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It’d Take Mycroft Holmes

Chapter Text

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?!”

Chapter Text

Barely two weeks later, John found himself at Mycroft’s industrious mercy once again. Sherlock was at Bart’s and would be for hours. John cleaned house, immersed himself in a film, updated his blog, and headed out to pick up more milk. He couldn’t help the smile on his face when the black limo pulled up beside him three blocks from Baker St.

He opened the door and ducked in. Mycroft, in person. John had high hopes. “Couldn’t get enough of me?” he teased.

Mycroft tilted his head and nodded once in silent agreement. He put his arm out for John, who took the initiative not just to lean in for a kiss, but to climb entirely onto Mycroft’s lap. He bent down and licked at Mycroft’s lips before gently sucking in his bottom lip and nibbling. John preened at the huff of air that escaped Mycroft’s throat; he wasn’t immune to John’s touch.

He wanted to see Mycroft lose control, to thrash and moan, to act in the heat of the moment, forgoing all propriety. He’d have to build to it. Have to give him the illusion of control to start and slowly chip away at the facade. John smiled into the kiss, letting Mycroft lead. John’s hands roamed over his chest and shoulders, while Mycroft’s fingers were buried in his hair, trying to grasp at the short strands.

John broke the kiss first, and leaned back to divest himself of his button down and vest. He found his way back to Mycroft’s lips and hummed pleasantly at the feel of Mycroft softly stroking his bare skin. He felt Mycroft’s interest stirring between his thighs and gently thrust against him, earning a soft, nearly inaudible moan.

Slowly, he backed off Mycroft’s lap and slid down until he was kneeling in front of him. He dragged his finger tips up the soft fabric of Mycroft’s trousers and up towards his belt. He followed the trails of his fingers from his left ankle, past his knee with soft kisses over the fabric. He continued on to the hardness under his zip, and then smattered kisses down his left leg. Once he returned to indulge himself, he brought his fingers to the zip and looked up. Mycroft looked down at him, and though he was still, damn him, the picture of propriety, John could see him breathing heavily in anticipation. The look in his eyes was hungry and deliberate, as though patience he was exerting was almost too much for him to bear.

With John’s hands near his belt, Mycroft lifted his hips, but John only pushed him back down. “No. I want the suit to stay on,” he commanded. Another soft noise escaped Mycroft’s lips and John gazed defiantly at him as his fingers opened the trousers. With a bit of rearranging, he pulled Mycroft’s cock out and ran his thumb from the underside up to collect the drop of pre-cum leaking out the top. He shifted back on his heels as he licked his thumb to taste, and then unzipped his own trousers and freed himself.

He littered soft kisses up and down the shaft, interspersed with gentle licks with the tip of his tongue and broad swipes. He stroked himself lazily as he focused on the immaculately dressed man above him. He teased Mycroft’s slit gently and rolled his tongue around the head like an obscene ice cream cone. Finally, Mycroft’s heavy panting, quiet gasps of breath, and whiting knuckles were no longer enough to restrain himself. He put his hand on the back of John’s head and choked out, “Please, John.”

John responded enthusiastically. He took as much of Myrcoft in his mouth as he could in one go and Mycroft’s hand clenched tightly in his hair, pulling ever so slightly, but not directing his movements. He used his right hand on Mycroft’s base, stroking in time with the bobbing of his head, and used his left hand to stoke himself with more determination. The softness of Mycroft’s suit against his bare skin only heightened his awareness of their dynamic – John half naked, sucking off the most powerful man he knew, still fully dressed. The thought alone brought him to the edge. As he reached his own climax, he faltered slighter, groaned deeply and felt the warmth spill over his fingers. He felt Mycroft twitch and spasm underneath him in response and his hand gripped John’s hair tighter and finally, with a greedily moaned “Oh, Doctor Watson” Mycroft came hard down the back of his throat in several pulses. John swallowed the bitter viscous fluid and belatedly hoped there was something in the limo he could drink to wash down the flavor.

He looked up in time to catch the unguarded look on Mycroft’s face, his head resting on the seat back, mouth open in the aftershocks of pleasure, eyes closed tight. John grinned to himself. He could do this; a few more carefully planned steps and he’d get Mycroft completely uninhibited.


“So, what did I do today?” John asked once he’d cleaned himself off, helped himself to juice from the mini wet bar, and redressed. He watched Mycroft pulled out tubes of paint, a cup of cold coffee, and a few other odds and ends.

“You seemed to have been particularly inspired today, John.” Mycroft looked pleased with his double entendre.

“It’s not hard when I have the right muse,” John joked back, half serious, as Mycroft dotted and swiped him with paint, tweaked fabric here, placed a few strategic stains on his shirt.

“Today, while Sherlock was out, you took an intermediate art class, where you were instructed to draw the female form. A nude model was present, which will allow you to dwell on our encounter while Sherlock suspects you are simply aroused by thoughts of the naked woman you saw. I do so encourage you think of me this evening.” Mycroft smiled reservedly, as though he wasn’t sure if John would want think of him at all outside their rendezvous.

“Oh absolutely.” John reassured him. “I never thought I’d have one up on Sherlock. To do so while fantasizing about his older brother? Brilliant.”

“I’m glad you approve. How did Sherlock react to your surprising new interest?”

“He told me he had to rearrange my room in his mind palace and didn’t talk or move for the next ten hours.”

“Excellent.” Mycroft beamed with that rarely seen gorgeous smile and John ignored the warmth spreading through his chest. “Shall I return to you Baker St?”

“Can we make a stop first? I was actually going out for milk when you picked me up.”

“Of course.”


“I see Mycroft picked you up again. What did he want this time?” Sherlock had barely glanced at John before turning back to the computer.

“To see if he’d be needing to ply Molly with any more “gifts” to tolerate your abuse in her morgue.” John put the milk in the fridge and pulled out a beer.

“Ah, I see. No, I’ve been behaving.” He spit the word out as if it were poison. “It shouldn’t be necessary at the moment.” He looked up at John again and paused.

“Art classes, John?”

“Is that a question? Did the great Sherlock Holmes ask, instead of simply observe?” John teased and took a drink.

Sherlock bristled. “The spatters on your clothes tell me you’ve been painting. The direction of the spotting show you were upright, at an easel. You don’t own an easel, there is no evidence you’ve bought one and painted in our flat, so a class it is. The coffee stains on your shirt only support my observation. You weren’t holding the cup as you normally would, perhaps you had a paintbrush in your hand as you drank. You don’t tend to drink coffee on your days off, unless you find a need to focus; a class it is then. I observe just fine,” Sherlock insisted sulkily.

“Amazing, as always.” John thought of Mycroft’s talents for deceiving his brother to ensure his compliment sounded appropriately sincere. “Would you like to see? I left the canvas in the hall.” John was anxious to see it himself. Mycroft requested he not look until he showed it off to Sherlock. He’d bought the piece from a museum, but wasn’t concerned that Sherlock would doubt John’s veracity in claiming the work as his. Probably abstract, John thought. Maybe they could hang it in the living room.

He brought the canvas into the living room, and with a grand motion, unveiled the work. Sherlock’s eyes widened ludicrously and he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Thankfully, he was so distracted he didn’t notice John nearly choke on his beer. The painting was, in no uncertain terms, simply awful.

The piece was predominately yellow, with the shape of a woman outlined roughly in black. The painting highlighted her backside from shoulders to mid thigh, with an arm that, as it continued out of frame, would reach down to the woman’s ankles. Her waist was laughably small, with small perk buttocks. None of this caught the viewer’s attention first. Instead, one giant breast, larger than the woman’s entire arse and easily twice the size of her waist, stuck out from her side in an anatomic terror worse than the overgrown arm.

John’s practice at stoicism at a patient’s bedside paid off. He steeled his face and turned to Sherlock, “I’m rather proud of it. What do you think?”

Sherlock gaped like a fish for several seconds before coming back to himself. His lessons in kind and not kind seemed to be at war within himself and he settled on obscure truth. “You’ve certainly imparted your… passion… to the viewer.”

“You think so?” John pretended to be flattered, “I’m glad you like it.” He looked around the living, internally debating, “So where should we hang it?”

“Hang it?” Now it was Sherlock’s turn to choke.

“Well, of course! Why wouldn’t I?”

And Sherlock, to John’s infinite surprise and mild horror, conceded. He fetched a hammer and nails and hung the eyesore over the couch, next to the smiley face.

He forced his next words out through a large, entirely false, smile.

“Our works, side by side.”

Chapter Text

“You lied!” John accused as he climbed into the limo. “You did not get that monstrosity from a museum!”

“On the contrary, John. There are museums which cater to artistic travesty just as some cater to impressionism or modern art. You simply neglected to clarify.”

“You utter arse,” John complained, “That hideous piece of work is now hanging in my living room. Sherlock’s convinced Mrs Hudson and Lestrade that I am particularly proud of it and they’ve all been complimenting my ‘talent,’ while looking as though they’ve swallowed toads!”

Mycroft looked positively gleeful. “How thoughtful of my dear brother to consider your feelings.”

“You knew this would happen.”

“I had hoped.”

“Smug bastard.” John replied without heat and leaned in for a kiss.

Mycroft pressed back gently, but with some fervor. Not the kiss of a casual shag, John thought briefly.

“How would you feel about a change of scenery?” Mycroft asked.

“No more limo sex? I’m not sure I can handle that.” John jested.

Mycroft reached to the barrier dividing them from the drive and knocked with one long and two short taps. “To the Diogenes, then.”


John remembered the necessary silence as he and Mycroft slipped through the halls of the Diogenes. After a few turns, Mycroft opened a door and gestured for John to enter. He walked immediately into a cloud of humid, chlorinated heat. Looking around, he saw a bench to one of side of the small room, a standalone shower and a small sliding door, that, when opened, reveal a toilet and sink. At the far end of the room, which John reached in four strides, was a glass door, dripping with steam. The door opened to another room, the walls of which were adorned in foliage in varieties of bright greens, from the bottoms of the walls to the tips of the ceilings. Ceilings, which, as John’s eyes traveled upwards, were actually made of curved greenish glass. Like a greenhouse, John thought.

In the center of the room, set into the floor, surrounded by the lushest greenery John had seen in England, was a hot tub.

“A hot tub? I didn’t take you for the type.” John turned to Mycroft, who had already removed his red tie, pinstripe coat, and matching waistcoat and was unhooking his braces. John took a sharp breath; he just now occurred to him that he hadn’t seen Mycroft undressed before. Their last two liaisons took place with Mycroft removing nothing more than his suit coat. As Mycroft began undoing the buttons on his white silk shirt, John abruptly stuttered, “Stop.”

Mycroft paused, the top few buttons of his shirt undone. John could see his vest and a smattering of freckles on his frankly sun starved chest. John looked up; Mycroft was stilled, with a defiant look about his face, a look John recognized as the Holmesian mask for anxiety.

John smiled encouragingly; but despaired internally. Who had done what to Mycroft to leave him so self conscious? If nothing else, he wanted Mycroft to understand the allure he held, how his usual self confidence, control, and intelligence projected this elegant, stunning magnificence. He strode up, grabbed the loose silk in his hands and pulled Mycroft down for a fiery kiss, desperately pouring all the adoration he could into that one action. One hand slid up to his ginger hair and the other snaked around his waist to pull him tighter to John.

Warmth bloomed in John’s chest as Mycroft’s hands mimicked his own. The kiss softened from zealous to tender and John could think of nothing better than the press of Mycroft’s body against him, the attentions of this ever thoughtful, deliberate genius focused on him. His whole body faded away in favor of this contact and connection between their lips, softly caressing, stroking and breathing each other in.

John had lost time in their kiss and finally it was Mycroft who pulled away first. He rested his forehead against John’s. “You are most remarkable,” he offered in a far away voice, as though he were stuck in a dream.

John panted, trying to catch his breath. He looked down and dragged his hands to the buttons not yet released. He slowly opened Mycroft’s shirt and gently pushed it off his shoulders. He caught it before it fell and turned to the right, where a row of hangers hung off a bar. Mycroft had already hung his jacket and waistcoat, and John surmised that this attention to detail, his hanging of Mycroft’s shirt, would be appreciated.

He turned back and ran his fingers down Mycroft’s arms. He gently tugged up Mycroft’s vest and slipped his fingers underneath to touch the soft expanse of skin. Mycroft held back a gasp and John looked up at him.

“No. Let it go. Enjoy this. Enjoy me.” He pulled Mycroft’s vest over his head, folded it, and set it on the bench beside him. He began to lather kisses up and down Mycroft’s chest. He let his fingers glide through the soft, sparse strawberry blonde hairs. He sauntered over to one nipple and gave a tentative flick of his tongue. Mycroft groaned slightly, and most importantly, audibly. John kept up his attentions, dancing between each nipple, licking, sucking, biting, while his hands wandered down to Mycroft’s belt.

Opening his slacks, John slowly began kissing down Mycroft’s chest, to the soft flesh of his belly, all the while descending to his knees. With two hands, he brought the pinstripe trousers down with him and finally, Mycroft was left in silk boxers, in a surprising shade of red. Upon further inspection, John noticed they matched his braces and his tie. He smiled; he loved Mycroft’s meticulousness.

He ran his hands across the fabric, enjoying its silken texture before slipping them down Mycroft’s body and watching his lovely cock jut out from his body. John leaned in, ready to reveal in Mycroft’s arousal when Mycroft stepped back quickly from where he knelt.

Now it was John’s turn to look quizzically hurt. Mycroft offered a hand, pulled him up, and wrapped his arms tight around him. “I’d quite like to have you in the water, John. Will you disrobe for me?” Mycroft whispered suggestively in his ear, the hot breath sending tingles down John’s spine.

John pulled back and stripped almost comically fast. Any patience and adoration he’d felt when undressing Mycroft had mutated into a deep seated desire to writhe naked and wet against him in the water. As he shed his pants, Mycroft stepped back towards him, and slowed his fervor down with patient attentions to his ears and neck. He retreated slowly and spun John around towards the glass door.

They slipped into the heated water together and found themselves at the mercy of their most basic needs.


John relaxed, spent, nestled between Mycroft’s outstretched legs, with strong freckled arms draped around him. The warm water loosened his muscles, their escapades eased any stress and anxiety built up from chasing the criminal class of London. The small tub of petroleum jelly lay forgotten within arm’s reach, and John knew he was still slick from Mycroft’s hand, running up and down their combined shafts until they both cried out within moments of each other.

This was nice, John thought. Mycroft was nice. More than nice. Lovely, fantastic, perfect.

As if reading his mind, in the way Holmes’ are wont to do, Mycroft spoke softly behind him, “This is delightful, John. You are exquisite. I do wonder if we might make this a more… indefinite arrangement?”

“I think we’d both find that agreeable.”


Dressed and back in the car, John waited for Mycroft to explain their next deception. He wondered how long it would be before they came clean to Sherlock. If they ever would. They’d clearly moved past ‘casual fuck’ but John wasn’t sure he’d considered them ‘dating’ quite yet. Perhaps there was no name for your possibly asexual flat mate’s seductively hot older brother with whom you were enjoying more than casual carnal relations on a semi regular basis. It’d be one hell of an acronym, John thought.

A pair of swimming goggles, a snorkel and a foot long flat club landed in his lap, breaking him from his deliberations. He looked up at Mycroft, and caught his playful smile. This time, he gave into the urge and pressed his lips to the childlike tuft of hair that curled down over his forehead.

“So I get the snorkel and goggles, since I reek of chlorine. What’s this, then?” John asked, holding up the oddly shaped stick.

“Put on the equipment for the duration of the ride, that will leave the necessary markings on your face and head to indicate you’d used them. I’ll bring up a visual aid.” As John struggled to slide the goggles into a comfortable position, Mycroft clacked away on his phone in a manner reminiscent of his PA.

“Sherlock will deduce that you’ve been playing a sport known as Octopush, named for the eight players and the ‘pushing’ of an puck. The Americans know it as Underwater Hockey. The evidence is painfully simple to manipulate and read in this case, almost not worth the effort. However-“

“Sherlock has a strong opinion about it,” John cut off.

“Exactly.” He fiddled with his phone and then handed it to John.

John pressed ‘play’ on the video Mycroft had queued up for him. He watched the players from an underwater view in a large pool kick with their fins, chasing after small round disc which looked, as suggested, like a hockey puck. It looked technically challenging, especially with oxygen considerations, but quite ridiculous.

Mycroft spoke up as the video clip ended, “Sherlock detests the sport. He claims the players look like mentally deranged spermatozoa.”

John guffawed. “He’s not wrong.”

“I’m curious to watch his reaction to your new hobby. How will he handle his beloved blogger participating in a most wretched activity?”

“You want to come up and watch, don’t you?”

“It would be most amusing.”


“Tell Mycroft I don’t want his case and I don’t want his favors!” Sherlock hollered from the living room as soon as they stepped onto the stairs.

They ascended the staircase anyway, and Mycroft countered, “Surely I’m not that deplorable. I’ve just given Dr. Watson here a ride.”

John blushed brightly as he recalled the last time he’d heard Mycroft use the formality. Instead of walking straight to be examined by Sherlock, he detoured to the kitchen. “Cuppa, anyone?”

“Don’t encourage him.” Sherlock scolded John.

“A cup of tea would be lovely.” Mycroft looked back towards Sherlock and gestured to the painting from their last ruse. “Your newest acquisition adds a certain charm, Sherlock.”

“It’s John’s.” His tone was fraught with warnings and threats to Mycroft should he comment further.

John set the kettle to boil and turned towards Sherlock once he’d felt the heat in his cheeks, and his laughter, recede.

“Ah, John, I see you’ve been…” Sherlock trailed off with a frown. John’s eyes flitted from Sherlock, to Mycroft, who was stifling a broad grin.

Sherlock turned on Mycroft. “You! This is why you wanted to come up!”

“Whatever do you mean, little brother?”

“You saw him walking from the tube like this! You only offered him a ride so you could see how I’d react.” Sherlock snarled.

“I’m certain I have no idea what you are talking about.”

John put on his most innocent face. “Sherlock, what’s going on?”

Sherlock turned back to him, face warped in loathing, mouth open to speak, when he froze. He glared back at Mycroft.

“I’m going out. You deal with him.” He trampled down the stairs and slammed the door shut behind him.

John broke into gales of laughter and Mycroft’s face lit up with John’s favorite smile. “That was exceptionally enjoyable.”

“You don’t… “ John tried to catch his breath, “He.. oh god…” Finally he gathered control of himself and motioned towards the door.

“You have no idea. He left the coat.”

Chapter Text

Two weeks dragged on with no word from Mycroft. John found himself anxious and curious. Mycroft clearly initiated the change in their relationship, so John knew he’d done nothing wrong. They typically went a few weeks between their ‘dates.’ Mycroft was a busy man, likely traveling, debating, and smoothly navigating diplomatic relations. He chastised himself for his neediness, and then forgave himself for wanting nothing more than consistent companionship.

John still wished he knew more. He couldn’t ask Sherlock, that’d give too much away and John wasn’t sure Mycroft wanted his little brother apprised just yet. And then John felt incredibly stupid. He’d contacted Mycroft before all this started. He still had his number programmed into his phone. He snatched his phone from the nightstand and deliberated on the wording of his text.

Finally he settled on <And how is the British Government this evening?>

The reply came almost immediately. <Currently delayed in Morocco. Frightfully dull.>

<Stab someone with your umbrella. That’ll liven the mood.>

<While satisfying, the dampening effect on diplomatic relationships would delay me even further. My absence from your company has already gone on far too long.>

<I miss you, too.>

<Be prepared. Thursday, 7:30. I’ll provide your alibi.>

<An alibi? Sounds dangerous. I’ll be ready. Keep England safe.>



John received an invitation the next for a veterans dinner, scheduled for Thursday at 7:30. The invite specified formal wear. A date? John speculated. It’d be nice to see Mycroft in a more romantic encounter; though incredibly luscious, John hoped for more than their previous engagements.

He checked to ensure the neatness of his suit, only to find another in its place. He tried it on the next day when Sherlock was out, the grey and white pinstriped suit fit perfectly, though John knew it would. The black dress shirt felt soft against his skin and he couldn’t help but think of the soft touches of its benefactor. He blushed. His relationship with Mycroft meant more than he’d expected. Men normally didn’t capture his interest romantically, though he’d enjoyed several lovely sexual encounters. Mycroft enthralled him, interested him, and his thoughts painted Mycroft with a loving light that unnerved him.

When he put the suit of the night of his date, he felt the symbolic caress of Mycroft’s touch and brimmed with excitement. Sherlock dismissed him with cutting remarks about social conventions and nostalgia.

John warned Sherlock he might go out with some mates after the dinner and to not expect him until late. Mycroft hadn’t explicitly suggested it’d be a late night, but John’s hopes held high.

He thumped down the stairs and caught a cab, giving directions to the address listed on his invite. John lost himself in his thoughts until they pulled up to Her Majesty’s Theatre. The cabbie left him, refusing payment, citing a favor to Mr. Holmes. No wonder it was so easy to hail the cab, John thought. He pulled out his phone to text Mycroft and instead felt strong hands grasp his shoulders from behind and pull him close.

“You look rather dashing.” Mycroft’s low voice sent shivers down his spine to his groin. He turned his head and placed a soft kiss on Mycroft’s knuckles.

“This old thing?” he joked, “Just laying in the back of my closet.”

Mycroft moved his hands to John’s waist. “I assumed you’d rather not wear your funeral suit,” he spoke gently and led him into the theatre and up the stairs to the private boxes.

John smiled a sad smile. Mycroft was right; the only suit in his closet he’d worn to countless funerals, most recently those few men in his company who’d not made it home from Afghanistan. He felt a rush of affection and gratitude for Mycroft, intermingled with awe in not only his deductions, but his thoughtful understanding.

They reached the private box and John turned suddenly to Mycroft and gave him a tight hug while pressing wet kisses along his neck, scraping his teeth gently across his delicate, pale skin. He pulled back and gazed deeply into Mycroft’s watery grey blue eyes. They held each other’s stare for a moment too long, when John pulled back and chuckled nervously to himself.

“It’s amazing, you know. Really. How alike you and Sherlock are, yet how completely different you are.” He sat, looking onto the stage.

Mycroft looked amused. “Do tell.”

“The suit,” he motioned towards himself. “You both easily deduce; I’m sure he knows my other suit was only worn to funerals, too. But he’d criticize me for being sentimental and attributing emotions to cloth. You buy me a new one so I don’t have to think about it. It’s… nice.”

“I’d not hold me in too high in regard. My brother views social conventions as I view legwork, but I view social manipulation as he does ‘The Work’.  For example, I wish for you to feel affection for me, and thus I act accordingly, through gifts and sweet caresses.” Mycroft’s face morphed into an apprehensive look all too familiar to John.

John laughed, “Yeah, that’s something else you have in common. Your ‘I’m going to tell you something awful, and you’ll run away, but I really hope you don’t’ face. Don’t worry, love.” John reached over and softly stroked Mycroft’s face with the backs of his knuckles. “We all manipulate our behaviors to attract the ones we fancy, you’re just more honest about it.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened in pleased surprise, and before he could reply, the house lights went down.


John enjoyed Phantom of the Opera. Mycroft spent the evening whispering tidbits and anecdotes pertaining to the musical in his ear and his cock couldn’t take much more of it. The heat of his voice, the vibrations near his throat; the performance paled in comparison to Mycroft’s tongue. John eagerly followed Mycroft to his slick black car.

Sliding in after his thoughtful lover, John climbed onto his lap to deliver kisses full of gentle bites to Mycroft’s lips, neck and ears. Mycroft reciprocated, but not as fully as he had prior. John pulled back.

“My dear, I do hate to disappoint, but I have a flight to Egypt at one. I won’t be able to fully satisfy you this evening.” Mycroft broke the news in between kisses.

“Mmm.. I suppose… I can survive… without your glorious… cock.” John punctuated each phrase with a sharp kiss, and then climbed off his lap.

“I thought perhaps it might be time to leave brother mine clues.”

John looked up, giddy. If Mycroft considered telling Sherlock a given, maybe he was just as invested as John felt.  “Good. That’s good.” He couldn’t keep the stupid smile off his face,  “I’m not sure his ego could stand being blindsided.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft agreed and handed him a small, wide mouthed jar. “Rub the palms of your hands with this, then wipe the excess on your slacks.”

“On this suit?” John exclaimed.

“I’ll have it cleaned.” Mycroft smeared some of the glittery lotion in the jar onto a pipe he’d pulled from another hidden compartment, and rubbed the pipe onto John’s leg.

“What the hell, Mycroft?”

“Your reaction will be far more believable if you go unaware into this deduction.” Mycroft offered, placing a club stamp onto the back of his left hand, and smiling a humorously wicked smile to himself.


By the time John stumbled into Baker St, it was past midnight, and he’d been plied with four pints in the last hour at Mycroft’s insistence. He shed his suit jacket as he made it into the living room and unbuttoned the top few buttons on his black shirt. He fell into his chair, across from Sherlock, who was neatly staring into space. He glared drunkenly at his flat mate and uttered an inelegant, “Hey.”

Sherlock glared back but with an intense scrutiny John didn’t posses. “Interesting.”

John laughed, “Do your worst, Sherlock Holmes.”

“It’s not necessary.”

John never knew Sherlock to turn down a deduction. My, oh My, he thought, then giggled at the double meaning behind those words. “Do it anyways.”

Sherlock took a breath, “The glitter on your hands and suit, along with their placement, and your current state of inebriation suggest you participated in amateur erotic dancing this evening.”

John choked on his own saliva, coughing roughly for a solid half minute. Damn Mycroft and his twisted humor, he cursed, more amused than angry. Then his thoughts wandered to images of dancing for Mycroft in a dark room; he blushed deeply and then stayed silent. He knew not speaking would be tantamount to a full confession in Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock stood and approached him.

“There are only three clubs in London that offer amateur nights on a Thursday,” he began, as he grabbed John’s wrist to examine the stamp on the back of his hand. He stroked the mark carefully with one long finger, and John watched his lips twitch.

“My, Dr. Watson. What happened to ‘not gay’?”

“Excuse me?”

“The stamp is the logo for the Toolbox, an all male club. A gay club. In which you drank heavily and performed erotic dances on stage. Not gay, but then not straight either, is that it?”

“I like to think of myself as ‘mostly straight’. Leaves room for error.” John smiled blearily, the alcohol beginning to weigh heavily on his consciousness.

Sherlock dropped John’s wrist and reached towards the bookshelf. He pulled out a thick, leather-bound tome and flipped it open to reveal a hidden cache of cigarettes. He took out four.

Even inebriated, John protested. “What? No, Sherlock. You don’t, you don’t need-“ he waved his hand floppily, “-stuff.”

Sherlock turned on him and growled. “Yes, I do, John. Don’t you see? I have no idea who you are, after all this time. I’ve reorganized, rebuilt and every time you break it all down and I have to start over! You are an enigma and I must solve you.”

John giggled, “An enigma. Like the Riddler.”

Sherlock glared at him, annoyed he wasn’t taking Sherlock’s complaints seriously.


“Riddle me this, Sherlock.” John mimicked, laughing heartily now.

With a great huff, Sherlock flounced off to his room.

<I’m the Riddler now. What does that make you?>

<Batman, obviously.>


Chapter Text

John laid on his bed, having retired for the evening. He’d needed some time to think, but couldn’t do that in Sherlock’s presence. Sherlock had gone out, but he still retreated to the safety of his own room. The man seemed to read his mind just a touch too often for him to feel comfortable pondering his brother, and the lovely things they’d done together, in their common space.

A dawning realization hit him earlier that day; when he felt the urge to call up Mycroft for a date, missed his presence at dinner, longed for his touch. John cared more deeply for Mycroft that he ever expected to. He wanted more of the brilliant smiles and clever conversation, the authority and the mystery. He still needed to see Mycroft come apart in his hands, but no longer as a source of pride, a way to prove his own prowess, but as a gift, to satisfy Mycroft in every glorious way John could imagine.

He felt himself thicken at the thought. He conjured up a fantasy, starting small. The striped royal blue three piece suit he’d seen a few months prior, when Mycroft came straight from a diabetes charity fundraiser thrown in honor of some child of peerage. John stared as Mycroft and Sherlock taunted each other, appreciating the green tie complimenting the fitted suit, touching on all the strength and lines of Mycroft’s body. Thankfully, he’d been standing behind Sherlock, who’d not noticed his blatant interest. However, in retrospect, he was certain he Mycroft noticed, for only a few weeks later he found himself thoroughly buggered at the end of Mycroft’s gloriously plump cock.

He imagined the Mycroft, and the suit, and his office at the Diogenes, and shoved his pants down to take hold of himself. He stroked softly once, and jumped when his mobile vibrated. He answered before looking, teasing himself lightly, fairly certain he knew who was calling.

“Good evening, John. Are you enjoying yourself?”

“You know it’s not on to put surveillance in my room, right?” John asked, not stopping the drag of his fingertips up his shaft. “Where is it?”

“In due time. Tell me, was it the blue suit in your fantasy tonight?”

John groaned and gripped himself more tightly, “I don’t know how you do that, but it’s fucking hot.”

“Describe it to me.”

He started to pant slightly, and his voice hitched, “God, you in that suit, the way it lines your chest, your arse. I pictured you in the high backed chair in your office.”

“You quite enjoy the power dynamic.”

“Hard not to, with you.”

“You flatter me.” Mycroft paused, his voice deepening, “I would see you nude, bent over my desk, John, your wrists restrained by your own belt.”

John gasped at the image Mycroft painted in his mind. He let go of his cock to fumble for lubricant, and slicked his hand before returning it.  “Oh, fuck, keep going.”

“I would take my time, running my fingers down your back and over the curve of your backside and up again. I would grip your hair tightly and lift your lips to mine. Slick my fingers and slide them, one at a time, into your warm, tight body.”

“I’m putting you on speaker.” John knew he would hear if Sherlock returned.

“Good, Dr Watson. I imagine it will be easier for you to imagine me three fingers deep inside you when you’ve your own to replicate the sensation.” John had no idea how his professional title had become utterly arousing, but he groaned deeply as he worked his fingers into himself a little too quickly.

“Sufficiently loose, I would remove myself from my trousers and stand behind you. You would feel the roughness of the fabric against the backs of your thighs as I slid my cock across your hole.”

“Bloody fuck.” John growled, pumping his cock faster, while grinding down on his own fingers.

“Eloquent.” Mycroft teased, and then continued. “I suspect you would be even less eloquent in person, especially as I pressed the tip of my lovely cock slowly into your arse, watching it stretch open wide, accommodating, thirsting for my width. I am rather fond of watching myself sink slowly into your body. You would be too hot, too tight, too wet from my preparations for me to resist pulling out and sheathing myself again, fast and hard.”

“Oh, god, Myc-“ John felt the tension pool in his abdomen, Mycroft’s voice and words pushing him closer and closer.

“I would grip your hips and plunge in, again and again, as you wished your hands were free to find purchase. Without it, your whole body is mine to manipulate, as it should be. And you would teeter on the edge, forcefully filled, a vessel of pleasure for us both. And I would lean over you, wrap my arm around your shoulders, thrusting deeper still, and whisper in your ear, ‘Come, Dr Watson.’”

John howled with pleasure as Mycroft’s command triggered a deep, shattering, whole body orgasm, his come jerkily landing on his chest as he fucked into his fist. He pushed down on his fingers as he wrung his pulsing cock, weakly sputtering the last of his ejaculate onto his knuckles.

He laid panting, trying to utter his thanks, but getting out little other than, “Wow. Oh… good. That… good.”

Mycroft chuckled,  “I hope it was not presumptuous of me to offer assistance.”

John laughed, as he could barely talk. “No. Good.”

“Excellent. I do hope you’ll forgive me for needing to conclude our conversation, the Prime Minister has been waiting. Dinner tomorrow? I’ll send a car.”

“Yeah, dinner. Thanks.”

Mycroft hung up and John spent a few more minutes recovering, mentally reviewing the phone call. He started giggling, then burst into laughter. The Prime Minister has been waiting, Mycroft had said. The Prime Minister had to wait, while Mycroft talked him off. Until John had come. Nothing had ever felt more ridiculous, or more commanding, in his life.


The flat filled with the noxious odors of Sherlock’s experimentation, which gave John a ready-made excuse to call him a “prat” and storm out without question. John wandered a few blocks, heading towards a local park, knowing that somewhere along the way, an indistinct black car would pull up beside him. He enjoyed the cool air, the way his blood flowed in keeping with his healthy pace. The expected car slowed next to him, the park only a block away. He opened the door with a smile, but frowned at the sight of Anthea texting. “Where’s Mycroft?” he asked, disappointed but curious.

“I’ll deliver you to him.”

“What’s your name today?” he asked, amused. She answered with a raise eyebrow, imparting skepticism, sarcasm and scorn in a brief twitch. He rolled his eyes in response, “Alright, then.” He drummed his fingers on his knee as he watched London pass through the tinted window.

The car stopped eventually in front of a posh, luxurious townhome. It struck John suddenly that for all their time together, he’d yet to see Mycroft’s house. He hoped to see it now. He exited the vehicle, leaving Anthea behind and approached the door. Before he could knock, it opened, revealing Mycroft, a red pinstriped apron covering his ivory trousers and waistcoat. Deep affection ran through John, especially as he noticed the apron matched Mycroft’s tie. Mycroft gestured him in, and John paused to place a sensuous but succinct kiss on his lips. Mycroft pushed him into the house with a hand on the small of his back.

“Please excuse my absence in collecting you. I needed to attend to the oven.”

As John walked further into the house, the savory aroma of roast beef with the yeasty smell of fresh bread lured him into kitchen, Mycroft on his heels. Passing the dining room, he saw the trappings of a candlelight dinner. Champagne chilled in a bucket, a colorful fruit salad filled a crystal serving bowl, and two more covered dishes were visible. Once in the kitchen, Mycroft swooped around him and opened the oven, pulling out a large roast the size of John’s head. A smaller oven revealed plump golden rolls.

“I didn’t know you could cook.”

“There is very little I cannot do with the proper motivation. I find myself drawn to impress you, thus here we are.” Mycroft said as he placed the roast artfully onto a serving platter. The rolls he tossed into a basket, and carried the last two dishes out to the table. He removed his apron, and signaled for John to sit. He uncorked the champagne and poured a glass for each of them before sitting down.

“This is amazing,” John commented on the spread. The two covered dishes revealed roasted root vegetables and grilled asparagus. Mycroft served them both, and John dug in with gusto. “This is brilliant, absolutely brilliant! I haven’t had a decent home cooked in ages!” He softened, “Not since my mum died.”

“Tell me about her,” Mycroft prompted.

“She was good, as mums go. Had a bit of temper, slapped me more than once, but nothing I didn’t deserve. You might have noticed I’ve got a bit of a mouth on me. She made these almond iced cookies at Christmastime that were just lovely,” John reminisced. The cookies reminded him of funny story from when he was seven, and that led to another from Afghanistan. The evening passed by, winding through tales of John and Harry, Mycroft and Sherlock, Mums and Dads, primary school and uni. When finished eating, they retired to the library, where John curled into Mycroft’s side and listened to tales that might seem greatly exaggerated if he didn’t know Sherlock personally.

Soft kisses led to deep kisses, led to John trailing behind Mycroft, anchored by their intertwined fingers, as Mycroft led John to the bedroom. Clothes fell off, bodies worshipped, and Mycroft rendered John speechless with his tongue and nary a single word. Mycroft slowly rocked into John, embraced chest to chest, in a slow, languid fashion, until John cried out first.

The heaviness of dinner, the affection of memories shared, and the exhaustion of intimacy pulled them both down into a dreamless sleep.


John woke with a start and looked at the time. “Shit!”

Mycroft opened one eye blearily, “Problem, John?”

“I wasn’t meant to spend the night!”

“Of course you were. You give me too little credit.” Mycroft rolled over and pulled John flush to his chest, his cock nested in the cleft of John’s arse.

John relaxed into his touch. “I’m not sure that’s possible, but I’m glad to know you’ve got a contingency that accounts for me being out all night.”

Mycroft laughed, the warm breath on John’s neck perked his arousal. “Yes, the plans I do have. I must confess, this plan required far more detail and preparation.”

“How much more?”

“You are aware of my brother’s proclivities at examining a scene and telling the past with alarming accuracy?” Mycroft asked, the sudden change of topic confusing John.

“Yeah, but what-“

“My talents differ; it explains the trajectory our career paths have taken us.” Mycroft took a moment to graze his fingers down the side of John’s chest to his thigh. “Rather than seeing the evidence of what has happened, I can examine a scene and devise the most likely scenarios that will arise and with what probability. My colleagues often accuse me of prophecy.”

John rolled his hips against Mycroft, and offered, “I bet that’s useful in international relations.”

“Indeed. It can also be useful in more intimate affairs.”

John stopped, sighing resignedly. “How long, Mycroft?”

“This particular strategy has been ready to execute for eight months. I set it in motion three weeks ago.”

“I should be mad, you predicting, manipulating our relationship like this.”

“Yes, a normal man might be.”

“Good thing no one in this bloody relationship is normal, then.”

Mycroft let his hands respond, pushing John over the edge for the second time in twelve hours.


“This plot will push the boundaries for Sherlock. Before, we added to your personality, making you unpredictable. Today’s game will defy what he already knows about you.”

“Is this going to piss him off again?”

“It may alarm him.” The evidence was minimal enough that John wasn’t sure what Mycroft was trying to convey, other than he was certain Sherlock would be able to ascertain his crafted truth. “For this deception, we want you to appear as though you are hiding your activities from him, thus very little is needed.”

After a spine-tingling kiss at the threshold, the car took John back to the park he’d been walking towards the previous evening. He wandered on home, stopping by a local grocery to pick up a few staples, knowing they were out. He jogged up the steps of Baker St and dropped the bags on the table. He shrugged off his coat, and hung it up. As he returned to the kitchen, Sherlock appeared to block his way.

“What’s this then?” John asked, as he realized Sherlock’s obstruction was intentional.

“Have a busy night?” Sherlock inquired haughtily.

“A bit. You?”

“Oh, no. I’d much rather discuss your activities. You’ve made the headline.” Sherlock thrust the day’s paper into his hands. The headline read “London Tea Party: Ex-Pat Thieves Dump Stolen Tea Into Thames.”

John stared at the fuzzy accompanying photo. One man resembled himself, but it was hardly conclusive. “You’ve got to be joking, Sherlock. I’m not involved with this lot.”

“With the state of your clothes, the photo, and the article on page twenty seven, I don’t see how you can possible deny it!” Sherlock’s voice rose in disbelief.

“What article?”

“The woman whose baby was delivered by an anonymous army doctor a block from the event, just minutes before the police arrived on scene!”

John sputtered, half laughing. This was too much. The thieves had been lifting tea from local shop deliveries for seven months. Witnesses reported near sixty participants, with a handful of British scattered amongst the crowd. John couldn’t even tell by reading what actually happened and what Mycroft planted. “Amazing,” he uttered.

“I appreciate the sentiment, John, but this is hardly the time. I can’t figure it out, though. Why you? You, with your tea and your Queen and country? I’m assuming army comrades, but to willing participate? Were you coerced? Blackmailed? Was there some sort of sentiment involved?” Sherlock growled and fisted his fingers into his dark locks, and pulled. “Argh! You don’t make sense!”

John smiled. “Oh, Sherlock. Not everything is as it appears to be,” he hinted. He’d have to talk to Mycroft, John decided.

It was time Sherlock knew.


Chapter Text

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.”