Chapter Text
“Mycroft…” Sherlock moans in a decidedly unsexy manner.
Mycroft bites at his lip to keep the ‘I-told-you-so’ from escaping. Sherlock is lying prone on the sofa in the living room of their cottage, his bare back a magnificent shade of red. He shakes his head as he reaches for the chilled bottle of aloe-vera gel. Some things never changed.
“Make it go away…” Sherlock mumbles. “I forgot how awful this is. The sun.”
“Sh… Lock. It will feel better soon.” Mycroft pours some of the gel – reminding himself to tip the housekeeper generously for being thoughtful enough to leave the aloe vera in the fridge.
“Ah…” Sherlock sighs when Mycroft rubs the cooling gel against his injured skin. He closes his eyes, letting the magic of his brother’s hands work over his scarred back. This has happened before. Sherlock vaguely remembers. More than once. Big brother – his caretaker. Never complaining. Always doing what had needed to be done. He sinks deeper into the cushions and pillow that supports his head. Damned sun. Nature is dangerous. And now, big brother will have to spend time on his break playing nurse because of his carelessness. What else is new? “Mm…”
“Better?” Mycroft asks after every inch of Sherlock’s back has been covered.
“Much. Still stings.” He then grins – remembering John’s complaints about him suffering the unreasonable heat earlier. One of his favourite pastimes is to pass on his misery to his old flatmate. Sodding John even likes the heat – a throwback to his old Afghan days. “I will try and keep the whinging to a minimum.”
“Appreciated, brother.” Mycroft walks out of the living room to place the bottle back into the fridge and to wash his hands.
***
Dear, do you need any tips?
Oh dear, why have all the older women in his life suddenly traversed the technological divide and learned how to text? He has a holy horror of whatever tips Mrs. Hudson may have in store for him.
What for? SH
Pleasing your man, of course!
I think I am good for now. SH
Thank you, Mrs. H. SH
Considering that you have time to text, dear, I am inclined to think otherwise.
Now, now, Sherlock, it is not the time to be a prude.
Ack! Sherlock places the phone down on the coffee table. He could hear it vibrate against the table. Mummy had stopped texting after Mycroft had switched his phone off at the lake. The problem with texting is that one cannot walk away from a conversation.
“What’s wrong now, brother?” Mycroft is bearing plates of their dinner – brought by the housekeeper. “Is it Mummy again?”
Sherlock shakes his head vigorously. Mycroft puts down the plates on the coffee table and picks up the phone, swiping past the security lock. There is an amused expression on his face as he reads Mrs. Hudson’s texts.
“Pleasing your man, hm?” Mycroft sits down on the chair next to Sherlock.
Sherlock actually blushes. Mycroft finds it frightfully adorable. For a man who loved to experiment with cadaveric body parts, he’s awfully skittish about these matters. Well, sometimes. Mycroft’s mind wanders off to their delightful afternoon hand-jobs.
“It’s alright, Lock. You can please me by eating dinner.” Mycroft reaches over to play with Sherlock’s curls.
His brother leans into Mycroft’s touch.
“Although, I do wonder if your Mrs. Hudson spends her time writing porn…” Mycroft muses, having caught an eyeful of a rather detailed text that little brother probably didn’t read.
“Please, brother. I am eating!” Sherlock reaches over for one of the plates bearing the pan-seared salmon, potatoes and spinach and pointedly shovels food down. Damn. He does not need to know what Mrs. Hudson does in her free time. Does with Mr. Chatterjee – ugh! Giving his head a toss, he focuses on eating. Mm… the buttery potatoes are good. He slows down to savour them.
“Sorry, dear – couldn’t resist.” Mycroft leans over to kiss Sherlock’s cheek. Mercifully his brother had applied sunscreen to his sun-exposed spots before he had taken off his shirt.
“It’s not that I am a prude.” Sherlock mumbles with his mouth full before swallowing. “I just… want to keep it between us. Of course, I want to please you sexually, Mycroft. But I would rather figure out how to do it myself. Or to have you teach me.”
“Of course, Lock. And, you are doing a good job of it. To be honest… just having Mummy know that –”
“Say no more!” Sherlock gestures rather desperately to Mycroft’s untouched plate.
Mycroft grins broadly, but picks up his own plate – lamb with a pomegranate harissa crust. His brother is so much fun to tease. And, suddenly he can understand why Sherlock didn’t tell Dr. Watson about them. No need for the doctor’s crude ribbing when his poor Lock is already looking harried from Mrs. Hudson and Mummy’s onslaught. Not that he wants to know that Mummy thinks about them having… no.
He will not think about it. Oh no. He will absolutely not.
***
“Mummy wants to see her.” Mycroft sighs when he is lying in bed with Sherlock. While Mummy had been tormenting Lock with her ideas of the perfect wedding via text, she had been contemplating their dear sister. And when Lock had been in the shower, dousing his back in cold water – she had sent him a few texts on the matter.
The emotions in Mycroft’s irises are complex. Sherlock tries to parse through the blues. He doesn’t want to. He realizes. And yes, wouldn’t that make sense? She had tried to get him to kill his brother out of an old childhood grudge. Just like she had done Victor in. For having the audacity to hold Sherlock’s attention. Did she know that Mycroft was his soulmate? He shivers. She would find that poetic. To get the one that Mycroft cared for (loved) the most to do him in.
Sherlock gently reaches over, stroking his brother’s freshly shaved cheek and jaw.
“No use explaining to her the futility of it all.” Mycroft sounds despondent. “She simply sits or stands in her cell. Staring blankly at the walls. She does not speak. Does not interact with anyone. Let alone glance at them. Catatonic is what the in-house psychiatrist had used to describe her. Somehow… this will depress our parents further.”
“My.” Sherlock lets his fingers run through Mycroft’s short hair. His brother releases another sigh, slumping down into the fluffy pillows. “You can’t protect them from reality. Sometimes... people need to see to believe. I don’t know what the intervening years have done to our parents’ memories of our sister, but they probably view them through rose-tinted lenses. Especially Mummy – you did mention –”
“That she had wanted a little girl? Yes. I am afraid she desires that we be a big ‘happy’ family –”
Sherlock snorts. Unlikely. But… perhaps they ought to give into the fantasy once. For closure. More like rub the East Wind’s failure to her face. It may buy them some goodwill from their parents. He shakes his head. Look at him, thinking like a grown-up! “Perhaps we ought to go once. Then they can decide whether or not they want to keep visiting Sherrinford. It’s not like she’s going anywhere anytime soon…”
“Of course not.” Mycroft sounds a touch defensive, and Sherlock hurries to soothe his ruffled feathers, kissing his dimple. Damn. His brother, the British Government, is cute. Sherlock hides his smile when he parts, knowing Mycroft would find the thought appalling.
There is a slight smile on Mycroft’s face. But he frowns again, evidently not happy with the prospect of being in the presence of the East Wind. Sherlock knows that big brother agrees with him. He reaches for Mycroft’s wrist and he adds. “Well, she let us both live.”
“You made your choice when you pointed the gun to yourself, brother mine. Perhaps, she does have a shred of compassion hidden amongst the cruelty.”
“But, brother – why?” Sherlock asks insistently. “Why did you want me to…” He swallows, and his brother gives him a pained look that says is it not obvious enough?. Oh stupid. His brother loved him… even before the soulmark had made its appearance. And would have never acted on it, otherwise. It’s why Mycroft had spent so little time freaking out about being soulbound to him. Then he has another realization. “You thought… that I loved John?”
“Lock… I didn’t want this to be a repeat of the Victor situation. And… I did think so. Despite your convincing ‘I love you’ to your pathologist.” You did everything for him.
And Mycroft had done everything for him. He had known that from the night before. “My…” Sherlock suddenly has the urge to express what he feels in this new tactile language of theirs.
Mycroft finds himself being gently pushed down into the bed by a surprisingly amorous little brother. There is affection(?) in little brother’s gorgeous blue-green-brown eyes as Sherlock looks down at him. It fills Mycroft’s heart with such joy, just to see them as such. Their lips meet with a tenderness that hadn’t been there previously. And Mycroft just simply melts into them; he relishes the way Sherlock nibbles and delicately nips at his lips, the sigh that escapes from him when Sherlock’s cheekbone nuzzles against his own – little brother’s elbows propped against the pillows just ahead of Mycroft’s head for support, the way that worshipful kisses are trailed unhurriedly down imaginary paths – and even the toe-curling pleasure when Sherlock places the curve of Mycroft’s ear between his soft lips and simply sucks.
Good god. His brother takes his time, learning about all the permutations of pleasure one could bring to another. And obviously taking stock into what is effective – to be employed for another day. Mycroft doesn’t try to take control – remembering the nasty sunburn that covers Sherlock’s back which is now slathered in a layer of greasy ointment. And then he gasps when Sherlock licks at the head of his prick, after having freed his genitalia from the confines of his pyjama bottoms. It’s been years since Mycroft has had a blowjob from anyone – and it’s almost cute – to watch Sherlock give his frenulum little kitten licks, alternated with light kisses. It’s almost innocent, really. As innocent a blowjob could be.
There is an impish grin that crosses his brother’s face, and Mycroft almost screams when Sherlock engulfs a decent chunk of his cock into his mouth – applying the most heavenly amount of pressure and deliciously wet suction. There is just a bit of teeth (inexperience) but somehow it makes the experience all the more authentic. He reaches downward to fondle with his own bollocks – as he prefers – and his brother bats his hand away to apply the same touch. All too soon, Mycroft grunts a ‘I’m gonna cum’, and he spills down a spluttering Sherlock’s throat. His brother coughs, wiping at his lips which are painted with a mix of sperm and spit with the dorsum of his hand, while his other hand gives his own leaking and reddened cock a few tugs.
“Give it to me.” Mycroft gestures, and when Sherlock topples into climax – his ejaculate ends up on Mycroft’s chest, neck and lips. His brother collapses on him – panting and dazed from the postcoital hormones – smearing the mess around.
They are both looking at each other with probably the stupidest grins either of them ever made in existence.
***
The next day is still warm, but not as sweltering as the day prior. Sherlock is staring at a colorful board on the weather-worn picnic bench while Mycroft ponders his next move.
Sherlock would have been perfectly happy with the great air-conditioning of the indoors, considering that it was a bad idea to swim with his sun-damaged back, but no - Mr I-live-in-the-shadows wanted to maximize his time out in the sun. His hand reaches out to drink what Mycroft had called a ‘tea latte’ which was made with tea, milk, sugar and ice. His brother had actually made their drinks himself.
Sherlock practically spat his drink out when Mycroft spells out ‘PHPHT’ on the board.
“Now that doesn’t look right.”
“Oh, brother dear, I assure you it’s a legitimate word.”
“Just because you run the nation doesn’t mean you get to rewrite the Scrabble dictionary.”
“Look it up!” There was something childish about the grin Mycroft wore. “It’s the sound you just made.”
Sulkily, Sherlock pulled out his phone and had to concede. He is unable to avoid the eyeful of wedding balloons, doves and matching tuxes that Mummy had recently sent him. No, they are definitely going to elope - fuck it all. He has no desire to be part of a public spectacle. Mycroft and he are private people, and there is very little extended family that Sherlock wanted involved - well if at all. Let Mummy throw a reception or something afterwards. The idea of an elopement board sounds like the perfect thing to do.
He places his tiles down, then Mycroft lays down ‘CRWTH’.
“Mycie. This is not fair.” Sherlock groans before placing his tiles. He was losing by a lot. Mycroft probably had the whole ridiculous dictionary of this game memorized or something. “Why do I agree to play inane games with you?”
“Because…” ‘ILOVEYOU’ gets placed down by Mycroft.
“You are utterly ridiculous.” Sherlock folds the board in half, not caring that the tiles got scattered.
“You are just a sore loser.” Mycroft rests a hand on Sherlock’s folded knee while his other hand is already tidying the mess that Sherlock had just made. Some things just don’t change. “And I admit that I was saving the letters for that last play.”
“You just have to be so bloody exceptional at everything.”
“Problem?”
Mycroft quirks an infuriating eyebrow and Sherlock finds himself leaning forward and kissing the annoying smirk off his lover. He ends up on Mycroft’s lap with their arms around each other and they are making out like horny teenagers. It is ridiculous - this whole situation. But the soul-bond and its hormonal effects are far more powerful than either of them had ever imagined it to be. Sherlock just wants to be touching his brother in every possible way, and it seems that Mycroft has the same needs. In fact, Sherlock is sure this would have escalated to some form of sex in the great outdoors underneath the shady willow tree, but a familiar figure catches his eye across the lake. He pushes his brother away slightly and whispers.
“Don’t look, but I think Lestrade is behind you. He’s setting up a chair and he has fishing supplies. Bloody hell, I didn’t even know he fished.”
“Does it even matter? Everyone is going to know sooner or later.”
“Well - I prefer not to be disturbed on my sex holiday.” Sherlock murmurs. “Why is he here, Mycie?”
“Because this is a public location, Lockie? I can’t just buy out the entire Lake District for our week here -”
“Pft. What use is being the British Government if you can’t have some privacy?”
“You are such a brat -”
“Ouch!” Sherlock protests when Mycroft pinches him. “Why must you choose violence?”
“Oh, you would prefer this then?”
Mycroft kisses him again and they end up finding their peace in each other; the lone but familiar fisherman across the lake forgotten.