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Who's left unloved?

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John was friends with Mycroft. They were as thick as thieves. So, of course, it was a surprise when Mycroft's apparent brother showed up late to a dinner, which he and Myc's boyfriend, Greg, were invited to. "This is my younger brother, William," Mycroft said, gesturing to the man, who'd taken off his black Belstaff and unwrapped his pale throat of the bright yet navy blue scarf and hung it haphazardly to the rack before turning back to the table and pulling out his chair,

 

"Oh, no. Sherlock will do," Sherlock said as he sat and brought himself closer to the edge of the table. He shook John's hand as he said his part. His name, his not-so-personal relationship to Mycroft. In fact, this wasn't exactly the first time John had been in his parents' house, however, he'd never heard the mention of a Sherlock in the family. "Ah, Geoff!" Sherlock chuckled, pointing to the man sitting next to Sherlock, who shook hands with the man as well, "Good to see brother dearest hasn't driven you off,"

"Wouldn't dream of it," Greg reassured with a tightening to his lips as if trying to fake his best smile.

"Uh, yeah. So, Sherlock went... He went backpacking around in, uh, where was it?" Mycroft began but trailed off, seemingly confused or lost.

"Ah, no need to lie, Mycroft," Sherlock said, scooping out his plate of food, "It's okay to say that I went on an insufferable, yet somehow tolerable renewal outing with my rehab group," Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head as he looked up. John's eyes kind of raised, "Three years sober, as of last week," He seemed bashful. Not ashamed, like he'd regretted getting into... whatever he'd gotten into, but more so, like a kid who was being confronted about a kiss,

"Oh, well, congrats to you," John said, raising his glass. Sherlock seemed a bit caught off guard, glancing around as others did the same, but smiled nonetheless as he raised his own glass. John noticed how wonderful Sherlock's smile was. It was like... perfect,
As they began eating and talking more, Sherlock got onto the topic of going up to the lake house for the weekend to go dirt-bike riding, which caused the table to go eerily silent. "I thought we've agreed on it, Sherl," Their father said, trying to keep himself together, "we don't want you there without anyone else from the family," John and Greg looked at each other and made a silent agreement to not do or say anything, so they just sat quietly as it unfolded,

"I thought that was in the past, but..." Sherlock chuckled, taking a bite of his food.

"I-it just seems too early," Their father said, his hands folded in front of his face. Sherlock bitterly chuckled, "What, am I gonna steal your hip waders?" He looked up harshly at his father, then glanced around the table with the same attitude, "I mean, come on! There's nothing to sell," Sherlock took another bite. "Oh, wait. There is that dinosaur telly that doesn't even work anymore," He said through his mouthful.

"Maybe you should just give it some time, you know? Settle in -- see how things are," Mycroft suggested shyly. John had never seen Mycroft shy into a suggestion, but this Sherlock must be a different matter. Sherlock slammed his fists to the table, causing a startling crash.

"Who asked, you, Myc?"
The next morning, Mycroft apologised to John whilst they were on lunch break. They both worked in the surgery, but Mycroft was security, not a doctor. He was too sheepish for all of the... contact,

"He's just... He likes to pretend like those things didn't happen, you know?" He said with a sigh.

"Hey, I-I..." John chuckled, "believe me, with Harry, and dad, and -- I just, I get it, mate," Shaking his head, John let out another breathy chuckle as he took another timid bite of food.
"You got anything tonight?" Mycroft asked. Shrugging, John finished chewing and swallowed,

"Nah, mate. Mary's still in Jersey visiting her parents," John said, rolling his eyes. Mycroft smiled,

"Well, Greg's swamped with a case, so he can't come, but I totally need a friend," He said. John chuckled as if to ask what he'd be getting himself into, "I offered a dinner to Sherlock to try and make amends, but it'll be extremely awkward if it's just us and we'll end up at each other's throats...!" John groaned, then sighed, relenting to the short-notice plans. "C'mon, John! It'll be fun, mate...!"

"Alright, but you owe me...!" he said with a sarcastic face of cringed anger.

John got dressed up and met them at the restaurant by taking the bus. Mycroft drove Sherlock and they kind of met at the door, both of them having a smoke whilst waiting. As John approached, Sherlock put out his cigarette on the pavement and shook John's hand. John nodded.

Dinner went nice. It was fun and Mycroft got completely shit-faced, so it wasn't a total loss of time. All in all, it was actually a pretty good night. As they were heading back to Mycroft's place to put him to bed, Sherlock drove, and they were talking about his addiction.

"But, doesn't it matter that you're hurting people?" John asked, looking at him. Sherlock scoffed,

"I know it should, and it did, at first. But, no; not anymore, at least. Sometimes getting high on life isn't good enough, you know? I-I mean, we're all addicts, trying to fill the void. Whether it be love, sex, cigarettes, drugs, alcohol, cars; some are just better at hiding it than others," Sherlock said, giving a sideways glance in John's direction with tightened lips. Mycroft popped up and rapidly tapped on John's shoulder,

"T-turn it up!!" He squealed. As Sherlock chuckled, John reached forward to turn the dial to the car radio. Sherlock sang along with the radio and Mycroft, who was horribly screaming the lyrics. John only but laughed.Getting Mycroft into the house, however, was entirely different and more difficult. Sherlock saw the car gone and unlocked the door himself. "Greg's still working on that god-awful case of his, so we're on our own."

"Oh, my god!" Sherlock looked back and tried his best not to laugh as John stood there, arms out a bit as he looked down to his trousers, which now had vomit on the lap.

"Don't let Greg know; he may think you were up to something," Sherlock scoffed, opening the door. John sucked it up for the time being and helped Sherlock drag the man into the house and quickly to the bathroom. Finally, Mycroft let it out. John patted the man's back as he retched into the toilet.

"What you get for puking on my lap," John bitterly muttered as he gave a chuckle. John left the door ajar and went to the kitchen, where Sherlock was making coffee.

"Just take them off. I have to go to my dry cleaner's this Tuesday anyway. Mycroft can give them to you the next day." He said, not even looking up at John. He shrugged, thinking nothing of it, and undid his belt. His trousers fell to the floor to reveal his red pants as he stepped out of them. John picked them up and laid them flat over the back of the sofa. John then shrugged o his jacket.
Sherlock whistled with an arched eyebrow. "Woah, drop trou, would ya'?" He chuckled as he looked John up and down. His eyes quickly looked away to finish pouring the coffee from the pot into a mug. "Nice pants; very practical," He patted the counter top and John sat there, folding his hands in his lap as he chuckled, too.

They talked a while and Sherlock handed John a cup of coffee, which he sipped on, then put back to the table. They told little, flirty jokes, to John's unconscious surprise. He was flirting with a man, who flirted back, which had never happened before. Sherlock turned and at first, John thought he was going to leave the room, but he only swooped in to kiss John. John's hand flew up to Sherlock's chest and they broke apart, looking at each other, John more surprised as Sherlock only looked like he would eat John and that's essentially what happened.

As Sherlock reached quickly for his trousers, John quickly and carelessly ripped at his pants, making the opening bigger, for more to fit. Sherlock looked up at John with a growl and moved in closer. John instinctively wrapped his legs around Sherlock's waist as the taller man covered his mouth. John hadn't realised why, until Sherlock pulled closer, bringing John up more to penetrate him without preparation. John screamed, clutching Sherlock's shirt in fists as the tall man bent his neck down to bite at John's, sucking and licking and giving an aggressive kiss to the side of John's face, Sherlock removed his hand and used it to grip the back of his shirt.

Sherlock thrust, making John bite his lip to stifle the moan, and the next thrust was more forceful, almost like a snap and John was gasping for air as he felt his prostate being nudged, even if by a little bit. Sherlock snapped again, letting a primal growl resonate in John's ear as he nipped at the lobe, then kissed and bit at John's cheek and neck. John had his hands in Sherlock's hair, so pullable. Another thrust and John actually let a strangled moan out of his throat. Sherlock grunted and John's toes curled, nearing his end. Sherlock sped up, his own breaths growing erratic. He thrust again and again, burying himself deep into John's arse until finally, "Ahh..!" John groaned, throwing his head back, climaxing in his pants, gasping for air.

Just then, the bathroom door slid open and Mycroft stumbled out. He mumbled a goodnight, then struggled to his room, to plop heavily onto his bed. Sherlock was quietly riding out his orgasm, and John stilled, realising what he was really doing in a shocked breath. Sherlock groaned as he pulled out, redoing his trousers. He walked casually out of the kitchen. He flipped his Belstaff over his shoulder and lit a cigarette as he just walked out of the house. Just like that. John was still on the counter.

He put his face in his hands, then looked down. "Oh, God," He muttered, finally noticing what he'd bloody done to his pants out of sudden desperation. "Oooh, my God," John groaned as he hopped off of the counter. He looked back and groaned as he saw a small puddle of cum on the countertop. Sherlock's cum, most likely. John felt like he had the sickening urge to both lick it up to taste it and throw up in the bathroom. It was free now, after all. He reached down to feel that Sherlock's cum was still leaking from him. Then, there was a spark of pure awareness.

"Shit..!" John shouted, facepalming. John had no idea if Sherlock was clean of STD's. He was a bloody drug addict, for Christ's sake; he could've taken a bad needle or slept with a bloody butter-face...! "Oh, God!" He repeated. John decided on wiping up the countertop with a paper towel, putting on his filthy trousers, and escaping, locking the door on the way out. Sherlock was gone in Mycroft's car. John sighed in relief. He would loathe to see him again so soon after... whatever the hell that was!

John rode the tube home. Patrons on the tube stared awkwardly at him and whispered and murmured to one another, glancing at John, who had vomit on his trousers, cum splashed at the bottom of his shirt, and tousled hair. He felt totally ashamed of himself by the time he'd gotten home. John stripped down and got into the shower, feeling ribald.

He'd just let a man, his best friend's younger brother, fuck him on the kitchen counter and said best friend was puking in the bathroom, whilst his girlfriend of three years was in Jersey...! He was the worst man imaginable, he felt like shit. What made him feel worse was that... he felt like he wanted it again,

John stepped out of the shower hours later and looked at himself in the mirror. "Shit!" he hissed, tilting his head to reveal his neck, which bore a pretty noticeable hickey on it. "Shit, shit, shit!" John panicked, scrambling from the bathroom to his bedroom to aggressively grab his phone to look up ways to get rid of a hickey. He'd hardly slept, he was thinking so much. He was starting to worry that he liked it too much, the feeling of Sherlock, a cock, pushing deep inside him. John's never had an internal conflict this bad before. The most he's worried but lately was paying bills and getting to work on time. He even thought of texting Harry, to get some kind of advice on something like this, gay insight if you will, picking up his mobile only to sigh and drop it back down again. John felt utterly hopeless,

The next morning, John had to struggle to get out of bed. His hips hurt so bad from last night and he had a slight headache from the alcohol. John looked in the mirror and checked his neck. It was hardly noticeable now. John sighed, feeling kind of relieved, but he'd still have to go to work and if Mycroft went and saw John's neck, he'd know that something was up. John held another ice cube or two to it as he got ready for the day slowly. John checked his watch and figured he'd give Mycroft a ring and check up on him.

"Mmm," A tired hum came from the other side of the line. Mycroft must've just woken up.

"Morning, Myc," John quietly greeted, "Hey, it's almost time for work; are you coming, or... What should I tell them?" He asked, checking his watch again. He cleared his voice softly.

"... that you shagged my brother in the kitchen as I was puking," The voice revealed itself with the distinguished sound of Sherlock's purring chuckle. John felt his knees go weak.

"What the hell?" John hissed, letting himself carefully sit on the toilet cover.

"Hmm," an amused hum as he heard John's small grunt, "how much does your arse hurt right now?" He asked, chuckling quietly as the stirring of coffee could be heard.

"Why are you there?" John asked, glancing towards the door as if at any moment, Sherlock, or worse yet, Mary would burst in and begin accusing John of cheating. Well, he did cheat...

"Came to return the car, silly," Sherlock said, uncharacteristically as he let out another brief laugh to himself. "That, and to see if brother mine was okay. Oh, and Greg was talking to me about the case," He explained, "Miss me already?" He flirted with a supposed wink from the other side.

"Is he there?" John asked, starting to panic,

"Greg?" Sherlock asked, somewhat confused,

"Mycroft," John hissed, giving the doorway another brief glance,

"Unless he'd jumped out the window in the last minute and a half," Sherlock said, sipping the cup of coffee he'd been making, "He's not going to work," Sherlock informed. "Oh, hey. I told you I'd take your trousers to the dry cleaners," He gave a quiet whine to his voice.

"I'd rather not ride the tube with ripped pants only, ta," John quipped. He sighed as he put his head in his hand again. Sherlock laughed. "Sherlock," John said, "Listen to me, don't tell Mycroft. Don't tell anyone, got it? We'll take this to our graves, alright? Th-this never happened,"

"Oh, but it did, addict," Sherlock's voice lowered into something of a warning, "and, it will happen again, very soon, and again and again," Sherlock basically growled, "And, I know for a fact that no matter how much you want to just go along with your boring little life, you'll always let me come in and ruin your day with wild pleasure," He said, "you're hooked, now," He said,

"C-come near me," John's voice was shaking, "and, I'll call the cops," He hung up, swallowing hard.