When Sherlock is crashing down, his brother is always there to save him.
Woah, probably the most controversial thing I've done.
This is a short, quick... what's the definition, "suck and fuck"? Anyways, read the tags before you read just in case. I don't want anyone flipping their shit. Sherlock fanfic. Holmescest. The gayest thing I've written yet. (In the good way, of course.)
This monstrosity is based off of BBC's Sherlock written by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. And that is based off the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Mycroft Holmes was commonly referred to as the British government. And while he normally refuted it with, "Oh, I simply hold a minor position in the government", complete with a short grin, no one believed him. He radiated power.
His younger brother, Sherlock, however, had the potential to be a fantastic politician. He was a genius -- they both were, and that wasn't an exaggeration. So yes, the both of them could make excellent political careers ... That is, if Sherlock didn't call the entire business stupid, pointless, synonyms thereof. He chose to be a "consulting detective", and a chemist in his spare time. To be frank, he was a pain in the arse.
Mycroft had cared for him since he could possibly remember.
It was an afternoon in particular. Rainy outside, dreadful springtime weather. There was a hasty knock on the door.
Mycroft looked up, surprised and only slightly irritated; he had not been expecting the Indian ambassador until 3 o'clock. His PA Anthea should've mentioned any schedule change--
But no. It was Sherlock. Mycroft's gaze softened as his younger brother entered his office. He was wet slightly, perhaps from the rain outside. Regardless, the elder Holmes immediately knew his brother was having another episode. He was clutching his head and looking up at him pleadingly, eyes unfocused, his breathing unsteady.
The familiar signs were all there. Every once in awhile, Sherlock's mind would race out of control and only Mycroft could give him the release he so desperately needed.
The British government sighed, standing and moving around his desk to lean on it. "Why do you always wait so long, Sherlock? If you would come to me sooner it wouldn't get this bad." His words were a drawl, that of a long-suffering man.
His brother looked at him tensely. "I thought I could go without it," Sherlock muttered, his glance then moving away from Mycroft. He stepped closer, just a bit. Sherlock hated this fragility. He always did this, and always had to come back in the end.
"My," he pleaded, using his brother's childhood nickname, "I need you. Please."
There was a pause. "Come here," Mycroft sighed, opening his arms slightly and gesturing for his brother to come. "Tell me what you need, Sherlock."
The curly-haired detective stepped closer to his brother, his arms falling into place around Mycroft's. Into the no-doubt Italian-made fabric of his brother's shoulder, as though he were a child again, he said brokenly, "It's too much, my mind is like white noise, I can't ... I can't think. I need your help." He hesitated.
Mycroft's arms settled around him easily, knowing what was coming, but he always needed Sherlock to voice it. "Tell me, Sherlock. What can I do for you?" he murmured.
He fumbled a bit for words. "Let me ... let it go. Take control. I'll do whatever you want, My, anything." Sherlock looked up to his brother, shifting on his feet restlessly, hoping that that answer would suffice. His desperation was starting to show already.
Mycroft hummed, stroking his dark curls gently before laying a kiss on his brow. "Strip, Sherlock, and then we'll decide what to do with you."
Sherlock began to enthusiastically comply. "Yes, Mycroft. Thank you," he murmured earnestly, letting go of his brother to bring his hands to his shirt, undoing the buttons a little less deftly than he normally would.
After he'd removed the tightly-fitting purple shirt, he folded it and laid it on the ground, followed by his trousers and pants. He was half-hard already, and leaking a little. He stood stark naked, trembling slightly, his head down. Waiting.
Mycroft smiled, watching him as his own cock twitched with approval. "I wonder... You're lucky I'm always prepared, Sherlock. I have toys in my office for this very purpose." He reached into his desk and collected several dildos and vibrators and a cock ring. "I'll start you with these until you're begging for me to fuck you."
Sherlock blinked, swallowing. He would be lying if he said he wasn't excited. Though to be honest, that wasn't the only part of him that was showing its excitement. "Yes sir," he responded, his eyes locked onto the toys his brother was holding.
"Kneel in front of me." Mycroft picked out a large, ribbed dildo first and some lubricant.
Eyes locked on the toy, Sherlock moved accordingly, falling to his knees easily so he kneeled before his brother. His eyes were wide, his pupils verging on blown. He swallowed again.
The elder Holmes smirked again at how easily his brother complied in this state. He handed his brother the cock ring
"Place this on your cock and then undo my zip."
Taking the ring and eagerly slid it over his cock, so it was fitted snugly at the base, Sherlock then scooted a little closer, his hands finding their way to Mycroft's zip, resisting the urge to palm his brother's erection. He would have loved to, oh yes -- but he hadn't been told to, not yet.
He tugged the zipper down, his bright blue eyes boring into Mycroft's as he did. He was always careful, to start, never straying from instructions. That bit came later, when he wanted the punishments. But not quite yet.
His brother smirked slightly, tangling his fingers in his dark curls. "Now, take my prick out and use your pretty little mouth to suck it."
Sherlock licked his lips, reaching with his long fingers to draw his brother's stiff length out. He took a moment to appreciate the gravity of the moment and also Mycroft's cock, which was worthy if appreciation on its own, then took the head in his mouth, his tongue swirling under the sensitive underside.
Mycroft hummed in pleasure and let his brother have at it, who had been through this routine before. Sherlock knew what his brother liked. He quickly as much of his brother's cock as he could into his mouth, cheeks hollowing. His gag reflex had already been worn a bit, so it wasn't difficult. Sherlock's air was cut off for a few seconds as he bobbed forward, but on the return he started again, using his tongue cleverly on the spots he'd mapped out as sensitive.
He just knew he had to keep this up until Mycroft said otherwise. He could keep this up forever if his brother wanted him to. Sherlock would do anything... and they both knew it well.
Meanwhile, Mycroft let out a soft moan as he tightened his fingers in his brother's hair before pulling the man off him. "Alright. Stand up and bend over the desk, Sherlock," he said, his voice darker with arousal as he swiftly lubed up the dildo. Sherlock hurried to comply.
He gave his brother one last obligatory lick before rising to his feet, bracing his hips against the wood of Mycroft's desk. He rested his arms away from the (surely very important) papers, his own aching cock jutting against the wood awkwardly. His legs felt wobbly with anticipation. Mycroft moved behind him and rubbed his hand over his arse, kneading it before spanking lightly, not enough to hurt. He spread his cheeks apart and without out any preparation, pushed the toy inside him forcefully.
Sherlock moaned at the touches. When the toy breached him he shuddered and gasped at the suddenness, and shifted a little to attempt to adjust. He knew better than to speak out, so he bit his lip.
"You're doing very well today," Mycroft hummed in approval moving the toy inside of him slowly at first before going a bit faster. Sherlock's words came through gritted teeth.
"T-thank you, sir," The toy was starting to feel more like pleasure now, sending frissons up his spine. He instinctively pushed back a little at the dildo, looking for more contact. Mycroft sighed and smacked his arse, hard.
"Insatiable. You know better than to move, brother-mine." He thrust the toy harder into him before pulling it out and reaching for another one that vibrated. Sherlock startled, even though the smack hadn't been all that painful. His brain was too hazy to recognize that anyway. When the toy was removed, he nearly whimpered at the loss. He mumbled his brother's name again.
Mycroft had gathered the toy, and teased his entrance with the vibrator on a low setting for a few moments to relax the muscle before he finally pressed it inside of him. "You're enjoying this, aren't you Sherlock? You enjoy me using your body and playing with it."
Sherlock's back arched a little into the sensation of the vibrator inside him. "Yes, Mycroft," he replied dutifully. "I'm yours." By now, his twenty days of celibacy, and now this, would have had him coming hard by now, but the cock ring prevented it. "Yours," he said again, as if reminding himself. His mind started to wander again, getting lost in the pleasure.
The Holmes simply turned the vibrator up the highest setting, pushing it all the way inside him. And that got his attention right away.
Sherlock shuddered and a low groan sounded in his throat. His hips bucked and he forced back a throaty "Yesss", instead biting harder on his lip. His hands were now clutched at the edge of his brother's desk. "My," he managed, still shifting. Sweat was starting to bead at his forehead. "My, I need you. Please? Please! Mycroft..." At this point, he found precisely zero good reasons to restrain that string of words from escaping his mouth. His raised an eyebrow and pulled the toy out of him, leaning over him and nipping his neck
"We still have one more toy to go, brother."
One. Just one. He could manage one, right? Sherlock nodded, letting go of his now slightly bloody lip, and took a deep breath. He could attempt to deduce what Mycroft was going to use, but he ... didn't particularly feel like it. It felt nicer to let it happen. Let go. His muscles relaxed slightly, with the presence of the vibrator gone. Sherlock was still painfully -- deliciously -- hard.
His brother wasted no time in taking the prostate massager in hand and he immediately pushed it inside the younger man, turning it on and rocking it inside of him. "How does it feel, Sherlock?"
The involuntarily shudder against the sudden, all encompassing sensation should have answered. There was an unyielding pressure on his prostate, it was amazing, it was... he realized he had been speaking out loud. "It feels ... It's, oh god. I can't," he said quite honestly, then he lost the ability to form words. If he could get the cock ring off, if he could just touch, it would be all over. His right arm twitched in hopelessness. Sherlock moaned louder. Mycroft watched him, leaving him a squirming mess as he tortured his prostate with unrelenting pleasure. "Beg, Sherlock. Beg me to use you and fuck you into my desk."
"Please," he burst out suddenly, "Mycroft, please I need your cock in my arse, I need you to fuck me IneedyouPLEASE." He writhed against the fierce pleasure, seeking some form of relief, finding none. His brother pulled the dildo out roughly and spun his brother around, seating him on the desk before he pressed into him without further preamble.
Sherlock felt himself being flipped by deceptively strong arms, and was seated. He wrapped his long, pale legs around his brother's hips, holding on as Mycroft pushed into him, causing him to inhale sharply. "Oh," was all he seemed to be able to say. The eldest Holmes pulled Sherlock into a punishing kiss and began pounding into him, gripping his hips tightly as he nipped at his already bloody lips. Sherlock reciprocated the ferocity of the kiss, though letting his brother lead, allowing him full access to him (as if there were anything left to take.) He moaned with every thrust his brother made, finding himself enjoying the roughness immensely.
"My," he whispered, his feet slightly pushing against his brother with his thrusts to try to get him to go deeper. Mycroft growled as he felt himself getting closer to the edge after a few moments of fucking Sherlock hard and fast, his fingers moving to stimulate his nipples before yanking the cock ring off roughly.
It was gone. The tension that had been building up the entire time was released and Sherlock was not ashamed to say that barely three seconds after it was gone, with Mycroft still pounding into him and his fingers on him, Sherlock came in long white spurts that went up to his chest and stomach. He arched like a taut bow and his mouth opened in a silent groan, his muscles clenching tightly around Mycroft.
His older brother thrust into him for several long moments after Sherlock came, head moving to bite at his neck roughly before finally releasing inside of him. Sherlock shivered at the warmth that filled him. He relaxed, and probably would've collapsed into a boneless heap on the floor if not being held up still by Mycroft. His mind was blissfully clear (minus the post-coital haze, of course). He waited until Mycroft gave him some sort of signal before speaking.
It took a while. Mycroft remained still, sucking at the flushed skin of Sherlock's neck, still inside the blissful heat for a moment, breathing hard as he stroked Sherlock's curls gently. "Do you feel better now?" he asked softly, kissing his lips chastely.
Sherlock managed a faint smile. "Y-yes. Much better. Thank you." He leaned forward to press the side of his face into his brother's neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and sex and an unmistakeably ...Mycroft smell. And that was a good thing. He leaned back, his eyes clear again. "Thank you for ...this, brother."
"Come back sooner, Sherlock. Before it gets this bad." There was only a slight hint of warning. Mycroft pulled out of him, the noise obscene, and handed him his rather disheveled clothes and attempted to straighten his own.
"If I don't have a case going," Sherlock murmured to himself, pulling his shirt back on. He stood up from the desk, his legs a little wobbly, and wiped at his chest. Sherlock smiled briefly. "I'll see you tomorrow, then?"
"I look forward to it, brother-mine." Mycroft leaned over and kissed him one last time before he began to clean up his desk and set the toys aside to be washed later.
Sherlock didn't have much else to say, and his flatmate was most likely already on his way home from St. Bart's. It was time to go.
"Good day, Mycroft," he said smoothly after he'd dressed the best he could. With that, he left the office and closed the door behind him.
This arrangement they had was ... unique. Sometimes delicate. But they were Holmeses, they always dealt with it in the end. That's just what they did. Sherlock would leave him for days, weeks... and then come back, flushed, desperate, for too-brief moments of bliss. And then the process repeated.
Though to be honest, Mycroft wouldn't have had it differently.