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Disclaimer: all characters belong to the BBC and Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss. My profit is the joy I had in writing. Yours, I hope, the joy in reading
Mycroft Holmes was enjoying a well-deserved lie-in.
The endless conference with the French had been concluded late last night to the high satisfaction of everyone concerned, after the discreet suggestion Mycroft had whispered into the Prime Minister’s ear. Honour had been preserved on both sides, quite apart from the gratifying fact two governments would now be able to tell the public their country would benefit from the deal that had been struck. This was what his younger colleagues – still wet behind their ears – termed a ‘goody goody’. Mycroft briefly wondered what they taught people at university these days every time the horrid expression – or any of its equally abhorrent siblings – entered his ears. Thank God they were at least clever enough to deduce pretty quickly – from the faint expression of distaste he allowed to fleet over his features every time he heard such coarse language – they shouldn’t use these lingual atrocities in front of him. But no such worries now. With a sigh of contentment he turned between the luxurious high thread-count sheets, snuggling against the soft, downy pillows before closing his eyes once more.
It wasn’t long however before his peace and quiet were disturbed by an awful racket outside in the hallway. He recognised the protesting voice of James, his manservant, delivering his objections to… ah yes. Upon sharpening his ears Mycroft perceived the other voice as belonging to his younger brother. He was proven right only seconds later as the door was thrown open with unnecessary force and Sherlock stormed in, a look of massive frustration etched onto his features.
“Would you tell that ridiculous idiot you insist on employing not to get all steamed up when your own brother declares a wish to speak with you,” he snarled. “Really, it isn’t like he’s guarding the crown jewels, is he?”
Right this moment Mycroft felt his net worth on the balance sheet of the Commonwealth far outweighed that of the crown jewels but of course he wasn’t going to breathe a word of that to his little brother. He could greatly do without the withering look that remark would summon forth to ensure the demise of his bright morning.
“Sherlock,” he drawled. He pushed himself up, pulling his burgundy silk pyjama jacket closer around his chest. “James was expressly instructed not to let anyone near me the whole morning. Faithful as he is he has attempted to follow my request. I didn’t tell him my dear sibling was to be given exclusive access at all times. I hope you will forgive me this errant lapse on taking your wishes into perpetual consideration. One extenuating circumstance I’d like to advocate is that more than two years have passed since you last visited these premises. A fleeting visit if I remember correctly, as you ended it prematurely by taking leave rather abruptly in your own customary fashion. So you can’t hold it against me I hadn’t counted on you barging into my little boudoir at – what time is it? – not yet nine in the morning, brother mine. Though as ever I’m delighted to see you, my dear Sherlock.”
“You can cut the dramatics, Mycroft, you're not impressing anyone," Sherlock snapped.
Mycroft raised his eyebrows ever so slightly before pursing his lips. “As you wish. Who’s the one throwing the tantrums here though, I wonder. But then you excel at doing just that, don’t you?” He signaled to James who had been hovering with all prescribed respect in the doorway during their exchange. “Breakfast on a tray please. And tell Cook I’d like a little Hollandaise with the eggs. This morning calls for a minor celebration.”
“You really shouldn’t, Mycroft. Haven’t you noticed the excessive amount of flab you have allowed to accumulate on your chest? This new diet you mentioned lately doesn’t seem to hold up to its promises. I’d stick to dry bread and water if I were you.”
Mycroft resisted the urge to pull the jacket even more tightly around his torso. He threw his brother a sour look. Sherlock was dawdling next to the Emile Ruhlmann cabinet, fingering the elaborate collection of Lalique glassware on display there with quick nervous strokes. Lean and elegant as ever his figure rose, clad in another stunning suit that aided in flaunting his assets by the discreet suggestion of hiding them. The snide remark seemed to have been brought forward more by force of habit however, than with any real intent to wound. In fact, Mycroft found upon closer scrutiny, his brother appeared to be rather upset. Ah, this could be interesting.
“Do sit down, Sherlock. I don’t intend to rise for some time yet and I don’t want to strain my neck gazing up at you.”
Sherlock let out a prodigious sigh before taking a step across the room. Mycroft fully expected him to draw up a chair and situate himself next to the bed. What Sherlock did in fact was to perch himself without further ceremony on the edge of the mattress. Mycroft goggled at him in astonishment. His brother’s behaviour was past all belief. What on Earth was the matter with him?
***
Since he came down from Cambridge eight years ago Sherlock had been, and still was, the most eligible bachelor in the Greater London Area. Mycroft had been approached more times than he wished to remember with the request of an introduction to that delightful little brother of his. The question had been issued with tactful circumspection by mothers of marriageable daughters and both women and men in diverse spheres of considerable influence; from politics and industry, through to the world of finance. With quite a few of these Mycroft would have been very happy to strike up an alliance through the extension of his younger brother. Some of Mycroft’s dealings for the greater good of the general public would have required less effort if he could have called upon an (un)official family member to smooth things nicely along.
It was just unfortunate that, knowing Sherlock as he did, Mycroft had been forced to express his delight, show his gratitude, and still generally repudiate the offers. He had tried to reason with Sherlock at first, arguing it was no more than healthy and sensible to enjoy the attentions of a lover, he must marry one day, et cetera, et cetera. Sherlock’s answer had been to wrinkle his pretty retroussé nose and let his lips curl with disdain every time Mycroft brought up the subject. “Not interested Mycroft,” he’d purred before becoming positively annoyed with the whole affair.
Mycroft had only succeeded in wheedling an explanation from him once, and even then it had only been a half-muttered commentary while they had been sipping their drinks prior to another Christmas dinner.
“I honestly don’t see what all the fuss is about,” Sherlock had said, a perplexed expression wrinkling his forehead. “I tried kissing at university and found it to be a highly overrated experience. Quite distasteful in fact, to have someone slobbering in my mouth like a pig at the swill. I imagine having another person rubbing their genitals against mine must be even worse. I fully understand that’s the reason these people desire my acquaintance. To ‘have their way with me’ as I have once heard this reprehensible act described. I won’t have it, Mycroft. Ever. I do wish you would stop harassing me. I don’t like you greatly as it is, and your insistence on pursuing this issue every time we meet doesn’t help in calling forth the warm sibling feelings you’re supposed to inspire in me.”
Against his own better judgement, Mycroft had hinted at a remedy to wipe any unpleasant remembrance from his brother’s mind. The only result however had been an infuriated Sherlock threatening to storm out of the drawing room where both their family and several potential associates were assembled. Ultimately Mycroft had decided to leave well alone.
Although it did seem a waste. Because, well, the man was his little brother of course, but… here Mycroft resolutely drew a line whenever his mind tended to wander.
From the beginning Sherlock had seemed intent upon distancing himself as far as possible from Mycroft’s set. Instead of finding himself a flat in Belgravia he had chosen to take up residence in Baker Street. Respectable enough for most people, Mycroft supposed, but hardly up to the usual Holmes standard.
The housekeeper, a Mrs. Hudson, was an absolute boon however. Mycroft had to give his brother that. She hardly ever complained about the obnoxious wreckage that was the invariable outcome of the experiments Sherlock insisted upon conducting, in premises that were designed to be used as living quarters, not a chemical laboratory.
Though declaring loudly she was no more than his landlady, she fussed over Sherlock like a mother hen; tidying the flat, taking care of his washing and sitting him down on a regular basis to force him into downing cups of tea, a few pieces of toast or the occasional plate of no doubt overcooked but still nutritious vegetables.
Sherlock had aligned himself furthermore with an Inspector at Scotland Yard, a Greg Lestrade, apparently convincing the poor man he could assist him in solving the crimes Londoners seemed intent to inflict upon one another. Mycroft had had the Inspector checked of course, and after due consideration decided his brother could have chosen worse acquaintances.
Why he had this dedicated preference for people beneath his station in life was a mystery to Mycroft, but one must make shift with what one has and both Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade did seem to be fiercely protective of Sherlock.
Mycroft literally shrugged his shoulders in the end and got on with the running of the Commonwealth. Which was a hard enough task without the millstone of a headstrong younger brother around his neck.
***
Reflecting on their usual mode of interaction Mycroft considered he might be excused for the consternation he felt at Sherlock seating himself in such an intimate manner on the edge of his bed. His brother had been up to something more fantastic than the usual, that much was obvious. Sherlock kept sighing and drawing his hands over his knees, steadfastly eying the floor.
“I’m gratified you appear to be much pleased with my latest finding,” Mycroft broke the oppressive atmosphere at last. “Aubusson of course. I thought it fitted quite nicely with the colour scheme of the room. Certainly more pleasing to the eye than that monstrosity which covers the floor of your living room at Baker Street.”
This provoked no other reaction than a more nervous fingering of the fine wool of Sherlock’s trousers. Mycroft decided on a change of tactics. “Out with it, Sherlock. It’s hardly feasible you came here for a nice brotherly chat so something must be bothering you. Either tell me or depart. I haven’t got all day. I had been looking forward to a long, lazy breakfast with the newspapers this morning. You’ve already managed to spoil that prospect for me. If that was the object of your visit I can assure you, you’ve fully accomplished your aim so there’s no reason to dawdle here and prolong the agony we both endure in each other’s company.”
Sherlock threw him a furious look. He drew a deep breath and opened his mouth. As ever he chose to attack. His little brother was so predictable most of the time. “I’ve told you before Mycroft, I really don’t understand how the Borough Council can idly allow the steady decline of my neighbourhood. You always claim you are the government. Surely you can tell the Lord Mayor to terminate this development. I’ve tried complaining to Lestrade but he keeps insisting it isn’t his division. How am I supposed to concentrate on my work while the buildings around me are invaded by prostitutes and other undesirable flotsam? Do you really want Mrs. Hudson to be confronted with women of ill repute while she goes out shopping?”
Mycroft listened to this outburst with a non-committal face, barely stifling a yawn. “My my, fancy you taking other people’s feelings into consideration. No need to get yourself all worked up, I dare say. Mrs. Hudson no doubt has seen worse in her lifetime. She confessed to me once her parents originated from Hackney. If memory serves, I did advise you to find yourself a flat here, Sherlock.”
“That’s got nothing to do with what I’m stating, Mycroft. Don’t try to change the subject just so you can harp on about it. I’m perfectly content at Baker Street as you well know. It’s just this nasty dwindling of the surroundings. The house opposite the flat has actually been turned into a brothel.” He averted his eyes at the last sentence.
Mycroft sighed. “Yes. I see. As I’ve informed you before, Sherlock, unlike you the rest of humankind quite likes to partake in this activity called sex. If it offers any consolation to you I’ll confess five doors down from this address you’ll find the most exclusive whorehouse in London. It’s not exactly a state secret. It offers a higher class of tart than the one at Baker Street I suppose, but basically what they sell is the same. A body to use.”
At these words a faint pink flush sprang up on Sherlock’s cheekbones and his breathing quickened. Mycroft continued: “I would have thought you to be better acquainted with the ways of the world. Seeing as how you’re bent over a fresh corpse at least three times a week.”
“Of course,” Sherlock growled, “I’m no innocent, Mycroft. I know about these things.”
“Well then. I’ve told you before there’s nothing I can do about it, even if I felt the desire to. Which I don’t. I’m not going to waste the Lord Mayor’ s precious time with this nonsense. Try to contact the man himself. You’ll discover him to be a most amiable fellow. Or lodge a complaint with the Borough Council. If that’s all you came to talk about I suggest afresh you take your leave. Bye bye, brother mine. Thank you for visiting. Next time choose a later hour, please. Unlike you I actually prefer to be fully dressed while receiving.”
Sherlock stayed put, licking his lower lip. He glanced at Mycroft out of the corner of his eye, than steadied his gaze on the carpet once more. His next words came out in a rush. “I was in my pyjamas and dressing gown yesterday actually. But then I had had nothing to do all day except to wait for Lestrade to talk him through the details of our latest case. Quite a puzzle, it had kept me busy for five whole days. I had been winding down in the morning but found myself quite bored by mid-afternoon. Mrs. Hudson has expressly forbidden me to shoot the walls again and I accidentally melted her new kettle only last week so I have to lie low for a bit and didn’t dare start an experiment. I was desperate for anything to happen but I was too dull to go out and I had to wait for Lestrade anyway.”
A gentle knock on the door interrupted his aimless rambling.
“Come in,” Mycroft called out.
James entered, bearing the tray. With an impassive face he placed it over the legs of his master who eyed the attractive array of condiments perched on top of it with contentment. With a flourish he poured the tea, first flush Darjeeling, into the fine white bone china cups.
“Thank you James, that will be all,” Mycroft told the man after he had replaced the teapot. James made a small bow and left.
Mycroft handed Sherlock his cup before lifting his own, admiring the colour of the liquid and bringing it up to his nose to delight in the exquisite scent that wafted up from the delicate infusion. He swirled his cup carefully – losing himself in the reflection of the light on the rippling surface of the tea through the wafer thin china – before taking a small sip. he rolled it over his tongue to savour the complex taste down to the last detail. Sherlock meanwhile poured the fluid gold unceremoniously down his throat before banging his cup down on the saucer. No doubt his taste had been permanently spoilt by an excess of cheap, over-sweetened, milky tea. The invariable outcome when one insisted on mingling with the lower middle middle classes apparently. Such a pity it should be his own brother.
With loving care Mycroft placed his own cup back on the tray. “Pray do continue, Sherlock. Your tale had me hanging on your every word before we were interrupted.”
Sherlock blushed again. It really was extraordinary. He cleared his throat and when he spoke next his voice had a skittish, jagged edge to it.
“I was bored. Bored out of my skull. So I thought I might as well have a look out of the window. See if anything was happening outside. I drew up a chair from the table and set myself in front of the pane. The one on the right to be precise-” he faltered before drawing another deep breath. “I found there was nothing unusual going on and had already decided to crash down on the sofa when I spotted him. The prostitute. In the brothel. Opposite my flat.”
“Yes?”
“He was … he was what one would call at work, I assume. He was sitting in the window, same as I, wearing this rather flimsy satin shirt with the three top buttons open. I gather he was what most people would consider to be not unattractive. A bit younger than me, nothing wrong with his features, and a shock of thick blond hair on top of his head. I must confess I noticed nothing out of the ordinary at first. I conceived him to be bored and staring out of the window like me. But then a man dressed a little better than the rest of the passers-by walked up and, to my astonishment, I saw the boy make this little signal. It was no more than a slight turn of the head really, accompanied by a barely noticeable wink. The man looked up and the boy repeated the gesture, now adding a little purse of his lips as well. The man turned to the front door and rang the bell. The boy stood up and closed the curtains. I waited. Twenty minutes later the man walked out and the boy opened the curtains before seating himself at the window once more. He eyed up and down the street and then … and then he noticed me and threw me a little wave. The effrontery!” He hesitated.
“Quite,” Mycroft murmured in order to edge his brother along. He hadn’t heard anything so far in the story Sherlock was telling him to have inspired the unusual way in which his brother was behaving, except for his definite disapproval of anything to do with sex. His singular demeanor piqued Mycroft’s interest but he was determined not to show it. He indulged in another sip of tea while waiting for his brother to continue.
“He was less successful after that,” Sherlock resumed eventually. “His failure to attract another customer seemed to dishearten him. He tried harder, the gesture became less subtle, more coarse, repulsive rather than attractive. I considered it to be highly unprofessional behaviour. And then … and then I decided I could do better than that. It would be an interesting experiment, outside my usual range which added to the attraction. Something novel, I thought it might amuse me. I had nothing better to do anyway.”
Mycroft raised his eyebrows ever so slightly.
“I stood up and walked over to the mirror to practice. You know what an expert actor I can be if I want to. In no time I had mastered the technique and even improved upon it by adding a little drag of the tip of my tongue along my upper lip. Here, I’ll show you.”
Sherlock turned and looked his brother full in the face. He gracefully dipped his head and drew it up again with a small quirk. The moment his face was revealed afresh by the upward motion, he wriggled his right eyebrow while his pale eye closed in a long seductive wink. He actually managed to dilate his pupils, fluttering his lashes to suggest an attractive shading of the tender skin beneath his eyes. Out shot the tip of his pink tongue, as described, to start a journey along the underside of the cupid bow. His lip was left glistening and wet, tongue-tip lingering in the corner of his mouth before being drawn in again, allowing a quick glimpse of the shiny white teeth.
Mycroft willed himself to put his cup down without rattling it in the saucer. He felt an immense indebtedness to the tray that was positioned over his lap, screening it from his brother’s gaze. “I see,” was his only comment. He really couldn’t bring himself to elaborate any further.
To his vast relief he found he needn’t be afraid of his brother’s scrutiny as Sherlock resolutely returned his attention to the carpet again. His voice, normally so loud and clear, was reduced to a kind of awkward mumbling when he picked up the thread of his story anew.
“Having perfected the performance I had to find out whether this enhanced approach worked. Or it wouldn’t have been a proper experiment. I like to play by the book, you know that I do. I seated myself at the window again and set myself to a closer perusal of the potential clients the prostitute attempted to entice. They were all male and a little older than him but not by much. Dressed a little better than average like I had noticed before, to indicate they had money to spare and were willing to pay for something of better quality. That was basically it as far as I could detect. Though he did seem to prefer government clerks and accountants. I don’t pretend he was actually aware of this tendency, it was just something I happened to notice.”
“As only Sherlock Holmes would be wont to do.”
Another blush overtook Sherlock’s cheekbones, deepening to a most becoming coral. He drew his finger along the collar of his shirt, further betraying his unease.
“Yes. It’s my work isn’t it? And the work is the only thing that’s important to me. Everything else is just transport.”
A silence fell over the room. Mycroft buttered a piece of toast.
“I… I...” Sherlock barked an attempt at a laugh. "Now I knew what kind of subject to approach I only had to try and entice one myself in order to complete my little experiment. I turned my chair to face away from the awning over the cafeteria below and started a serious study of the public on my side of the road. Five minutes later this army doctor came into view. He didn’t have much dress sense but he had a nice open face and an attractive gait. So I chose him and gave him the signal. He gazed up at me and before I knew what happened he nodded, turned towards the front door and rang the bell.”
Oh, this had turned out to be rather interesting after all. Maybe even better than the morning papers.
“I sprang up of course, and drew my robe around me. Whatever was I to do? I hadn’t counted upon the subject actually wanting to enter. I heard Mrs. Hudson open the front door and ask what he wanted. ‘I’m a client,’ he told her. All kinds of people turn to me for help with their boring little problems so it was the perfect answer not to raise her suspicion. She directed him upstairs and he replied in an agreeable voice he knew where to find me as I was expecting him. Quickly I situated myself in front of the fireplace, drawing myself up to my full height, assuming that would put him off. He barged in only seconds later, a few coins ready in his right hand. He laughed when he saw me, dropping the money on the table. ‘My,’ he said, ‘I haven’t done this since I lost a stupid bet in university. But, Christ, that wink. You definitely know how to advertise the goodies. And you look even better up close. What a beauty you are.’ And before I could utter a sound of protest he had walked up to me and put one hand around my neck and the other one on my behind and… and he kissed me.”
“Ah, the pig at the swill. You fought him off, I suppose.”
Sherlock squirmed on the mattress, causing the tray to wobble precariously. Mycroft had to use both hands to steady it and prevent the spread of the contents over his eggshell-white cashmere blanket.
“That was my first instinct naturally but I… I found I couldn’t. I don’t know what it was that he did exactly but, whatever it was, it was highly agreeable. He barely brushed my mouth at first and his lips were warm and dry and then he inserted just the tip of his tongue between my lips and drew it past the edge of my teeth and – somehow he managed to smile while he was doing all this – he was stroking my behind with his fingertips like he was handling a precious object. He pulled me against him so I could feel, I could feel his... well, you know, and it didn’t revolt me at all. He was so gentle, yet very persuasive and he kept murmuring how beautiful I was, how good it was to touch me. I felt some regret when he broke the embrace.”
Mycroft kept a resolute silence.
“This was my chance so I told him there was a misunderstanding. I wasn’t a prostitute, he had been nothing more than the participant in an experiment. I apologised and asked him to take his leave. Lestrade was due to arrive in half an hour so you’ll understand I wanted him out of the flat. He refused to believe me. He said he had just been thrown the most flirtatious wink he had ever witnessed in his life, only a pro with years of practice could have done that. I didn’t have to act the virgin, I really was a bit too old for that and he liked his partners to enjoy themselves as well besides. He was only five feet eight, didn’t reach any higher than my nose, but next I knew I found myself bending to another kiss. Like I said, he had this compelling attitude. This one was even better.”
With tentative fingers Sherlock touched his lips. His eyes fell half-closed, obviously re-experiencing in his mind the tingling sensations the careful caress of another person’s lips on his had awoken in him a few hours ago.
“He ended it to ask for my name. He laughed when I told him. ‘Christ,’ he said, ‘but it fits somehow. Goes with the posh voice.’ He told me his name was John. ‘And now to the bedroom my lovely,’ he continued, ‘let me get you out of those flimsy nothings to enjoy the view.’ He… he drew his hand along my arm and took my hand in his, kissing the inside of my wrist and my fingers and telling me he wanted to feel those delicious parts of my anatomy on his bare.“
Sherlock broke off. His blush deepened to a more intent shade of red, drawing petals of a flaming peony red over his cheekbones.
Mycroft contemplated silently if he should play the innocent and force his brother to explain himself further, to repeat the no doubt coarse term. He decided against it as this might compel Sherlock into throwing a tantrum and leaving the room, slamming the door behind him with unnecessary force and thereby ending a story that by now held Mycroft’s full attention. He refrained himself to an encouraging nod.
“I protested once more but he just laughed at me and said: ‘It’s through there, isn’t it?’ pointing in the right direction, pulling at my arm. The clock struck four thirty and Lestrade was due to arrive before five and I, well, I panicked. I was desperate for him to go away. Whatever was I going to tell Lestrade if he found us together? I decided to give in and do whatever he wanted in order to get rid of him as soon as possible. Get it over and be done with it. I... I could have shouted for Mrs. Hudson I suppose but I couldn’t think properly anymore. He was so nice, and yet so persistent. He had deep blue eyes. Really, really blue. With small wrinkles around then when he laughed. And he kept smiling at me all the time. He dragged me through the kitchen and the little passage into my bedroom and before I knew what had happened he had disrobed us both and we were lying together on my bed, he kissing me on my neck and my chest and fondling me and he kept repeating how… how… how fucking gorgeous I was – even more fucking desirable than I had looked with my clothes on – and how he had thought I was the fucking cutest thing he had ever laid eyes on. He repeated that word a lot, fucking. But he also said I smelled better than a rose garden. He took my hand and put it there… and he was very stiff and then he put his own hand over mine and told me my fingers were like a brush of heaven.”
“Quite the poet,” Mycroft couldn’t resist murmuring. He found he was still holding on to the toast which he had completely forgotten about. It had cooled down and felt greasy and unpleasant between his fingertips. He put it back on his plate. Those joys had to wait for another morning.
“Next thing I knew, he had me on my front with a pillow beneath my hips and he was stroking my behind again. He pulled my legs apart and sat himself in between and, oh God, he started to kiss me there, then bite me, but it was really, really pleasant and I found I didn’t want him to stop, and then he did this thoroughly revolting thing and I hated myself for allowing him.”
Sherlock covered his face with his hands in shame, smothering his voice.
“He kissed my anus, Mycroft. He tickled me with his tongue, he, he even put the tip of his tongue inside me and to my horror I found it felt incredibly good and I wanted him to probe even deeper so I arched up to his face. I was appalled to find myself doing so, but it encouraged him in fact for his touch became more ardent, increasing the pleasure I was feeling. He slid his hand underneath me, past my testicles, which was almost painful but also delicious, and onto my member, which by now was as hard and stiff as his. I heard someone sobbing and moaning as if in pain and I discovered I was the one producing these sounds. I couldn’t stop myself calling out, I couldn’t stop pushing myself up against his tongue and down into his hand that he kept moving up and down my penis and then-… and then I felt this flood that had been gathering at the bottom of my pelvis, rise up out of my testicles, travelling through my penis, shooting out and then the feeling consumed my whole body. It kept radiating outwards, tensing me up, clamping my muscles and I... I was shouting with it, I shouted his name. I remember thinking, and I wasn’t really able to think any more, that this is what dying must be like. It was better than the cocaine has ever been. Whatever it was, it kept consuming me and it ended in total, sweet relaxation. I found this horrid sticky mess covering the sheet beneath me and understood I had just deposited it there. But I didn’t mind. I felt like I had just solved ten puzzling cases in one go.”
Mycroft took care not to issue a sound as he listened to Sherlock describing the experience of his first orgasm to him. He felt torn between compassion for his younger brother and admiration for the man who had produced this desirable outcome with what he understood to be commendable competence. He dreaded to hear the next part of the story which would no doubt consist of the introduction of his, until a few hours ago, virgin brother to the debatable joys of anal sex.
“I was lying on the sheets, completely spent. He deposited himself over me and whispered into my ear: ‘What are you? You’re the most bewitching creature I ever met. You made me climax by climaxing yourself. How did you do that? Just look at you. Those slack, lush lips.’ I felt his member against my back, soft again and wet like mine. I understood what had happened to me must also have happened to him. I hadn’t noticed! Imagine me, not noticing anything. I felt immense gratitude for what he had done to me. So I kissed him of my own volition. I just copied what he had done earlier. It seemed the right thing to do.”
“Quite.” Mycroft fought the smile that threatened at the corner of his lips. He felt a surge of malicious joy as he heard Sherlock detailing in all innocence how he had prevented his customer from taking his pleasure inside the intended orifice by reacting with such unexpected force to the preparations.
“And I liked it. But I shouldn’t have done so, for it only encouraged him. He started stroking me again, saying endearments. I felt his member stiffening anew. He crept up over me and positioned himself next to my face and he kept caressing it and drawing his hand through my hair and repeating that he didn’t see how it was possible for a man to have such a beautiful mouth and I realised he wanted me to kiss his member and… and… “ Sherlock’s choked voice broke. His throat issued a sound like a sob, adding a touch of pity to Mycroft’s merriment. Inwardly he was shaking with laughter.
“I raised my head and I allowed him to put his penis into my mouth. He pushed it in and out, again and again, dragging past my lower lip, and he kept telling me how good it was; how incredibly beautiful I was, that fucking my mouth was the best thing he had ever done, that the sight of it drove him insane. I looked up at him and then he was shuddering and shouting and I suddenly found this bitterly revolting taste in my mouth and I decided to swallow it in order to get rid of it. That induced him to lay his hand against my cheek and tell me I was the most adorable creature he’d ever met.”
Mycroft found himself swallowing quite hard at this part of the story. He looked at his brother’s lips. He could fully imagine the intense pleasure the man must have enjoyed between those plush, fleshy cushions. To be further rewarded with the sight of the tart he’d hired swallowing his load instead of spitting it out with an expression of disgust on his face must indeed have been a gratifying experience.
“Pray continue, Sherlock.”
“We kissed some more after that and then I heard Mrs. Hudson’s and Lestrade’s voices in the living room. I had completely forgotten about Lestrade. So I pushed him out of the bed and told him I had somebody waiting for me. ‘I can hear that,’ he said, ‘I should have known you entertain a lot of regulars. I'd consider becoming one myself. You certainly give a man value for money. You can definitely count on me coming to see you tomorrow. Same time, all right? Give me an hour at least. I quite look forward to sucking you off. That-” Sherlock hesitated before spitting out the word, “-'cock of yours is just as attractive as the rest.’ With that he took his leave. Mercifully he went through the kitchen door onto the landing, but I could hear him call out to Lestrade: ‘He’s really something special, isn’t he mate? I quite envy you for getting to know him before I did.’ My God, the mortification I felt. But also a strange feeling of pride.”
Mycroft couldn’t keep the smile from his face any longer. He resorted to hiding behind his teacup.
“For the first time in my life I was actually grateful Lestrade is as obtuse as he is. He didn’t suspect anything. Mrs. Hudson threw me some inquisitive looks but she never opened her mouth, thank God, just poured him his tea and presented him with his biscuits. I found I couldn’t talk to Lestrade. I was too distracted. I remembered the feel of his hands and his lips and… his penis. His eyes, they really were the most astonishing blue, kept darting up in front of me. I couldn’t concentrate so I told Lestrade I was ill and sent him away. I went over to the table and found a sovereign worth of coins lying there. That made me fully realise for the first time what I had done. He had bought me. And I had found pleasure in prostituting myself. My God Mycroft, he said he would be coming back tomorrow. Which is today. Mycroft, please, whatever am I to do?”
He turned himself to look his brother full in the face with a beseeching expression on his features. Mycroft couldn’t hold up his laughter any more. It burst forth from him, big hiccupping gasps until he felt the tears rolling down his cheeks. He pulled his cambric handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket and dabbed his eyes. Sherlock stared at him, indignation written all over him. Mycroft grabbed his hand to ensure he would stay put and not withdraw himself in fury from the room.
“I fail to see what is so funny about this Mycroft,” Sherlock huffed, “you know full well I would have preferred not to discuss this with you. The only reason I turned to you is because I have no one else to ask for advice.”
This drew forth another burst of merriment from Mycroft. He tried to fight it but found he couldn’t. Sherlock’s chagrined face enhanced his amusement even further. He kept shaking with laughter. Eventually his hilarity ceded to the grave posture Sherlock persisted in adopting.
“You declare you came to me for advice, Sherlock,” he said at last, drawing his handkerchief across his eyes some more, “yet you didn’t mention what kind of advice it is you want. From what you’ve told me you had a most interesting afternoon yesterday and are in expectation of a repetition of these acts; intimacies you’ve just described to me in great detail. You’ve repeatedly stressed you enjoyed them. From what you’ve told me I gather your customer is a considerate and competent man, so I suggest you go home and prepare yourself for another afternoon of pleasure. Grab your chances where you find them, Sherlock.”
“But he thinks I’m a prostitute.”
“Even better. When you tire of the game you tell him you won’t receive him anymore. It’s a buyer’s market but the seller must be willing to provide. He’ll understand.”
“I… I… there’s nothing to sell. I don’t want to sell. I don’t want him to pay me. The idea appalls me. I want to give him whatever he wants, whatever he asks from me-“
Mycroft observed his brother. “My God,” he said after a while, “you’re in love.”
“Nonsense,” Sherlock started. Mycroft held up his hand.
“You’re in love, Sherlock. It’s the only logical conclusion. It’s nothing special, it’s happened before. You should tell him the truth. Go home, prepare yourself, receive him and relish in his attentions. After you’ve both managed to wear each other out he’ll prove to be more amenable to listen to your explanation of how… how… “ Mycroft resisted the laughter welling up in him once again, “he was the unwitting, though I wouldn’t say unwilling, subject of one of your more outlandish experiments. If he’s as taken with you as you’ve sketched him out to be he will be only too glad to find he’s got exclusive access to the commodities. Gratify him even further by disclosing to him he was the first to ever partake of them.”
“Mycroft!”
“Oh please Sherlock. After what you’ve just told me it’s no use acting the innocent virgin any longer. Admit yourself to be a most ambitious pupil, go ahead and savour your initiation. He sounds like an able and loving teacher. You’ve got your elder brother’s blessing.” He patted Sherlock on the shoulder. He briefly contemplated a short lecture on the importance of adequate lubrication but if the man was an army doctor he supposed at least one of them knew what he was about.
The look of righteous resentment on Sherlock’s face gave way to one of uncertainty mingled with fresh hope.
“Do you really think that would work,” he asked, “I already accepted his money.”
“No you didn’t,” Mycroft told him with confidence. "He left it on the table and you forgot to return it. Add another two sovereigns of your own and take him to a decent restaurant, not one of those atrocities run by foreigners you normally prefer, to celebrate your acquaintance.”
He grabbed his brother’s hand. “We’re not close Sherlock and we never will be. But you must believe me when I tell you I’m very happy for you.”
Sherlock nodded, a smile brightening his face at last, then stood with sudden haste. “I’ll be off then. I must go and check my wardrobe to decide what to wear. And maybe I should instruct Mrs. Hudson to go down to Harrods and buy some tartlets. Some strawberry tartlets perhaps?” With these words he strode out of the room, closing the door behind him with less than his usual force.
Mycroft’s eyes stayed fixed on the closed door for several seconds before settling down with the ruined remains of the delicious breakfast he had been looking forward to only one and a half hours ago. He checked his alarm. Damn. He would have to meet the American delegation in a little over an hour. Oh well, no use complaining. This was what his life came down to. But honestly, sometimes he felt occupying a minor position in the British government and being a brother to Sherlock was a bit too much to ask of one man. Even if his name was Mycroft Holmes.