funnier, too.”

“Ah, yes. He can be quite the drama queen, to use colloquial terms.” Mycroft stood, leaning his umbrella against the fireplace, and removing his jacket. He glanced at John with a faux shy smile. “Would you like your treatment now, Dr Watson?”

John snickered, “That line is straight out of porn.” He walked over to Mycroft, grabbed his waistcoat, and pulled him in for a rough, bruising kiss. “But here I am, so I guess it worked.”

As he pulled Mycroft in for another heated embrace, he slipped his fingers between them and worked at the buttons on Mycroft’s waistcoat. The pink accent running through the black and white checked pattern of his suit highlighted the flush of arousal on Mycroft’s face, and John stepped back to admire the look once last time before stripping the waistcoat off him. John loosened the navy polka dot tie, untucked the dress shirt, and took it off, leaving the tie hanging.

Mycroft’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him in, but John resisted. “It’s my turn,” he smirked, and grabbed the navy polka dot tie, manhandling him into his chair. Mycroft dropped, with widened eyes and an inviting smile. John climbed atop him, slid one hand behind his neck, the other still gripping his tie and softly pressed his lips to Mycroft’s. He dominated the kiss by keeping it gentle, soft, and reprimanding Mycroft with soft nips when he tried for more.

John rolled his hips lazily, brushing the hardness in Mycroft’s trousers, but without any sort rhythmic friction, and moved his lips to Mycroft’s jaw, pressing more delicate kisses. Mycroft’s hand were placed on John’s hips, following the wave of his pelvis, not pushing or pulling. John tugged faintly on the dark ginger hair, forcing Mycroft to display the supple skin of his neck. John moved from Mycroft’s jaw, and streaked wet, harmless bites along his neck, avoiding marks. He imagined a man in Mycroft’s position would not appreciate visible love bites. John smiled against Mycroft’s neck at the thought of leaving love bites in less visible places, like his pale, downy thighs. On John’s way to the left side of Mycroft’s neck, he pressed a passionate, deep kiss, allowing his tongue to slip in greedily against Mycroft’s. The move elicited the first quiet moan from Mycroft, and John couldn’t wait to pull more out.

John ducked his head to Mycroft’s chest, and bent himself to lathe attention to his small nipples. One stayed hidden, slightly inverted, and John took pleasure in sucking and teasing it out, and pride in making it stand to attention like its mate. Once erect, John bit the nip softly, and dragged another groan from his lover’s lips. Intrigued, he alternated between delicate flicks of his tongue and increasingly hard bites, while pinching the other with medium pressure.

Mycroft began to pant audibly, and his grip on John’s hips tightened. John felt excitement radiating from the subtle pressure, the pleasure of Mycroft’s reactions. He mirrored his attentions on Mycroft’s other nipple, and when his exhalations grew louder, John stopped, brought one last kiss to his lips, and slid down between Mycroft’s legs. He nimbly unbuttoned and unzipped Mycroft’s trousers, and pulled them off, one leg at a time, when Mycroft lifted his hips. John sat back, taking in the glory of Mycroft Holmes, naked save one navy polka dot tie, hair mussed, nipples red and swollen from tender abuse. He pulled Mycroft into further reclining by pulling quickly on the backs of his knees.

He placed more kisses, swapping between full tongued licks, up both sides of Mycroft’s inner thighs, until his cheek brushed up against Mycroft’s testicles. He lathed a large stripe up the juncture between pelvis and thigh from below the bollocks to the tops of his leg, which wrenched a high pitched whine from Mycroft’s throat. He repeated the motion once more, on each side, before pushing Mycroft’s legs up to expose the tight pucker of his arsehole. Mycroft gabbed the arms of the chair with frightening force, and said in a warning tone, “John.”

John looked him in the eye, “I know. You’re not interested in being fucked. I’m not a Holmes, but even I can figure that out. But that doesn’t mean I can’t do this.” John built up a little saliva on his tongue, and used it to slather Mycroft’s arsehole with one broad lick. Mycroft jumped under the sensation, and John looked up to verify Mycroft’s approval.

Mycroft nodded, mouth half open from gasping, and John ducked back down. He laid soft kisses, quick flickers of tongue and the occasional wet probe into the tight hole. Mycroft began to groan with each exhale, and the jolt to John’s arousal reminded him of exactly how hard he was, and what he’d been ignoring in favor of watching Mycroft lose control. He left go of one leg, which Mycroft kept up for him in his eagerness, while John unzipped his trousers and pulled his cock out to relieve the pressure, all while twirling his tongue around the loosening muscle. He continued rimming Mycroft until the moans grew loud enough to be heard with each breath.

He paused, and pulled back, and said to the flushed, heaving man, “I’ll be right back.”

Mycroft stuttered, “You jest,” but protested no further, dropping his legs down and head back while trying to recover from John’s ministrations.

John hurried up to the bathroom, cock comically bobbing outside his zipper, as he rifled through a drawer to find a small container of lube, and took a quick swig of mouthwash. He spent a few extra seconds swishing it around, glad for its triple benefits of cleansing, fresh breath, and a wonderful minty tingle.

He rushed back to the living room, but adopted a slow swagger once in Mycroft’s sight. It dawned on him sudden how much clothing he still wore, and proceeded to strip each offending article by the time he reached his lover. He kneeled back between the long legs, spattered with soft ginger hairs that grew thicker on the calves. He ran his fingers through the hairs; he always enjoyed this about men, how much rougher, coarser they were than women.

He opened the cap of the lube, generously slicked his fingers, and then began to prep himself. Mycroft huffed a deep, husky, “Oh!” and John took the moment of surprise to fill his mouth with Mycroft’s cock. He took in what he could, moderately distracted by his own fingers opening up his arse, but figured the goal wasn’t to get Mycroft off just yet anyways. Mycroft bucked a few times, the cooling mint taunting him, which caused John to gag and pull back, but he always delved back in with enthusiasm moments later. Mycroft’s knuckles were eggshell white as they gripped the arms of the chair. When John felt he’d sufficiently prepared, he stood and straddled Mycroft.

Mycroft, catching on, grabbed his cock and held it steady. John lined up and felt the cockhead breach him as he slowly sunk down, feeling each inch of Mycroft as John descended onto his cock. As John enveloped Mycroft, Mycroft let out a deep growl that lasted until John nestled himself into Mycroft’s lap.

John sat, wonderfully filled, and began to lavish his attentions again onto Mycroft’s neck and nipples, moving his hips as little as possible. He wanted Mycroft driven wild with his tongue, tortured by the tight heat of John’s body, and frustrated with the lack of friction. His part was almost done, and he waited for Mycroft to turn feral.

It took only a few short minutes of painfully pleasurable attention to Mycroft’s nipples as John bit soft, temporary marks into his neck. The growls and moans grew louder, until Mycroft let out a strangled cry and with one arm around John, and the other leveraging himself, he shot up and vaulted them into Sherlock’s chair. Mycroft loomed over him, John’s legs draped over Mycroft’s arms, which gripped the back of the chair, forcing John’s knees up to his chest. Mycroft rested his knees on the chair on either side of John, and began to thrust wildly. John’s head was pressed at an odd angle, but he quickly grabbed a cushion to soften the pressure on his neck.

John felt utterly helpless, trapped underneath Mycroft, tie tickling against his chest, but the feeling warmed him completely. Above him, Mycroft had lost utter control. His thrusts were deep, pounding, erratic, and throaty, animalistic noises were forced out of Mycroft’s throat with each plunge into John’s tight arse. John felt the pleasurable sting of fast and furious fuck, and offered encouragement of his own, “Oh fuck, Mycroft. Fuck, yes!”

Mycroft slammed into him, over and over, as deep as his generous physiology would allow. John grunted as the air was expelled from his lungs with each violent force and the swirl of impending orgasm pooled deep in his abdomen. Mycroft shifted slightly, and brushed John’s prostate with three hard, vicious, slams, and with a hoarse, throttled, “Mycroft!” John came in wet, throbbing splashes across his chest.

Mycroft moved one hand from the back of the chair to John’s shoulder, and with a final thrust, came deep inside of John, screaming a guttural, “Fuucck!”

Mycroft collapsed against John, chest heaving, muttering under his breath, “Oh, John” repeatedly.

After a minute, when John thought Mycroft had began breathing more normally, he pushed Mycroft off him, feeling squished and mildly claustrophobic as the deep post-orgasm relaxation replaced the mid-coitus high. Mycroft stood, tie sticking slightly to the sweat of his chest, and he retreated to the bathroom. John spread out, feeling the relief of cramped muscles, letting his arse hang off the end of the chair until Mycroft returned.

He returned with a flannel, squatted, and caringly cleaned John up, then set the flannel aside as he softly massaged the tightened calf and thigh muscles. He stood, offered a hand to John, who sat up and grimaced slightly at the discomfort in his backside, before relishing it. He took Mycroft’s hand, and was pulled into a deep, passionate kiss. Mycroft turned them, then dropped back into the chair, patting his legs, “Come sit. Let me massage your neck. That position could have not been beneficial.”

John straddled him again, sitting gingerly against Mycroft’s softened cock, and leaned into him. Mycroft began alternating between kneading and effleurage on his neck, and spoke in a hush near his ear, “That was invigorating, John. Thank you. It felt freeing to lose control; I never have that opportunity. I love that you accomplished that.”

John chuckled sleepily against Mycroft’s neck, “I love that you can make me come untouched. I’ve never had that opportunity, either.”

“Perhaps we are better matched than even I originally suspected.” Mycroft nuzzled his cheek against John’s hair.

“I love you, too.”

Mycroft placed a tender kiss near John’s temple and continued his effleurage until John fell into a comfortable slumber against him. Mycroft lay contentedly underneath John, warmed by his body, his words, the knowledge that he could translate Mycroft’s oft repressed emotions.


Near a quarter hour later, Mycroft heard the door to 221B open and his brother’s stomping footsteps ascend the staircase. Mycroft displayed a mild warning among his features as Sherlock appeared in the door frame.

Sherlock eyes flared in disbelief and his dropped his voice to hiss, “Really, Mycroft?” his consideration of John’s sleep greater than his anger towards Mycroft, “You had to do-“ he twitchily gestured at Mycroft, “-that- in my chair?”

“Needs must, little brother.”

“Yes, well. I expect a replacement. I’ll have to burn that one.”

Mycroft smiled. “You’ll do no such thing. If you expect a replacement, I’ll expect to keep this one.”

Sherlock sneered, “Sentiment, dear brother?”

Mycroft let his carefully crafted guard fall for a moment, so Sherlock could see the depth of his affection. With a loving look at John, he replied, “Sentiment, dear brother.”