Mycroft Holmes, in some circles better known as Antarctica, or,
fearfully admiringly put, The Iceman, was tapping on his desk with two long, elegant fingers. “You think this was a smart move?” he asked casually and with a light smile in his voice. It was a smile that people didn’t want to have directed at them. The same went for the look of ice from these icy blues eyes. The man's entire appearance oozed 'ice'.
“No, sir, Mr Holmes. No. It wasn't smart…” Agent Asherton mumbled.
“No, I really wouldn’t say that either,” Mycroft said thoughtfully. “All these months of planning and scheming and working together with three other agencies. And you blow it up with a snap of your fingers. Quite literally.” He forewent snapping his fingers. Too much drama…
“I think you should leave this building now,” suggested The Iceman. “Before, you know, I might find it suitable to throw you into the deepest cellars of the Secret Service.”
The young man paled. “And…”
“Are you still here?” Mycroft asked, in wonderment. Ten seconds later he was alone.
“You know I can force you, Sherlock.”
“Oh really?” Sherlock said sarcastically.
“Oh yes. Really. You know I can make your monthly appanage decrease painfully.” Mycroft caught John's glance. He hesitated for a second before he went on talking. “Did you not know that, Doctor Watson? Did you believe Sherlock's money for all those cab drives and the expensive suits and coats he's wearing uses to fall from the sky?” John blushed and Mycroft saw Sherlock biting his lips. “Oh, I see. You did. No, in fact Sherlock pays all this from our grandparents' money. He didn’t inherit it directly as they knew he would just waste it for drugs so I…”
“Shut up, Mycroft! Just shut up! We'll take your fucking case!”
Mycroft's nose twitched at the obscenity. “Much obliged, little brother.” Sherlock stared at him as if he wanted to kill him and Mycroft gave him a fine smile. “Now, will you listen?”
When he left 221b Baker Street, he could feel Sherlock's deadly stare at his back.
When he was sitting in his black car, he sighed.
Hours and hours later he was finally on his way home, even later than usual. Sitting in the backseat of the government car, his eyes almost shut, his right hand closed around his phone, the left one rubbing his long nose, he slowly came down from the duties and worries of another dreadfully long day as Mycroft Holmes, The Iceman.
The ghastly day had started with firing a once promising young agent because he had messed up a mission so badly that there hadn't been any other choice, and it had ended with Mycroft having a very serious talk with the Danish ambassador who liked to drink and put his hand on body parts of British women without bothering asking for permission – which he wouldn’t have been granted, given his awful looks and his lack of charm. In between Mycroft had shouted at people, endured the stupidity of the Prime Minister, gasped at reports about devastating incidents of all sorts and lorded over his little brother and made him look like a fool towards a man who admired the ground he was walking on. And this had been the worst part…
When the car had arrived at his house, just after he had fired off the hopefully last text for today, the driver opened the door for him. He unfolded his long legs and suppressed a groan when he manhandled himself out of the car. Not even forty and feeling like an old man…
“Thank you, Richard. Have a good evening.”
“And you, sir. The usual time tomorrow morning?”
Mycroft smiled wryly. “I'm afraid yes.” He waved at the man who'd used to drive him around for almost eight years now, and walked slowly up the flower-lined path to his house. With every step the burdens that seemed to press him down seemed to get a little lighter. He would have ten hours before he had to make the way into the opposite direction. Ten hours for himself.
Well, not quite of course…
He hadn't entered his house when he was already attacked and almost lost his balance while he was trying to slip out of his coat. His umbrella had already dropped onto the floor.
“Stop that! Let me live!” He bent down to pick up the umbrella and of course had two tongues in his face at once. He giggled very undignifiedly and shoved the two muscular bodies with the silky fur away with little success.
“Oh, sorry Mr Holmes! Georgie! Eddie! Leave him alone!”
A huge Great Dane (King George) and a mixture of a Bloodhound and a German Shephard (King Edward) looked sheepishly and reluctantly let go of their master who had found them in the garbage respectively bound to a bridge in the freezing cold when they had been puppies.
“It's alright, Robert.” Mycroft stood up and tried to get rid of the dog hairs on his black trousers. A lost cause, like every evening. And the few he managed to get rid of were replaced at once when the dogs came back, and he greeted them as they deserved it once his coat and briefcase had been neatly stored – by cuddling their ears and snouts and hard heads.
“No, you're not,” Mycroft said sternly.
The fourteen-year-old boy grinned. “No, I'm not.” He ruffled up his unruly red hair. “Dinner in twenty minutes?”
“I would be delighted. The pets have been fed?”
“Not in this house.” Mycroft walked towards the stairs after this familiar and enlightening little bickering. It was high time for a hot shower before dinner. “Have you done your homework?”
The boy sighed theatrically. “Of course! Well, almost everything…”
An admonishing forefinger was directed at the lad. “Ah! You know how important your education is!”
“Yes, Mr Holmes. I will do it later. It's just for arts. 'Draw something that makes you happy'.” He grimaced and Mycroft suppressed a smile.
Robert, William and James Miller, alias Robbie, Billy and Jamie, were the sons of his dear old housekeeper Mrs Miller. Well, of course she wasn’t that old… But she had been working for him for nearly thirteen years. Her husband had died when her triplets had been four, and Mycroft had let her know that he would pay for their education and what else they needed. And when he had, step by step, shared his house with more unplanned company, he had at first employed a few professional pet sitters. But when the boys had become older, he had asked Mrs Miller if one of them could come to his house after school when her job was done, and do what was necessary and eat and do his homework here.
And so it had been arranged. Mycroft knew his house and his pets in safe hands. And he was the only one besides their mother who could tell the triplets apart without any problem even though they all looked and sounded exactly the same. Only when the boys and their mother went on their well-deserved summer vacation, he used the services of friendly professionals again. The agreement had been working just fine so far and he was sure it would continue in this pleasant pattern.
He went upstairs to take his shower. He entered his bedroom to strip off and said 'hello' to Principessa who had curled into a white, furry ball on his bed.
“How was your day, my love?” Mycroft asked the cat that had one day been sitting at his doorstep, the fur filthy, all ribs sticking out, when he had come from work. Now it was the most spoilt feline this side of the Thames and probably on the other side, too.
Principessa, called Prissy by the three boys, meowed accusingly and stretched her front legs, exposing her claws, the green eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Oh, I see. I'll let your canine colleagues know to not chew on your tail anymore,” Mycroft assured her while he was stripping off. At first it had felt strange to get naked next to a cat but of course she didn’t pay any attention to him. And naturally the dogs highly respected her superiority and her claws and wouldn’t dare touch, let alone bite her tail.
It was simply nice - talking to creatures that just heard his friendly tone and felt safe and calm in his presence, while people usually shivered when he talked to them.
Mycroft used to have dinner in his living room, and there he went, scrubbed and shaved and clothed in casual black pants and a dark red sweatshirt, followed by the two excited dogs that had been waiting outside the bedroom. He supposed if any of his colleagues ever dropped by, they wouldn’t recognise him. But of course none of them ever did it. Mycroft was not that kind of man.
Before he sat down for dinner, he greeted Jilly and Jolly, the two red and yellow lovebirds who shared a huge cage in one part of the room. It was full of fresh branches and toys and ladders. During the day they could fly through the entire room – the cat wasn’t allowed in then of course and he'd had a stern talk with her in the beginning about not eating family members, hammering it home with a particularly pleasurable under-chin-scratch.
Jilly had been sitting on the pavement in the pouring rain one Christmas Eve, and he had bought Jolly to keep her company as parrots and especially lovebirds couldn’t live as singles.
The two birds croaked and excitedly flew to the side of the cage to pinch his nose that he was sticking through the bars. It never failed to make him smile.
He teased and ruffled them a bit before he took a seat at the long table. Of course he could have gotten his dinner, prepared by Mrs Miller beforehand and re-heated by the son in charge, himself but the boys insisted on serving it to him. They usually ate dinner hours before him but they always kept him company before they took the Tube home. Mycroft would have paid a cab but neither of the boys, all tall and lanky and sporty, was afraid of walking to the station.
“Pasta Miller-Style!” Robbie exclaimed while placing the tray on the table.
“Milanese, you mean?”
Robbie giggled about the old joke, and Mycroft started eating with a grin. The pasta, along with green salad, was delicious as always. It was very spicy – therefore the 'Miller-Style' and it was one of Mycroft's favourite meals. Simple, vegetarian and delightful, just as food should be for the man who wasn't The Iceman now.
“What did you learn at school today?” Mycroft asked after using his napkin and grabbed the glass of water Robbie had brought along with the food. The boys would always keep him company while he was eating and then head home.
He listened to Robbie talking about a chemistry experiment and the Keats novel they were reading, and he felt calmer and calmer.
King George and King Edward were sitting next to both sides of his chair as usual. None of them ever begged for food from the table, and as a reward they always got some dog goodies afterwards. Mycroft knew they had been excessively played with in the secluded garden and had been taken for two long walks when he'd been away.
At the weekends he did it all himself. He took care of his furry and feathered family, he cooked and he watered his flowers in front of the house and in the garden where he'd grown hundreds of roses and all sorts of fantastically smelling beauties, and he debauched in their flavours. If he wasn’t summoned to the office for an emergency, and then he could always rely on at least one of the Miller men coming over. Sometimes they were there all three. They never destroyed anything in his house or the garden or called people in America from his landline or did anything else to annoy him.
When he was finished, he accompanied Robbie to the door.
“Don't neglect your arts homework,” he admonished. “Who knows what you're going to do with your life. Perhaps it will be required for your profession.”
“I want to do what you do,” Robbie surprised him, his freckled cheeks reddening.
“Oh. No, you don't,” Mycroft mumbled. Of course the Millers only knew he was working for the government. They had no idea about his actual job there – organise, negotiate, manipulate and sometimes even ordering people to be taken off the street in a rather permanent sort of way…
“You're important,” Robbie said earnestly. “I bet people are afraid of you.”
Mycroft was taken aback. He had never shown this side to either member of the Miller family.
Robbie grinned. “I'm not stupid, you know. People don't get driven home by government cars every night when they are unimportant. And you don't get important when you're nice to people.”
“Oh, I see! It's because of the car,” Mycroft said with a smirk. What a clever boy this was…
“Not only that! Goodnight, Mr Holmes.”
“Goodnight, Robert. My regards to your mother and your brothers. Who will be here tomorrow?”
“Billy. He has a new ball for Georgie and Eddie. He refused to give it to me…” he added darkly.
“Siblings, Robert. They always have this sort of rivalry.”
“Your brother is famous. Why are you not famous? Because what you do is such a secret?”
Clever boy indeed… “You could say so. Now dash, it's very late already! Are you sure I shouldn’t call you a cab?”
“Ah, that's fine. I can do karate!”
Mycroft chuckled and then he closed the door behind the pleasant young man to go back to the living room where certainly Principessa was already impatiently waiting for her overdue cuddle session.
This was bliss. The boys to either side of the couch, munching their chew bones, the cat on his lap, spreading white hairs all over his black pants and purring maniacally under his deft touching, the parrots making noise in their cage while chewing on a piece of paprika each.
This was what he needed after a day in the office. Sometimes, when his brain hadn't let go of some particular challenging work problem, he used to stitch with the cat next to him – the more complicated the problem, the more complex the motif. It always helped. He hid the results in a certain part of his wardrobe. A man had to have a few secrets after all, even from his nearest and dearest. Unfortunately one certain person could see the signs on his hands – but he never mentioned it and the grin twitching at his fabulous lips was always very small.
He could hear the front door opening up and smiled. “My dear, it's time for you to go to bed,” he told the cat while the dogs raced out of the room to say 'hello'.
Principessa looked up to him grumpily but she jumped from his lap and stalked outside to go upstairs in her comfortable basket in the pet room where all three of the furry ones were sleeping – with a healthy distance to each other. But somehow the dogs wanted to stay in the same room. Siblings, all of them…
From the hallway he heard the deep baritone greet the dogs and then “Good evening, My lady” and the inevitable “Ouch! No claws in my hand, Prissy Missy!” and he smiled widely.
And then HE entered the room, dressed in black from head to toe. “Oh, look at you, brother. Covered in cat hairs! Still suffering from another nasty day as The Iceman.”
Mycroft smirked and just silently held out his hand.
Sherlock took it and sat down next to him, brushing away some white hairs. “You should consider wearing white pants, brother mine.”
“Then you would see the dog hairs all the better.”
“True. Oh, hello Jilly, Jolly! Did you get some nice fruits today?”
The parrots screamed and Mycroft tutted. “Don't wind them up! Of course they got fruits!”
“You know I rather wind you up.”
Mycroft smiled but then he grew serious. “I'm sorry, little brother.” He had been in contact via texting with him during the day; very rarely though due to his hectic schedule. But some things were better said in person.
“What for? I know it's necessary. And you wouldn't cut my apanage, would you?”
Mycroft reached out to touch his cheek, his thumb sliding over the sharp cheekbone. “Of course I wouldn't! I didn’t know what else to say, thought something new would be helpful. But I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of John.” In fact he knew he shouldn’t come to Sherlock with cases at all. But sometimes he felt the urge of reaching out to him in person during the day so badly that he just had to drop by, and he could only do it with some sort of – mostly made up – case. Sherlock had texted him the solution of this one, a real one, during the day and it had been impeccable as always.
“You always do…” Sherlock smiled when he said it, knowing the necessities all too well.
Mycroft sighed. “I wish… I didn’t have to say things like this… I wish I didn’t have to be cold and threatening all day, least of all to you.”
“It comes with the territory. England needs you to be like this. And this here needs you to appear like my arch enemy in form of my disgraceful older brother.” And finally Sherlock came closer and slung one arm around his neck, and they kissed for the first time on this day.
Eight years, two-hundred-and-three days and four hours – that's how long they'd been together, and it still felt like a miracle for Mycroft every single day. It had happened after years and years of resentful sibling rivalry after one of Sherlock's drug episodes – a very serious one. Mycroft had let his mask drop when he had found him in this drug den, not shouting at him as usual but, in deep desperation, telling him that he wouldn’t watch him killing himself any longer and that he wouldn’t endure losing him and then Sherlock had clung around his neck and they had kissed for the very first time, there in this dreadful, dirty house, and when Sherlock had recovered from his awful adventure, they had become the couple Mycroft had wanted to form with him for the past seven years, and Sherlock had never got into serious trouble again after that.
With closed eyes, he savoured Sherlock's sweet taste now, the softness of these impossible lips and the love that emanated from every pressing of their mouths and meeting of their tongues, debauching in this flooding of his senses like he did when he was surrounded by his beloved roses.
They kissed for minutes on end, almost crawling under each other's skin, until Sherlock pulled back and stroked over the remains of his black hair. “Hard day, huh?”
“Very hard. But the hardest was…”
“Hush, brother. There's no way out of it. John, this sad example for over-decency, would never understand so he has to be deceived.” He stated it with fondness and only a hint of frustration that he couldn’t be honest with his best friend about what his brother really meant to him.
Mycroft suppressed the fling of jealousy that always seemed to attack him when he witnessed his brother's affection for the doctor.
And of course Sherlock didn’t miss it. He tutted and pinched Mycroft's nose. “I won't have that, Mycroft Holmes. You're my everything. You and your menagerie.”
Sherlock had never met the Miller-boys. He only dropped by when Mycroft was alone – except for all his pets of course. Mycroft texted him when he was nearly home and Sherlock would come about forty-five minutes or an hour later if he wasn't on a very urgent case. Which happened very rarely, thank God. The evenings without him were almost impossible to bear, even cuddled up with the dogs in his bed. Sherlock left latest in the early morning hours, wanting to be back in Baker Street when John and Mrs Hudson woke up. If he was caught coming back, he would tell them something about an experiment or that he had needed fresh air. Mycroft would make sure his brother wasn't bearing any marks at visible places.
It was not perfect but it was their life and their love, and they knew none of them would ever let go of it.
“I know… But he has you all day,” Mycroft mumbled, knowing he was being silly.
“You mean he has to endure me all day!”
Mycroft smiled at this attempt at cheering him up. “I wish I was burdened with that.”
“Me too, darling. Come, let's go upstairs. You are in dire need of a massage and some severe cuddling.”
“Oh yes. What about sex?”
“Ooh, you said the bad word! Sex you will get.” Sherlock kissed him once more and then helped him up. “I can't carry you upstairs, sorry.”
“You suck.” This was not Mycroft's common way of speaking but sometimes he just felt like being a little crass to humour Sherlock.
“Oh, I will suck you for sure!” was the predictable and desired reply.
They shared a smile and then they walked to the upper floor hand in hand. The dogs followed them but went to their own room, knowing their presence in the bedroom wasn't required for tonight.
“Goodnight!” Mycroft said to them and was rewarded with hefty tail-wagging and a quick hand-lick by King George who had raced back to him just to join his buddy again. In the morning he would take them out for a walk, and they could go into the garden through their own secured door anytime.
He followed Sherlock into the bedroom and watched him stripping off his clothes, knowing Sherlock would take care of his right after.
“Come, brother mine,” the younger man said with a smile when he had made Mycroft as naked as he was. “Let me spoil you.”
Mycroft was more than ready for that.
Mycroft moaned into the pillows when Sherlock's deft, strong hands loosened a particularly tight knot in his neck.
“All tense, poor Mycroft,” Sherlock mumbled. “The weight of the world on your shoulders.”
“Don't mock me,” Mycroft grumbled and giggled when Sherlock tickled him under the arms.
“No mocking, just pampering.”
“Pampering is good,” Mycroft agreed.
It was a miracle for him to be loved like this by his gorgeous baby brother. That he could be himself in his presence, no matter how soft and weak and shattered he felt. Sherlock would always catch him and he never seriously mocked him with his softer side. He had witnessed Mycroft becoming the daddy of all those lost animals and he knew how much Mycroft loved them and his garden full of flowers and bees and butterflies, and how fond he was of Mrs Miller and her sublime sons. Sherlock was tougher than Mycroft; that was for sure. But the detective had a very soft spot for him despite being cold and arrogant to everybody else except for John Watson and Mrs Hudson and, if he was in a good mood, for DI Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper, who had become friends to him instead of just being useful.
This was their refuge – Mycroft's house in the dark and sometimes at the weekends when Sherlock could shake off John and spend the day with Mycroft. They would talk and eat together and stroke soft fur and tickle feathered heads and spend a lazy afternoon on two sunbeds in the garden, holding hands. Nothing could be further away from the chores of The Iceman.
If Sherlock was in an exceptionally good mood, he called Mycroft his 'Niceman', and Mycroft took it as the praise that it was. He definitely liked being The Niceman much more than having to pull off The Iceman. But unfortunately he had a reputation to lose and in work and protecting the kingdom, The Iceman was sadly needed. But he would never be allowed in here, in the sweet presence of his brother he loved from the bottom of his heart, and around his 'children', the human and the animalistic ones.
“Nice, naughty Niceman,” Sherlock purred next to his ear now while deftly kneading his shoulders. Something rather hard was impolitely poking against Mycroft's bare arse. Massaging him in the buff was a strong turn-on for the younger Holmes.
Mycroft smiled. “Who's naughty here?”
“Not yet, but you will be.” Sherlock sounded as if he very much hoped Mycroft would be exceptionally naughty, and Mycroft had no intention of disappointing him.
“Yes, little brother. Getting all naughty for you,” he assured him, and then he was urged to turn around.
“Good!” the detective with the marvellous eyes and the dangerously sharp cheekbones said, and then he claimed Mycroft's mouth in a fierce kiss, and all the blood of Mycroft's now relaxed body rushed into his groin.
“There,” he said accusingly, pointing at said groin, when they parted for air.
Sherlock looked down on him and raised his eyebrows. “Holy hell! What's that? A sword, threatening to pierce me?”
Mycroft chuckled. “It could… But it would be fine with being swallowed for a start…”
“What a subtle hint. I shall humour it.” And with this Sherlock slid down on the bed and took him into his mouth.
The sensation was so familiar after all these years and still it always took his breath away to have his most sensitive flesh enveloped by the heat and wetness of Sherlock's divine mouth, to have his instantly rock-hard cock being sucked with such deft mercilessness. Sherlock winked at him, going cross-eyed, and Mycroft started stroking his cheek in the rhythm of his brother's sucking movements.
He had long ceased to be ashamed of his desires after having been tortured by them for so many years until Sherlock had claimed him as his man. He loved and wanted Sherlock, and Sherlock loved and wanted him. They had to hide it and would have to forever but that didn't mean it was wrong – it just meant that some rules were extremely stupid and still had to be – sort of – respected by two consenting male adults.
The obscene slurping noises echoed through the otherwise quiet room, and Mycroft felt his orgasm building up quickly. But then Sherlock let him drop out of his mouth and wiped his lips dry. "Turn around," he demanded.
"Oh!" Mycroft whined. "But I can't!" Again he gestured at his proudly standing cock.
"I told you years ago this mattress needs a hole for that purpose. But no, you can do it. Just bend it and lie down on it."
Mycroft grinned and did how he was told. In fact it felt rather exciting to have his erect dick pressed between his body and the bed, and he rubbed himself against it.
"Ah, nice... And that will feel even nicer, my cute, worn-out big brother."
Mycroft reached behind to slap his arm playfully and grinned when Sherlock chuckled. His grin turned into an expression of utter ecstasy when Sherlock parted his cheeks and plunged his face into the crack to lick his hole as expertly as he had sucked his dick.
Both Holmes brothers were extremely fond of oral action – giving and taking. And they both bottomed and topped, but after an especially tough day, and Sherlock could always tell when this was the case, it was mostly Mycroft on the receiving end, and it helped him to get rid of the last bit of tension when he gave his body to his brother to claim, use, worship and penetrate. Of course sometimes they had a second go with turned tables. These were the best nights.
Sherlock took the preparation-part very seriously even though opening Mycroft up more or less happened by itself due to all the practice.
Mycroft was sure his colleagues thought he never had any sex at all, let alone made love to someone he loved. It just proved how well he was playing his Iceman role. And if he was honest, it wasn't just a role. This side of him was genuine even though he often overplayed it to prove a point. The kingdom was indeed in need of The Iceman – hard and tough, making sure every threat was taken out before it could do any harm. The world had become increasingly dangerous and there were times when things happened that he hadn't been able to avoid. But the more important was it to do all he could do prevent further damage. And The Iceman, the humourless, nasty old chap, was doing a rather good job at this.
"I bet The Iceman would love that too," Sherlock said between licks as if he had read his thoughts (which he'd probably had). "Some serious rimming while kneeling on his chair, or a very hard suck-job, right at his desk..."
It was a fantasy of his brother Mycroft had never allowed to come true. Not because it was dangerous – if organised correctly, it wouldn't be. His office was camera- and bug-free and there would be no problem to tell the security people that his brother was there to help him on something urgent at the weekend – not that they would even dare ask.
But Mycroft hadn't wanted to mix them up - The Iceman and The Niceman. Sherlock knew them both well enough but... "Okay," he said now, sighing. "We'll sort it out and do it." It had been a spontaneous decision but Sherlock's delight proved it right.
"But only if you go on licking me and then fuck me nicely," Mycroft added, deliberately crude. The Niceman was nice, not prude after all.
"Damn! Yes!" blurted Sherlock, making him smile, and went back to work even more enthusiastically.
He licked and lapped and teased and slid his tongue in for ten more deliciously torturing minutes before he started working in one and then two fingers along with the help of lots of spit. Mycroft knew there wasn’t much resistance to begin with and so Sherlock was soon lying down on top of him, kissing his ear and his cheek from above, and Mycroft turned his head to kiss his mouth, tasting himself on Sherlock's tongue. In the meantime his brother's hard cock, wet at the tip, was sliding very nicely up and down in his crack, stopping at his hole at every turn.
“Get it in me, Sherlock,” Mycroft mumbled. He was so ready for it.
“Yes? You want it? Want my big dick in you?”
“Don't talk like some silly porn actor!” Mycroft admonished him with a giggle, and Sherlock slapped his arse before he bent to the nightstand to grab the lube.
“I'm worried about your choice of entertainment when I'm not here…” Sherlock said while he worked a meaningful amount of sticky fluid into him.
They both giggled and then Mycroft moaned when Sherlock slid home with a groan to wake the dead. And that's what it felt for him – like coming home. Mycroft knew it because it was the same for him when he took Sherlock. They were each other's home, their respective bodies the realm of the other one, giving enjoyment and satisfaction but even more peace and comfort and love and safety. Nobody would take that away from them. Not ever.
The room was filled with the harsh slapping of hips on cheeks when Sherlock fucked him increasingly hard. There was a time for tenderness and it would come afterwards but this was about fucking all the worries and the tension of the day out of his body. Mycroft knew Sherlock's day had been rather boring and so it was also a way for Sherlock to get some relief as boredom was the worst for him.
“Yeah, Niceman, yeah!”
“Yes? Coming for me, in me?” Mycroft felt his own orgasm approach on quick feet. He was rubbing himself against the sheets in the rhythm of Sherlock's hard strokes.
“Yes, brother, painting you all white inside.”
Mycroft shook his head, grinning about this crude picture but then his grin turned into a grimace of utter arousal when his climax shot through his body and his semen onto the bed beneath him.
Sherlock followed him within seconds, howling to the ceiling, and Mycroft could feel the strong eruptions inside him and they went on and on until Sherlock collapsed not on him but next to him, and immediately pulled him all across him so Mycroft's head came to rest on his brother's smooth chest, his heart hammering against Mycroft's cheek.
“God, that was…” Sherlock mumbled, for once at a loss for words.
Of course they weren't necessary. “Yes. It was indeed. Thank you, little brother.”
“What for?” Sherlock teased, pressing him close.
“For fucking me like a madman. And for letting me be…”
“…The Niceman? I love this soppy old sod.”
Mycroft grinned and pinched his right nipple. “He loves you too.”
And then he rolled from Sherlock's body so they were lying face to face, and they started to pet each other. There was no sexual need now, just tenderness and reassurance to be enveloped into this love for once and for all. They kissed and stroked and nibbled, their sex-sticky bodies grinding against each other. Eventually they would get hard and aroused again and they would act on it – and Mycroft definitely planned on returning the sucking- and rimming favours – but for now this was just pure love.
Tomorrow morning Sherlock would leave very early and Mycroft would greet his pets and take the dogs out, and then Mrs Miller would come and he would enter the black limousine that would bring him to the Cabinet Office for another day of being The Iceman. After all he did, well, not love his job but he knew he was needed and it did give him satisfaction of some sort on most days, and it was the challenge his brain needed. But in the back of his mind and all his heart he would count the minutes until he was allowed to be The Niceman, daddy of five animals, sort of a father figure for three excellent boys and most of all, the lover and - in all ways that counted - husband of this extraordinary man that he was kissing and petting now, his brilliant, bonny baby brother.