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Sherlock discovers the fandom

Chapter Text

 

Sherlock was bored. Utterly. Excruciatingly. Mind-numbingly. BORED.

His brain was almost sluggish from a lack of interesting cases. John had been annoying and then had left for work or something. Something futile and boring.

Was he out on a date? He didn't care.....He could not even drag himself to the kitchen to conduct some experiments.

His own blog was being ignored spectacularly as usual. Except for one regular reader called eyesonyou. He (and he suspected it to be a ‘he’ because of the selection of words and the framing of sentences, but of course it could have been a woman or a transperson.)

Huh. He huffed in annoyance.

A brain bigger than the planet and this is what he was reduced to?! Over-analyzing some random person who happened to follow his blog?!


Oh…could he be a serial killer? The pseudonym was creepy enough to qualify. Eyes On You.

A stalker?? And obsessive person? Possessive even.

Suddenly he felt a spark of excitement in his belly. That was a distinct possibility. Anyone with brains would know that the best way to avoid detection was to understand ow deductions were made!

He already knew that this person was clever from the comments and the fact that the email was encrypted and he had not been able to find out where it was coming from. He always posted comments at very odd times. So it could be someone in a different time zone or someone goofing off during a night shift in London.

Who kept such odd hours?

Greg maybe......... but really?!  A cyber stalker?! Sherlock snorted. He could barely figure out text messaging.

Mycroft traveled all over the world on his ridiculous high level government meetings but whenever he was home Sherlock knew he preferred to keep to a regular bedtime.

Always the good boy Sherlock thought with a sneer and rolled his eyes.

So this person could be someone who prowled around secure servers at night.

Hmm.  Was he inadvertently helping someone who killed people?!

He wondered if he should ask Greg about this but he rolled his eyes at himself for the suggestion. Greg was sooooo boring with his values and principles that he would probably make him shut down his blog…. and also arrest him as an accomplice. For crimes committed and to- be- committed.

Nah. He couldn’t tell Molly either for the same reason.

Mrs Hudson? And he smiled wickedly. Yes, she was a jolly fun person who always wished him juicy murders. She might appreciate. But then beyond giving him extra tea and cookies what would she do for him??

No…he needed appreciation and discussion with someone who was his equal. Whose brain would understand the deep thrill his dark side felt at the idea of him in a shadow combat with a potential or actual killer who was walking the cyberspace…………

He sighed. He had no equals. Besides Mycroft.

Who thought he was in fact smarter (and maybe he was, Sherlock thought with a frown). But Mycroft would probably just sound mildly annoyed and disapproving as always. And anyway he was always so busy…..ugh....

So Sherlock did what every utterly bored person does eventually. He decide to search for himself on Google.

And he found himself!!

In pages after pages after pages!!

He was mighty pleased with the praise and all the gushing. The newspaper articles, the case studies, the biographies……and eventually he found a site called archiveofourown.

Oooh archives! He rubbed his hands in glee. Mentally of course. His real hands were busy flying over the keyboard. Clicking, searching, exploring.

His cases had been archived? That sounded good!

Chapter Text

He wondered if they had archived all the cases he had solved.

Surely not, he thought. Some were top secret. Like the Bruce- Partington files. Mycroft would never have allowed that. He probably had surveillance on the whole world and got pingbacks when such words were posted. Damn Big Brother.

So, Sherlock clicked on the link and opened a page on the archives.

And then he blinked.

Huh.

What was this site?! It had stories about him?

And John?

And…ewwww…stories about him and John kissing??!

What in the flaming hell-fires was all this? Honestly?!

He tried to imagine kissing John. Nope. Nah. He was too short to start with. At least Greg was his own height. Mycroft of course was taller than him. That would make kissing easier in fact. Maybe he needed to tiptoe a little.

Hmm…purely as a scientific experiment…..he should consider trying it out…..Easier than bending at any rate. He didn’t like the idea of bending….and anyway…John?!! NO way.

These people probably didn’t know it but John was Not Gay.

They seemed to be convinced that he was though. There were 58701 stories. No…. what did they call them? Fics. Fifty eight thousand seven hundred and one fics.

That was a LOT of fics!! That was almost half the number of books in the Bodleian Library in Oxford.

And these writers wrote about seasons. Four seasons. But they kept asking if there would be a fifth. Fifth season?! Where did they think there was place for that in the calendar?!! There were 12 months and four seasons and that was that.

He could not understand why they cared so much about seasons anyway? It is not as if there were more crimes in Summer than in Spring.

And everyone seemed to be extremely obsessed with the Fall. Like it was a fashion house. Ridiculous.

But they just kept going on and on and ON about the Fall.

Seriously weird.

.

.

But over 58,000 fics?! About him and John?!! It was almost like they were hoping that the sheer mass of stories would push the universe into making that happen. He shook his head in despair. There are 7,83, 137 words in the Bible and over 80 million copies sold and that had not made either The Father nor the Spirit or the Holy Ghost appear.

This definitely rated well above a 7 and he needed to go looking for clues.

So he clicked on page 2900. Just like that. Well it was also the number of self-avoiding walks in a quadrant of length 10. He needed to maintain some rationale and logic in this deduction process.

On that page he found a fic called ‘Without Words’ by someone named Secret Memoir Agent J.

AHA!! He knew it !! He KNEW that the leak had to be from Mycroft’s team. The least secret team and of no service whatsoever. Just thugs in black suits. That is all they were, he cursed.

And his Big Brother was the worst among them all. Nothing but a soft spoken and elegant thug. Hiding in plain sight.

He scowled at the idea and proceeded to read the fic.

What Holmes wants, he cannot ask for, it said.

He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

Holmes pats the space next to him. Watson blinks and closes the space between him, sitting as a good friend, ready to lend a listening ear.

That's not what Holmes wants, either.

So he shows him.

Frigging frozen lollipops!!! This was insane!! He sat on John’s lap?!!

Ok…ok…back up a bit here. To start with they did not call each other Holmes and Watson……. but this fic said ‘Victorian’ in the tags. Huh?! And why in heaven’s name would they be Victorian?! It was the 21st century and surely someone other than Queen Victoria was on the throne.

Some King or Queen …….or Thing.

Oh never mind that he waved the argument away with his hand.

But just logistically…..if he ever sat on John’s lap, John would probably break. Or something.

Wouldn’t he?!

Unless John threw him off in the first place. That man was ex-army and suffering from PTSD. Not the ideal person to make into your ride without any explanation, Sherlock would have thought.

And he read the entire fic through but found no mention whatsoever of ANY case. So what was the point of this story?!!

He could have understood if they had come back to Baker Street after solving a spectacularly difficult case and maybe been affected by some hallucinogen like at the Baskerville incident.

What else could possibly induce him to such irrational and frankly insane behaviour?!!

He had not sat in anyone’s lap since he was 8. Never. Ok maybe till he was 12. And that was only once or twice. Or a few more. Certainly less than 10 times. And only because Mycroft never said no when Sherlock was frightened at night and came to him.

But as an adult?! Blimey. Why would he want to do that?!!

He shook his head in bafflement and read a few more stories.

For some ludicrous reason there were stories about John’s red pants.

Really?!! John’s underwear had a tag of its own?!!

There were almost 8 pages of fics under that tag.

It was beyond incomprehensible.

Where was the intellectual stimulation?! The head rush from solving a difficult case?! The ruminations about the nature of human darkness? The adulation and praises being sung about Sherlock’s genius and brilliance and overall amazing-ness?!

Red pants?!! He was competing here with red pants….it was the Dark Ages all over again that is what it was, Sherlock muttered to himself.

Ugh he groaned as he tugged at his hair.

Oh! Here was a reference to ST Coleridge’s poem Kubla Khan

"For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.”

That one promised to be more intellectual. So he started reading.

 

"Watson returned to Baker Street at a quarter to five, through streets sliding into shadow as the public lamp-lighters made their rounds. Holmes was not in their shared sitting room, nor was he in his bedroom.”

Hmm.. ok this also seemed to be a period fic.

“Aye, guv’nor, I was comin’ for you. Wiggins sent me.”

“Wiggins? But why?”

“We ’ad news of Mr ’olmes, sir. One o’ them Chinee from Limehouse put the word out.”

His eyes widened. They knew about Wiggins?!! His homeless network contact??! Who were these writers anyway?!!

He wondered fleetingly if this was set up by Mycroft to take revenge on him ……for what though?! Maybe to make him paranoid…and suspect everyone till eventually he went mad. A kind of online large scale gas-lighting.

Yes. He would not put it past Mycroft. At all.

He lost a few minutes thinking murderous thoughts about Mycroft and his need to control every aspect of Sherlock’s life. Ugh.

Oh yeah. The fic. So he went back to it.

Holmes shut his eyes again. “Peaceful. S’like a dream.” He lifted a languid hand and scratched idly at his chest, stretching like a cat. “A better dream, now that you’re here.”

“Flattery will get you absolutely nowhere,” Watson lied, colouring a little. He was, in fact, fascinated to see Holmes in this relaxed, uninhibited state. Fascinated and horrified: it was so unlike his friend’s usual tight control. His sharp mind and lean body generally emanated a sense of tightly-wound energy, of banked tension. Now, he was boneless and drowsy. Dissipated, thought Watson, grasping the term’s true meaning for the first time.

 

Hmm… this was getting interesting.

“Johhn…” Holmes whispered on an exhalation. “Please…put your mouth on me…”

“Oh God,” said Watson brokenly, and fell on him, sliding the now-hard cock into his mouth and moaning around it as Holmes writhed and whimpered.

What in the blistering bonfires of HELL?!!

Sherlock almost threw his laptop away in horror.

What did ANY of this have to do with Kubla Khan?!!

He doubted very much that…..uhhh…whatshisname…..umm……Coleridge…yes, surely that is NOT what he meant by the ‘Milk of Paradise.’ 

It took him almost an hour of jittery pacing and the smoking of two cigarettes-- TWO--- before he dared even go within three feet of his laptop again. He glowered at the laptop as though it was under demonic possession.

He might need to reboot it….and also his Mind Palace. And he needed to get some more patches if he was going to read any further.

This archive was baffling…….bizarre……..queer…….yes so queer……and deviant…..so shockingly deviant ……and oh most DEFINITELY a Three Patch Problem.

 

Chapter Text

Sherlock decided to get something to eat and went to rummage in the kitchen and the fridge. Not for the first time, he thought fleetingly, how easy life would be if he was a cannibal. There were always more human body parts in the fridge than ‘food’.

Eventually he realized that there did not seem to be anything he could eat and he REALLY needed to get those patches before he could confront the crazed people struggling to leap at him through the archives.

Archives?!

That sounded deceptively like a really large library. Erudite and intellectual. Scattered around would be heads quietly bent in deep scholarship. Not a place where ‘head’, ‘bent’ and ‘deep’ had some very VERY different connotations indeed.

The reality was more like purgatory. Depraved sinners and their dirty souls. He thought grimly that if he was God, he would certainly make sure that all these people went to hell.

Muttering and cursing thus at the archives, he went out and returned half an hour later, carrying a takeaway, and a three patch shield on his arm to protect him from the next onslaught in this apocalypse.

As he sat down with his meal he wondered what these people had to say about John and his obsession with food. So he typed in the words with one hand while eating with the other and…. lo and behold. Of course. These people who had nothing better to do than over- analyse the minutiae of his life, had written about that too!

He looked at the first fic that caught his eye. Sherlock Eats. By Wendy Marlowe. Ok. He could check that out. Sounded straightforward enough. He started reading as he ate.

“Sherlock, come eat.” John tipped the scrambled eggs onto two plates and examined the salt and pepper shakers carefully for chemical residue before using them on his own.

“Not hungry.”

“You didn’t eat anything yesterday.”

Footsteps from the living room where Sherlock was pacing. “I’m on a case, John. I don’t eat while I’m on a case.”

John frowned, then scraped Sherlock’s eggs onto his own plate.

Sherlock grinned. Yes. That sounded rather authentic. How did this Wendy Marlowe know?!

“Sherlock, you’re gay, right?” John asked as casually as he could manage.

Sherlock stilled at that and turned to look at him. “Where did that come from?”

John shrugged. “Just - you are, aren’t you.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “If you want a label, then that’s as good as any.”

“And you’ve had an orgasm before. With a man.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped. What?!!

What did his appetite or lack of it have ANYTHNG to do with being gay?! And how did Wendy even know that he was gay?!

He liked to believe that he was asexual. What was this obsession with making him homosexual?!

His Transport was literally just that---a vehicle for his Mind. None of these writers ever seemed to care about his brilliant mind at all!! Where were the descriptions of his flashes of genius? The celebration of his dazzling deductions?! The hoorahs at the ingenious solutions?!

He huffed in annoyance but now he really wanted to know what was the plot twist in this fic and how his being gay had anything to do with the food he ate. So he read on, cautiously, already a bit tense because he had NO idea where this was going.

John lowered his chin in assent. “The unconditioned stimulus will be, literally, stimulation - my hand on your cock, getting you off, for as long as you keep eating. If you want to come, you need to eat enough for that to happen.”

Sherlock frowned, but his eyes were bright. “You want to condition me to get horny whenever I eat.”

“Trying to make you hungry hasn’t worked, so I figured it was the next logical step.”

Sherlock knew, logically, that one’s eyeballs couldn’t pop out of the socket because they were tethered there by the optic nerve. But if there was ever a day when that could have happened, then today would have been the day. Of course then Mrs Hudson would have had to help find them because obviously he wouldn’t be able to ‘look’ for his lost eyeballs…..and …STOP…. stop rambling, he told himself.

Take a deep breath and say ...........WHAT THE HELL??!!!

He read further, faster and faster because now he simply HAD to know how this ended!!

As long as neither of them acknowledged what they were doing, they could keep doing it.

Oh really?! He thought to himself. You and only 4,50,000 readers will know and acknowledge. Sounds discreet enough.

Would he be hungry for breakfast? Previous experience said no, but after Sherlock’s enthusiastic response to John’s experiment last night, John wasn’t so sure. He wandered into the kitchen and surveyed his options. Eggs and sausage in the refrigerator, two tomatoes which didn’t look too horrible, bread for toast - ah. John’s gaze stopped when it hit the kitchen table. The conspicuously clean kitchen table, which currently held an unlikely centerpiece combination made up of the salt shaker, the pepper shaker, and a giant bottle of lube.

“Sherlock, I’m shocked,” Donovan said immediately upon seeing them at the crime scene. “You’ve gained weight. Decided your body runs on food as well as nicotine and sarcasm?”

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.

Sherlock sat very still when he finished reading. Staring at the wall. Blinking. Looking very much like the goldfish Mycroft despised so much.

Five minutes had passed in this silent hysteria when his reverie was rudely broken by the shrill ring of his phone. He picked it up angrily and looked at the caller ID.

John.

He closed his eyes. Could he do this?!

No. He couldn’t.

So he let it ring. A minute later it buzzed with a text.

[Shall I get takeaway for dinner? You haven’t eaten properly in two days.]

Sherlock stared at the messages. Jumping gigantic junipers. Had this Wendy person put ideas in John’s head or was he doing this on his own?!!

He texted him back.

{I don’t want any food and keep your hands off my cock! SH}

John read the reply and choked. As he went into a coughing fit the nurse at the clinic looked rather alarmed.

Did he need a Heimlich?! Oxygen? Bronchodilator?!

John had gone rather red in the face but eventually he stopped wheezing and gasping and even managed to drink a glass of water to recover.

The nurse asked if he was ok.

“Yes, yes. Don’t worry.” he said to her mechanically as he wondered what past life karma had sent him first to Afghanistan and then to Baker Street.

What the fuck was this message supposed to mean?!!

Chapter Text

[Fancy a beer?] John texted Greg after ten minutes, absolutely determined not to go back to Baker Street and face Sherlock who seemed to have finally lost it.

(Always!) Came Greg’s cheerful reply. (The Queen’s Head at 7pm?)

John slid his phone into his jacket pocket as he wondered what could possibly have provoked this reaction from Sherlock.

He had often fantasized about Sherlock and his cock of course and also recognized that his own obsession with getting Sherlock to eat all the time was also a very Freudian one. He liked seeing Sherlock open his mouth and bite and swallow. But the annoying arse was ‘married to his work’ and for all his genius simply incapable of being able to fathom relationships.

What the fuck was John supposed to do?!

He was forced to live day in and day out with the object of his fantasies ( perhaps even love ?), escaping on dates with women like a kind of self-conversion therapy and unable to openly confess to being bisexual because he had seen the derision they faced from his mates in the army and even medical college who said that the ‘bi’ folks were either confused or greedy—wanting to have it all.

Then he had remembered his therapist’s advice to start his own blog when he had come back from Afghanistan and realized that he could channel this new frustration also into writing.

He had been so pleased when he discovered a simple, well- managed, free site called Ao3 and had started posting his fevered fantasies there. He had even chosen 6 different pseudonyms, either female or neutral sounding and given free rein to every desperate desire of his frustrated brain.

He remembered vividly the fic he had posted a while ago where he got Sherlock horny so he would eat his meals.

John shook his head. No no no… there is NO WAY that Sherlock was referring to it. He could not possibly know about it.

John just needed to get laid. That is all. Sherlock had managed to chase away all his dates for weeks now and today this?! This most bizarre of messages.

Jesus wept he thought to himself as he went for a walk to get some air and while away the next couple of hours till he could meet Greg in the pub.

Maybe he would go watch a movie. Eat popcorn. It was not quite Netflix and chill. But still. He could do something normal. Something not at all like his life at Baker Street.

.

.

In the meanwhile, back at the flat, Sherlock was fed up.

What was with all this extraordinary amount of pushing John against the wall and kissing him?!! What the HELL was there so much kissing FOR?!!

What was this one now?

‘In which John is made acutely aware that lips have a million nerve endings.’

Ah. Finally a scientific experiment! Yes, this one he would check out. So he settled down on the sofa and started reading.

‘Should I take the baby from you?”

Now that’s a sentence John never expected to be saying to Sherlock inside 221B.

Mrs Hudson’s sister was visiting along with her daughter and granddaughter. The daughter had fallen ill and needed to be in hospital for a week and one thing had led to another and somehow the almost one year old granddaughter had been left in the care of one Army Doctor and one Consulting Detective at Baker Street for a period of five days, with promises from one Pathologist Registrar to drop in and check on everyone once in a while.

Was a baby ever looked after by more overqualified and clueless babysitters? It would be hard to imagine.

Sherlock sniggered. Yup. That was about right. This was a recipe for infanticide. What could possibly happen next besides Greg coming and arresting them all?

Sherlock held the screaming baby at arm’s length like she was a live bomb and stared at her for a good minute.

Finally, just when John thought he simply could not bear to hear the cries anymore and was getting ready to march into the living room and be Captain John Watson, the crying stopped. Quite completely. And in the ensuing silence he barely heard a disturbance of the air particles and a low vibration coming from the general direction of Sherlock.

He peeped out and saw that he was holding the baby propped up against his shoulder, patting her on the back gently but steadily and ……was he humming?? Was that a lullaby?

Hmm. He wondered what kind of a lullaby he would sing if there was a hypothetical baby in his arms…..the only one he could remember right now made him feel something odd. Not very pleasant.

I that am lost, oh who will find me?
Deep down below the old beech tree.
Help succour me now the east winds blow.
Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go!

What in damnation did that even mean?! Why did children’s songs and poems always have such creepy vibes?!

Oh well never mind. He wanted to know what happened to this baby! Oh…the baby was taken back by her mother.

Sherlock had mixed feelings about that. He had enjoyed the idea of the baby for a while there. But they were messy…and noisy. Yeah. On the whole it was better that someone had taken it away.

Sherlock hesitated for a second, perhaps wondering if he could pretend there was no reason, but obviously he was bubbling over with some Great Idea and blurted out “I want you to help me with an experiment.”

John hummed. “Mmmhmm. Does it involve breaking in, drugging me, jumping into the Thames or doing anything illegal?”

Sherlock tilted his head as though considering each option carefully and finally said ‘Nope’’.

“Is it dangerous?”

“Nope.”

‘Will I need to call Mycroft at any point to rescue you?’

‘Hope not. NO’.

Sherlock chuckled. Yup, he thought. This sounded like a totally believable conversation! He wondered what the experiment was all about.

“Did you know that scientists began investigating skin hunger shortly after the Second World War? They deduced that babies needed more than nourishment from their mothers to stay alive. They called this contact comfort.’ John, human beings apparently need TOUCH almost as powerfully as they need food and water.”

‘Oi, oi, slow down,’ John said, rubbing his eyes a bit, his face clearing up, “You are missing the baby! It’s ok. You can just say so you know. Don’t have to hide it under scientific theories!”

“But touch is important for adults also! Studies have shown that regular skin- to- skin contact can improve people’s mood, appetite and sleeping patterns.’ He paused and looked at John carefully. “You do want me to eat and sleep better don’t you?”

‘Hmm, sure’, said John, ‘but what is the experiment about? You don’t want to kidnap a bunch of babies to pat them I hope?’

‘No, John,” he rolled his eyes. “Why would I need high maintenance babies when I have you?! You have to provide me with skin- to- skin contact. Obviously!’

John went very still and his breathing stopped and he was sure his face was starting to flush. A forbidden image rose of him and Sherlock lying in bed, every bit of their skin touching each other. And all the blood left his brain for a more exciting location.

‘’No’, he said, in a cold voice. ‘Sherlock. Just NO. Stop it.”

‘Oh come on John, I am giving you a chance to help me eat better and sleep better and you are turning it down without even considering it?’ Sherlock pouted.

John got up and said,’ Goodnight Sherlock.’ and went up to his bedroom.

Hmm. Typical. Sherlock grunted. How would scientific progress ever be made if small minded people like John would not co-operate with geniuses like him?!

He sat and brooded for a minute on the difficulties of being ahead of his times and why people got so tangled in emotions that they could not deal with rational and logical experiments.

Well, he wanted to see what John finally decided.

He had already killed for him. He was quite sure he would take a bullet for him.

He knew that his life was divided into a phase Before I met Sherlock/ After I met Sherlock even more so than Before I went to War/ After the War came to Me.

The broken invalided Army Doctor had risen from the ashes to become an urban warrior on the side of angels. There was still death and mayhem and danger of course but at least they were in the cause of real justice, not the illusion of it that existed on war fronts.

However, it was more than just the euphoria of owing his new life to Sherlock. He could not imagine any other life now. He could not imagine any other way of living.

He could not imagine being ‘Just John’ any more instead of ‘Sherlock & John’.

He had tried so hard never to give those feelings any name, hoping that if he never labelled them he would remain safe. If he never identified them he could pretend they weren’t there.

If he never asked he could not be rejected.

Sherlock sat still for a long two minutes when he read that.

Could that really be how John felt about him?! But …but all those dates? Those women? The Not Gay stuff?

Now he REALLY needed to know what happened next so he read and found out that he had apparently persuaded John to be part of the experiment.

Looking at his gleeful face and the amount of food he served himself, John felt his load lighten a bit. Whatever this was doing to him, it really seemed to be doing Sherlock some good. And that was what mattered.

But all his kindly thoughts went flying out of the window when he found out that day 6 involved not only holding hands with the palm rubbing ( which was driving him INSANE) but ALSO a long arm thrown around his shoulder at the back of the sofa, the dangling finger tips just touching his other upper arm.

He was cocooned. Trapped by a giant flesh burning moth. He felt like a teenage girl at the movies with an over eager boyfriend on a first date.

His cortisol levels were probably enough to fell a couple of horses at this point.

He had no idea what they watched on TV for those 15 minutes but that night he dreamt of unicorns on fire, flying through a liquid rainbow over a wind whipped, bright blue ocean.

Sherlock started laughing. This was crazy.

No way did John have dreams like these. Liquid rainbows, oceans……so much water…..oh is this what they called wet dreams?

Once he was done with Ao3 (he calculated that 58,701 fics would take him around a week to read) then he would start reading about sex.

He simply could not comprehend WHY everyone else seemed so obsessed with it! Why couldn’t people just ignore the Transport and concentrate on the Mind? Mycroft was the only one who would understand.

Mycroft. Hmmm.

Did he also think about sex??! Did he DO sex?!

Had Mycroft ever kissed anyone?! Other than him of course but that didn’t count. They were kids then and it was not on the lips.

It wasn’t like he himself had never kissed anyone on the lips. He had. That horrible Sebastian had kissed him in University. He had even poked the tip of his tongue into his mouth.

Yeah. Sherlock was totally experienced. Not the naïve virgin all these writers made him out to be.

He had been kissed once.

And he had filed away all that information. How yuck it had been and disgusting and unpleasant. Not to mention unhygienic.

Then a vision floated in front of his eyes. Someone who was always well groomed. Spotlessly clean. Well put together. Never a hair out of place.

He wondered what Mycroft's tongue would feel like on his lips. In his mouth. Probably taste like smoke. And mint. Maybe Darjeeling Tea. And those elegant hands which had carded through his hair and patted him to sleep as a child….…what would they feel like when cupping his face?!

He shivered.

What was this strange feeling coursing through his body?

He went to look at himself in the mirror. His pupils were dilated. His cheeks were slightly flushed. He took his own pulse. Tripping.

Hmm……was he aroused?! That made no sense.

Was this all a conspiracy to put dangerous ideas in his head?!

It could be Russia. The KGB.

They wanted him to be in all these relationships so that he would get into trouble. Oh ho ho Mr. Rasputin. He was too smart for that. He knew that alone protected him. He wasn’t about to fall for these cheap tricks. Nuh huh.

He sat and glowered at the laptop for five minutes as he wondered if he was a pawn in a larger game.

Yes, who exactly were these people writing all these stories about him?!

So he did a quick search and found out that they were mostly middle- aged women.

That made his head reel for a bit.

These were women between the age of 35-50 mostly and writing this stuff?  

They even had a name for John being in a relationship with him. They called it JohnLock. He snorted. For heavens’ sake!!

But the more he thought about it the more he wondered.

Maybe they knew more than he was able to understand right now. He was seeing but maybe not observing. Was there a pattern? Some kind of method to this madness?

After all John Locke was an English philosopher and physician, widely regarded as one of the most influential of Enlightenment thinkers and commonly known as the "Father of Liberalism”.

In fact his ‘theory of mind’ is often cited as the origin of modern conceptions of identity and the self, and was the first to define the self through a continuity of consciousness. 

He had famously said "whatever I write, as soon as I discover it not to be true, my hand shall be the forwardest to throw it into the fire."

Hmm.

He wondered what the Ao3 writers thought of that. He wondered if one could set fire to an online archive…..probably not.

Also, oddly enough, he didn’t quite feel like setting fire to it anymore.

These were all interesting ideas! He could probably use some of them for experiments. After all, human nature was his core set of expertise when it came to motives for murder.

He already knew that love was a vicious motivator. For most of the goldfish love seemed to always mean sex, so maybe he could actually learn something useful from these writers.

Who would have imagined?!

He went back and read the footnotes to the story.

Essentially pheromones are secreted by men, women, animals, and tons of other species. These pheromones are detected by us through the nose and literally send signals to the hypothalamus to elicit attraction, sexual desire, and arousal.

Volcano dreams may appear when you are angry, but also when you're anxious or stressed, and can indicate a feeling of mounting tension.

Oh. Could this be true?! He often had volcano dreams.

Usually on the days that Mycroft turned up and gave him his usual disapproving looks and snide remarks. He always smelt so good though. Rich wool, his woodsy cologne. Dusty papers and ink. Some un-definable Mycroft-ness.

The way he always swanned off with his blasted umbrella. One of these days he was going to take that umbrella and……and he was going to open it!! Yes. That is what he was going to do.

Open it. Right in the middle of the living room.

Yeah. THAT would show him.

Stupid Mycroft.  Always so prim and proper. He was going to show up at one of his summons wearing only his bedsheet.

He sniggered.  That would make him squirm now wouldn’t it?!

.

.

Sherlock skimmed through a few more fics mechanically. These writers all seemed rather keen on his retiring to Sussex and keeping bees for some odd reason.

Quite a fascinating idea….. but ok….. he had had enough of this. He had got the general gist of things. He wasn’t so sure he needed to read 58,000 more.

But maybe a couple more wouldn’t do any harm would they?

So he chose one at random. How to Miss a Train. He snorted at the title. Really?! Given the way the British Rail ran, a better guide would be How to Catch Your Train. But who knew what madness ran in the blood of these writers…….

Aaaand we were back to the Red Pants.

He read the first few lines and wondered if he should skip and find something else to read.

Three things that, by any rational standard, do not belong in the same sentence: 

  1. Funeral
  2. Red underpants
  3. Blowjob

 

But now he was curious. Truly. Those three things did NOT belong together. And why would giving a blow be anyone’s job?! What did they ask for when they went to the Job Centre….I want to blow someone down?

And they would get paid?!! The goldfish were truly weird on a whole new level.

The next few lines left him reeling. However crazed these writers may be, they sure knew how to write!

John is sad.  Devastated, one might say in order to convey a greater degree of suffering, as sad, while technically accurate, is overused to the point of meaninglessness.

Devastate: from the Latin for  to lay waste, desolate

The word brings to mind a blasted battlefield where newly-made orphans wander with wide eyes and dirty faces looking for parents who were reduced to ash in an instant.  John is both battlefield and orphan; a phone call five days ago was the bomb.

“She said she was sober,” John says for the seventeenth time since that call.  “She gave me her word.”

Sherlock paused and blinked. This had to be about Harry, right? He could deduce that. He an odd feeling inside of him which it took him a few seconds to recognize. Oh. Empathy. Sympathy. Even a bit of sadness.

These fics were giving him….feelings?!

Most people are so predictable, mundane.  John Watson is both of those, and yet neither - since he first held out his phone to a man he’d never met, John has been an endless source of fascination. He provided an excellent opportunity to study an average, unremarkable man’s habits up close.  John had proven himself extremely useful on cases, but beyond feedback and the occasional bullet in a serial killer, surely his utility would be limited - he was, after all, ordinary.

It turns out an ordinary man can be remarkable, and a proper genius can be an idiot.

Oho, hold it right there mister. Or more likely Miss. A proper genius can be an idiot?!! And idiot?! She was calling him an idiot? Ugh. What with the red pants and the sadness causing and now the insulting. He was going to abandon this fic.

His eyes flickered to the top section. It had been read by 27,201 people. Hmmm. Meritricious. Perhaps he should carry on.

“I’m a doctor,” he says.  “I save people.  I know I can’t save everyone, but…when it counts, when it’s someone I care about, I fail.”

“You saved me.”

Wait…was that out loud?  Shit.

John looks up at him, eyes a little wide with surprise at the tone, and well they should be - it was meant to be a simple statement of fact, but came out almost a whisper, clothed in unintentional meaning.

“Our first case,” Sherlock clarifies, suddenly far too warm - dear God, if he’s blushing he may have to jump off a building.  “You’d known me all of 24 hours and you killed a man to save me.”

That night and every day after,  comes the thought. 

 

Is that true?  He analyzes the statement for a few seconds, considering his life before John, and the very real probability that without someone to look after him - to listen to his ranting, to anchor him, to make sure he ate, and above all to care - he would be dead by now, emaciated and filthy with track marks up both arms. 

 

It was so true! Sherlock realized with a start. John, for all his failings and annoying habits and being well, so short and ordinary, had taken care of him, helped him on cases, saved his life…..and all this without ever ever laying a hand on his cock.

Hmm. So he continues to read with thoughtful interest as the funeral takes place and things are said.

Sherlock doesn’t need to say he can’t imagine it at all; a breath later John makes a strangled half-laugh and says, “God, look who I’m talking to. Stupid of me. Might as well try to get sympathy from a brick wall."

A sharp pain in the center of his chest makes Sherlock take a step back.  “I’ll go.”

“No, wait--“ John looks at him, taken aback by the effect his statement had.  He wipes at his eyes with the cuff of his coat and shakes his head ruefully.  “I’m sorry, that was…I know you’ve got a beating heart in there somewhere, maybe under the floor boards in the Mind Palace basement, or something.  This is all just…I don’t know if you’ve ever mourned anybody, but…”

Sherlock stopped there. He wanted to tell John that he had mourned somebody. His dog Redbeard. He hadn’t thought of him in decades. Memories suppressed and as John here had guessed rightly, buried three floors down in his Mind Palace. Mycroft had taught him how to do that. How to keep sentiment, emotions, caring, all those things that made the goldfish so labile and useless, how to keep all those things locked away. Chained. Hidden.

He wondered now who had taught Mycroft this. Surely not their parents. He parked that thought like a shiny black motorcycle in the yard of the Mind Palace. He would check that out later.

 

A pause as John stares out into the cemetery.  “Promise that you won’t let them bury me when I die.  Have me burnt - keep me on your mantel next to the skull if you like, run experiments on my ashes, just don’t leave me pickled in chemicals in a box in the ground.”

Sherlock exhales sharply in what might be a laugh under other circumstances. “So either you believe that we will grow old together, or you believe I will be the death of you.”

Their eyes meet.  John’s face is so open, trusting - he would never let other people, especially not family, see him cry like this.  There is no way in hell Sherlock Holmes is worthy of such trust. At what point did John Watson go mad enough to decide a man incapable of empathy deserved such an honor?

Incapable .  It’s what everyone says, what they’ve always said.  The key to learning is repetition; the same statement made over and over is eventually accepted as truth whether it’s factual or not.

“I’ll take either,” John says quietly. “Just keep me close by if you can.”

The reply slips out of its own accord:  “Always.”

Sherlock had an odd sensation in his throat. As though he would be unable to swallow if he tried.

Would John really want that? Not fic John. His John.

Would he really rather be with Sherlock even after he was dead? Sherlock blinked rapidly at that thought. It made no sense.

Ordinary people cannot solve a triple homicide in ten minutes, but they can navigate the perilous terrain of emotion and somehow survive.  Good God, how?  Is this what feeling does - renders one completely inadequate, helpless, unable to be what the other needs but unable to turn away?  Is that what love is - agony and impotence?  If so, the entire human race isn’t just stupid, it’s insane.

 

Yesss!!! He was in complete and utter agreement with something. Finally! It was indeed insane. Ludicrous. Nonsensical. Preposterous. Absurd. 

And yet…and yet…he wondered. What if Mycroft had been wrong after all?

No. That was never going to happen. Ok…so maybe he had his reasons for telling him what he had? He needed to gather more clues.

But right now he wanted to know what happened next.

 

Finally John says softly, “We should head back.”

Neither moves.  Then John lifts his head, staring up at him calmly, storms rolling through his blue eyes as they flick down to Sherlock’s mouth then back up again.  “I’m sorry,” John tells him, just above a whisper.  “I have to do this.  I have to know for sure if…”

Whatever the end of the sentence was, John abandons it; the hand on Sherlock’s coat reaches up to wrap around his neck, drawing him downward, meeting no resistance whatsoever. 

Oh no! Sherlock panicked. John was going to strangle him! He was going to shake him for being so insensitive…..oh. Oh!

Sherlock has never been all that impressed with kissing - sex was an urge that could be met when necessary with a minimum of personal interaction, but kissing…no, kissing was intimate, requiring engagement. 

And kissing like this…with such care, almost delicately at first, warm breath and softness and God, that ache again…mere engagement is not enough.  He falls into it gratefully, lips parting to admit John’s tongue.  

Oh. We are back to tongues again.

But that ….did not sound….too bad.

He ran his tongue over his lips. He wondered what John would taste like.

He wondered if he would taste better than Mycroft…..

Chapter Text

 

Sherlock had abandoned that earlier fic half way through. It had made him feel odd to imagine that John had such intense feelings for him.

And even if John did, how would these writers know?! Sherlock lived with him day in and day out and had not deduced it.

No. These were just outputs of a fevered imagination. He needed a rational study to come to the right conclusions.

Of course!

He needed to cross check against other people they were pairing him off with. That way he could compare the variables. He spent a fleeting second patting his own back for being so brilliant. As always.

He opened the home page and went to the search bar……why was it so small……and typed Sherlock Holmes & and the first option was again John, so he rolled his eyes some more in exasperation.

He scrolled down and saw that the next option they offered was Greg.

Oh. Interesting.

.

.

There were stories about their cases. There was stuff about Greg helping him during the drug withdrawals.

How in the haggis filled hashbrowns did these people know about it??

He really should ask Mycroft to check for leaks in his team.

But it hardly mattered any more. Old stuff. He had moved on. He did owe Greg a lot though.

He laughed when he read stories about the various reasons why he didn’t remember Greg’s name. These writers had quite an imagination!

Greg had made it utterly clear to the doctor that if he as much as touched Sherlock in what some might consider rough, he would arrest him.

.

.

Sherlock was confused and perplexed. Why would Greg do that? What had happened between him and John?!

Maybe they would explain later. Some of these fics just started off abruptly as if everyone who was reading knew what had just happened!

Well he didn’t!! And it was HIS life…so …ugh…never mind.

.

.

All that being said, Greg was in his office, desperately trying to stay awake for long enough so he could finish that last bit of paperwork still on his desk.

He startled when the door banged open to reveal no other than Sherlock Holmes.

“Gideon, I am leaving. I will see you tomorrow!”

Greg was just a bit wounded up from the particularly vicious display of human depravity he had witnessed this week, and he was tired, and Sherlock still could not remember his first name after more than a decade… So, naturally, this was the moment he lost it.

“Greg, my name is Greg. As in Gregory Lestrade. As in ‘the Watchful’, though I got grey hair from trying to watch you. And you, who can remember the most complex chemical compounds with more than five syllables, cannot even bother to remember my name. It’s a nickname, an abbreviation. Greg. Just get my name right for once in you goddamned life, Sherlock!”

.

.

Sherlock stopped reading.

Did Greg really feel bad that he pretended to forget his name?!

He had always thought it was their joke. The kind people said was an ‘inside joke.’ Maybe he had been wrong all these years……. He didn’t really understand these strange rules of relationships. And even if Greg was more intelligent than most he was still one of the goldfish after all.

Sherlock squirmed a little in discomfort.

Had Greg been upset with him about this all along?

.

.
The consulting detective’s eyes were wide in the face of such a rant. His mouth slightly open, the man looked stunned into silence. Greg immediately felt bad. This was Sherlock.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I’m tired. I will see you tomorrow.”

The tall man with the black curls simply stood there, silent.

“Sherlock…” Greg began, hoping to mend the fences.

“Your name is Gregory Simon Lestrade. You were born on June 30 in 1963. You married at twenty-one and were always faithful, though not for lack of trying from third parties. Your wife has had a total of five affairs throughout your marriage, but frequently blamed your job as the cause of your marriage problems. I have been responsible for at least ten rows you had with her, six of which due to cases, the others due to my drug addiction. You divorced in 2012, and have not dated since, less out of mourning the loss of your marriage but because you have had no time, which again, was partially caused by me. However, you detest living alone.

You would love to date Molly, but you feel that you are too old for her – which, by the way, is ridiculous. If you had any observational skills you would know that ever since you have started babysitting together every Saturday afternoon, she has developed a strong interest in you appreciating your loyalty and decency; both traits I highly value as well.”

The entire speech had been delivered at remarkable speed and with utter conviction as if he delivered a deduction at a crime scene. His eyes never wavered from Greg’s face, he looked serious and a bit stricken still at the detective inspector’s outburst.

“I assure you that I know your name as well as quite a few things your friends may not be aware of. I had assumed that this was merely a joke we both shared from the time we first met when you did not know my name. I apologise for inadvertently hurting you.”

.

.

Sherlock felt something stinging his eyelids. He felt a lump in his throat.

He wanted to tell the Sherlock in the fic--- I thought the same too!! But don’t worry. Greg will forgive you. He will always forgive you.

.

.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” Greg whispered. He had been unaware that this was meant as an inside joke; he had an inside joke with Sherlock Holmes!

“Clearly, I should be the one to apologise. I was unaware that you were truly bothered by this. I figured this was part of how we greeted each other, so – while I do have a room in my mind palace storing all information that concerns you – I trained my mind to replace your first name with any name starting with ‘G’; another one each time. I will now train it not to do so anymore, of course,’ said the man stiffly and coldly if his eyes had not screamed with confusion and pain.

“No!” protested Greg, aghast. “No, that’s not necessary. Just… keep doing that thing you do. Now I know. This… it’s ours; I’m honoured to share this with you. I was just being testy, but I am sorry.”

“There is no need, Garner,” replied Sherlock with a tentative smirk. “I see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow, Sherlock,” Greg smiled. Just as the door was about to close he told the consulting detective to wait for a moment. “You do know you are one of my closest friends, right? I don’t expect anyone to know me as well as you do.”

Sherlock blinked, surprised. Before he left, he said, “Given how the relationship between me and John has recently changed – evolved as foolishly romantic would claim – I think it is fair to say that you are my best friend.

You were definitely the first one I ever had.”

A moment later, the bastard was gone, leaving Greg gobsmacked.

.

.

Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief. He had been right!! Greg had forgiven him.

But how did these writers know that he had thought it was an inside joke?!! Did everyone know?!! Did Greg know?

And there was this niggling doubt about why Greg had threatened to arrest John. Did these people know something he didn’t?!

Oh. Were they clairvoyants!?? Time travellers??! Shape shifters??

Then he frowned as he scrolled through the fics and a familiar name caught his eye. Here was Wendy Marlowe again. What was her theory this time?!  

Hopefully it did not involve Greg’s cock.

He sucked in a breath and sat there wide-eyed.

Had he just had that thought actually articulated in his brain? Had he actually thought the words ‘Greg’s cock’?!!

Ten years of knowing the man and he had never EVER thought of that body part in relation to Greg.

He wanted to tear his hair out and scream. What was happening to him?!!!

And now ALL he could think of was Greg’s cock. And John’s hands on his cock.

What a bloody cock-up this whole thing was. He was going down the seven circles of Hell and these writers were paving the way.

He drummed his fingers on the sofa in nervous energy. Stop. Stop. He had to get into his Mind Palace and delete all these dick pics now but right now he had to know what reason this Wendy person had thought of for him not remembering Greg’s name.

So he read ‘The Trouble With "Greg"’

“Oh, he wouldn’t dare.” Lestrade snorted. “Right, so the real story - back five or six years ago, when Sherlock was just recently clean and starting to help more often with cases, his brother and I dated for a while.”

John blinked. “You and . . . Mycroft? Seriously?”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Oi, don’t sound so shocked. You knew I was bi.”

“Yeah, but you and Mycroft. That’s just . . .” John shuddered.

“You’re only saying that because you’ve never gotten to peel him out of one of those suits,” Lestrade countered with a smirk. “Anyway, Sherlock then was just as bad with boundaries as he is now. He broke into Mycroft’s house and walked in on us while we were . . . well, I’m sure you can guess.”

“Oh god.”

Yes. Sherlock thought as he took a deep breath.

Oh God indeed.

Although he was quite convinced by now that there was clearly no God. None of these writers seemed to have the tiniest bit of the fear of God or any idea of how painful a Hell they were going to be sent to.

Mycroft and Greg….. Peeling off Mycroft’s suit?!

What was Mycroft—a cucumber?!

And he had apparently walked in on them doing what? Ironing his suit after it had been peeled off?

People were so utterly strange he thought, as he read on.

“A particularly intimate moment, I’ll just say.” Lestrade bit his lip, obviously thinking back on something amazingly memorable, going by the wistful look on his face. “Sherlock shrieked like a little girl and tore on out of Mycroft’s house like we were going to be hot on his heels. He texted me a few minutes later to say he was deleting the entire incident and also might also be gouging out his eyes in the near future.”

Sherlock blinked. What did this mean? What was a particularly intimate moment? And why would he need to delete it?

He couldn’t remember the last time he had had such a moment……..and a memory flashed of Greg holding him up gently and feeding him something as he was recovering from a drug withdrawal. Greg had wiped his mouth softly with a napkin when he was done and…… had he kissed him on the forehead as he helped him lie down again? Perhaps he had.

That had been very comforting, he recalled. He had felt safe there.

He also remembered Mycroft cuddling him under the blankets because he had been terrified by a book he had read when he was ten. The next day Mycroft had searched for and then hidden all the books by Lovecraft. He had put his cool palm on Sherlock’s forehead and told him not to worry about the darkness of infinity and the everlasting soul and vengeful old Gods. He would explain everything to Sherlock when he was a bit older.

Sherlock remembered both those incidents and they were bathed in a golden light in the warm Memory Room. Those were intimate.

They were precious.

Why would he want to delete them?

He sighed. All these euphemisms were so puzzling.

Everyone had a different interpretation of intimacy didn’t they?!

So what could Greg and Mycroft have been doing that had made him run away screaming??

He felt a twinge of alarm.

Also what did Greg mean that he was bi?!!  Did he mean bipedal? But all humans are. We all walk upright on our hind limbs.

Oh good heavens, did he have a bifurcated aorta?! That was dangerous.

Or worse-- a bifurcated penis?!

There were some tribes in Australia that once used penis splitting as a gateway into learning a special language called Damin. They believed that this language was only available to those who went through this procedure.

Maybe Mycroft needed that information for some diplomatic negotiations in Down Under?

But surely Greg and Mycroft could not have been anywhere near each other’s penises.

Could they have been?!!

No no. That was just…no.

End of story. NO.

He needed to change the topic so he quickly decided to check who else these writers were matching him with. Now he was getting curiouser and curiouser…….falling down a virtual rabbit hole.

He found himself paired with Molly but this was not & this was /

Aha!! He finally had a ‘Eureka’ moment. So that is what slash meant. The actual symbol. Not like Jack the Ripper or the Sweeny Todd the Demon Barber.

Oh well, that explanation was not as exciting as he had hoped for but these stories were entertaining even if not meretricious.

Too little actual cut-throat blades slashing and too many kisses and emotions for his liking. He heaved a deep and heartfelt sigh as he read on.

He and Molly had babies together. Interesting.

Not just one or two but four. Four and one on the way. A total of five. Wow.

All this would involve his Transport getting too close to her lady parts so no, that was probably not going to happen, but well, he shrugged his shoulders. These were all imaginary things. They were …weren’t they?!

It’s not like he had to go and try out everything they were saying. Did he?!

He smiled a little at the names of his children. Ulysses. Ariadne.

Mycroft would like these names, he thought. Crazy enough to fit in the Holmes family. The Holmes-Hooper family. How odd that sounded!

He also enjoyed the next fic where apparently he was developing some sort of sex toy and then ended up in a relationship with Molly.

‘Come if convenient.’ It said.

Yes. He would.

He would come back and read that in detail again later, when convenient, mainly because that blog Molly was secretly writing sounded like it had a lot of umm……interesting information. Scientific too. It might prove useful in some future case of course. Purely for Work. Obviously.

But he frowned a bit as he read about Greg flirting and being so cheeky with Mycroft and planning dates. Once again these people were setting up Greg and Mycroft.

Hmm. He was not sure how he felt about that.

He tried to bookmark it for reading later but…oh they needed him to be a member!

This was VERY annoying…..but needs must when the devil drives ….so he tried signing up and it was BEYOND ridiculous that his own name-- HIS OWN NAME-- was no longer available?!!

What in the smiling skulls was WRONG with these people?!

They spied on him, they wrote about him and now they stole his name?! And to add insult to injury, then then had the audacity to have this odd disclaimer saying they didn’t own him.

Duh. Obviously!

But who the hell were Moffat, Gatiss and Doyle?  He should ask Mycroft. 

Were they the Holmes family solicitors?!

Chapter Text

Sherlock spent half an hour exploring multiple pseudonyms…….and eventually decided to go with MarriedToMyWork.

He glared at the email inbox when Ao3 said they had so many requests that they would need a week to get back to him! Was this why there were less murders?! Because all these women were just sitting around reading and writing stories?!

Not likely, he realized, because most murders were committed by men. But there had been a drop in deaths by poisonings. Yes, that would explain it.

All these obviously evil and clearly brilliant women were busy with their writings.

He shuddered at the thought that if they didn’t keep busy with this, what havoc they could wreck on the world. And they were all over the world! He had been startled to see so many translations in Chinese and Russian. He wondered again if there was indeed some kind of global conspiracy behind this.

A subversive strategy to take over the free world. One fic at a time. Make people run around having wanton sex on every possible surface. Pushing people against walls and snogging them silly.

Create anarchy.

Which government could ever put up any kind of resistance against a force which was offering sex and kisses to people?! Lots and lots of it all, and with so many, many feels and emotions?!

These online anarchists did not even seem to have any real rules or any laws besides consent. There would simply be no hope for anyone who tried to control it. Like the Great Wall of China or the Berlin Wall, people would just climb over or break all barriers and be free.

He spent half a minute in that day dream, his dark little anti-establishment pirate’s soul thrilling at the idea.

He chuckled at the thought of what this would do to Mycroft and his need for rules and control.

Anyway. Never mind all that, he thought as he scrolled down to read more. He needed to read more. He had no time to dwell on IRL.

Oh the slash thing they were doing it with him and Greg also?!

This fic was called ‘Food & Comfort’ by Readingfanfics.

Again with the food?!! Why were all these people so obsessed with him eating food??

A tear ran down Greg’s cheek and Sherlock reached out a hand to brush it away before stopping himself. He dropped his hand awkwardly on his lap, standing up when he felt Greg’s eyes on him. His heart pounded in his chest, hands sweating. He didn’t know what to do.

Greg was clearly in need of comfort but Sherlock didn’t know how to provide that. People usually didn’t go to him for comfort. They went to get answers, to collect facts. They needed him for his brain and intellect, not his compassion.

Sherlock stopped reading. He couldn’t.

He just could not bear the idea of Greg being this upset or vulnerable.

Mycroft was his refuge but Greg was his rock.

He took both of them for granted simply because he knew he could. He just knew that they would stand by him till the universe itself came to an end. No matter what.

It’s not complicated.

Whether he committed the worst crime on earth or did something so terrible to them that there could be no forgiveness in any lifetime….they would still forgive him. They would still save him. They would still stand by him. They would still come to help if he called. Every single time.

He knew it with a certainty he could not explain. It just was what it was.

He simply would not be who he was or where he was without either of them. Not that he would ever confess this to either of them.

So, no. He was not going to read anything where Greg was sad.

Greg was never sad, he told himself firmly, even though one part of his Mind Palace coughed gently and said umm…broken marriage…….crimes involving kids………watching a loved one go through withdrawal.

No. He was not going to think of any of that.

And just how did these people know the deepest darkest secrets from the very recesses of his brain anyway??!

All those locked doors and closed closets inside his Mind Palace. How did they give words to all his inadequacies and fears and anxieties and how did they understand the delicate nuances of all his relationships?!

He narrowed his eyes with a sudden realization.

They were watching him and listening to him!! THAT is what they were doing! Obviously!

So he went through the entire flat and found 6 of Mycroft’s cameras. He stuck out his tongue at each and every one of them, but let them be. Something made him feel good about Mycroft always watching over him even though he would NEVER admit it in a million years…..and anyway, if he did remove them Mycroft would probably find some way to put them back up again almost right away.

Ugh.

He came back to the laptop and decided to continue reading. He could do this. He could be brave. He was the World’s Only Consulting Detective. He could take this on. He sat up straight and put up a mental shield and read from behind it.

.

.

“It’s fine.” Sherlock interrupted, his voice a fraction too hard. He took out the kettle, filling it with water as he waved Greg away. “I’ll bring the tray to the living room. Go.”  

 

“Bossy sod, aren’t you?” Greg’s voice was fond as he said it and Sherlock felt his cheeks heat up, focusing his eyes on the kettle as placed it on the stove. He let out a sigh when Greg went to the living room, shoulders relaxing. He blinked, watching the kettle as the water warmed up.  

 

What are you doing?   A voice very similar to Mycroft’s asked him and Sherlock couldn’t answer. Something deep inside him just wanted to take care of Greg. It was clear the DI was distressed and in shock because of the Brendon case and Greg had gone to him, Sherlock, for- For what exactly?

 

Sherlock stopped reading again. He knew that Greg was a sensitive man. He knew that the cases affected him more deeply. Especially when it involved kids. But it had never ever occurred to him that he could have helped him with it. He was a sociopath after all wasn’t he?!!

As this writer had deduced, people came to him for his brains, not his heart.

But Greg had been there for him for…….simply forever. What if he really did need comfort some day? Would Sherlock be able to rise to the occasion?

He needed to know!

.

.

“Sherlock? Okay, this is getting a bit scary. Sherlock.” Greg’s hand on his wrist felt like fire and he snapped out of his catatonic-like state. Greg gave a gentle, insecure smile as he tightened his hold on Sherlock’s wrist and Sherlock followed him back to the sofa. Sitting down on the edge of it, his back straight. Greg’s thumb was caressing his wrist and it was all Sherlock could focus on. He closed his eyes, letting the touch warm him from head to toe.

 

“Oh.”  

 

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, snatching his wrist out of Greg’s hold. The disappointment on Greg’s face cut into his heart and he got up again, restlessness taking over.

 

 “Sherlock.”

 “I can’t do this!” He snapped, flinching from the hardness in his own words but Greg didn’t move. “I don’t know how- People don’t usually- They don’t- I- I don’t know what’s supposed to happen now.” 

“Happen?”

 

“I gave you food. I gave you tea. That’s what people normally do right? When someone is in need of comfort? They offer food and beverages. I- I don’t know what to do next. I’m not good at this!”

.

.

For heaven’s sake!! How did the writer know about this?!

This is exactly how he felt around most people. Like he had absolutely no idea what strange rules and rituals were to be followed.

He really needed to know what Greg was going to do now.

.

.

“I’m not good at this,” Sherlock gestured between them. “Social interaction. I don’t- I say the wrong things. I don’t always understand what another person is trying to say. I- I have trouble with figuring out emotions. People don’t come to me for comfort. I- I don’t know how it works.”

 “Sherlock.” 

The way Greg says his name makes him stop rambling, letting out a breath from somewhere deep inside of him.

 Greg smiled, gesturing to the table that had their teacups on it, now probably cold. 

“This is comfort. Giving me a good meal, a warm drink, spending time together. It’s more than enough. Honestly. I wasn’t looking forward to going home to my empty flat. And then I thought about you, hoping you’d still be awake. Cause you hardly ever sleep.”

.

He felt a stinging behind his eyelids. Were those tears?!!

Greg was always so kind…so gentle…even when doing that damn drug raid.

.

Sherlock held his breath as he felt Greg’s lips on his own for just a few seconds. It was soft, floating, barely a kiss at all and Sherlock opened his eyes, frowning when Greg simply smiled at him.

 “You’re a better man than you give yourself credit for, Sherlock.”

 “I-” Sherlock stopped, placing his hand over Greg’s hand that was still cupping his cheek.

 “It’s fine, Sherlock. I’m not asking for more.” Greg whispered, caresses Sherlock’s flushed skin with his thumb.

 Disappointment settled in Sherlock’s stomach, hot and fast and Greg gave him a questioning look. “What-” Nervousness almost closed off Sherlock’s throat but he swallowed it down. “What if I want there to be more.”

.

.

Sherlock tapped his fingers agitatedly on the sofa arm. He pushed the laptop away and paced up and down in the living room.

He imagined Greg coming near him and he remembered the smell of cigarettes, gunpowder, autumn leaves. Greg smelt of London. He could easily imagine him giving him this light kiss for comfort.

He found to his shock that his brain didn’t run away squealing at the thought. He was ok with it. He could trust Greg.

Huh. Who would have thought?!!

He wondered fleetingly who would taste better…..John, or Greg, or Mycroft?

.

.

“This okay?” Greg asked, shifting in the bed so he was curled up in Sherlock’s arms, head on his chest, one leg over Sherlock’s. It was warm and comfortable, Sherlock’s body relaxing on the mattress. He turned his head so he was able to kiss Greg’s forehead, Greg shifting even closer to him and Sherlock couldn't stop a content smile.

 

This is what I’ve wanted. All along. And I didn’t even know it till now.

.

.

Sherlock sat still for a very long time. Could it really be that easy? To ask for and to give comfort?

He was still trawling through the fics and found one where apparently he had injured his eyes doing an experiment and Greg had stayed over at 221B to help him.  

“Ok, ok relax,” said Greg, gently putting his hand on Sherlock’s arm, remembering that he didn’t really like being touched by anyone.

But Greg had always been the exception. There had been no choice really given that he had had to pull him up from dirty floors, lift him into cars and practically carry him into his flat sometimes, hold him up while he threw up, hold him down while he shivered, hold his face and help him eat and drink something, hold his hands while he tossed around in fevered sleep.

Sigh.

“Don’t focus on the negative. What do we do to change it? Look….let’s have an early dinner. There is pasta and pudding sent by Mrs. Hudson. And we can chat while we eat.”

“I am not hungry” Sherlock said promptly. “And anyway, how will I eat? I can’t see.”

“Hmm, I thought geniuses could manage all kinds of things but maybe for today let me feed you.” He said with a smile.

And so they ended up with Sherlock at the table, a napkin tied around his neck like a bib and Greg sitting in front, feeding him pasta by the forkful. After he fed him the first bite Greg had a wicked grin on his face.

“I feel as though I ought to read you a bedtime tale to go with this. Once upon a time, in a land far, far away…….”

He thought Sherlock would snort and dismiss him but to his surprise the younger man nodded and said “Sure, go ahead. I find fairy tales to be a fascinating collection of the dark minds of our forefathers. And mothers too I guess. Do you know that many of the so called nursery rhymes were actually political ditties?”

And so they started the ritual of Greg telling him a fairy tale during dinner as he was being fed.

.

.

That sounded …….intimate Sherlock thought. Being fed, being read to. Being cared for. He remembered Mycroft doing that for him when he was very small. He had felt so safe and so happy then.

He wanted to know what happened next in this fic. Surely he would do or say something that would make Greg angry. Well, Greg was never really angry with him. He just looked….disappointed sometimes.

The thought made him feel uncomfortable. He didn’t want that. He hoped that the Sherlock in the fic would behave better. He had to find out.

.

.

Sherlock sat on a chair in the kitchen door, hugging himself around the knees as he sat with his legs folded up. Greg was telling him what he had bought and what he was planning to cook. This would have been insufferably dull with anyone else but somehow listening to Greg’s warm voice and cadences and the occasional smile that he could hear made him feel …..he didn’t know how it made him feel.

Rooted?  At home?

 

That was absurd, he told himself. He was already home! This was where he lived for heaven’s sake. And he was hardly a nomad that he should feel rooted now.

.

.

Sherlock stopped reading again.

Could this be true? Could this be why he liked to believe that he tolerated Greg and solved cases only with him? Was there some deeper truth that he was not willing or not able to recognize?

.

.

“So Sherlock?”Lestrade was asking something. “Would you like that?”

“Like what?” he asked, having lost track of the conversation entirely.

He could hear Lestrade cluck in exasperation. “Never mind. I will let you guess later since you seem to have been in a trance this whole time that I was telling you why it’s my favourite recipe!”

And suddenly Sherlock wanted to know why. He realized he barely knew Lestrade beyond what had been obvious to him during all those years when he had looked after him and rescued him and …..made him feel safe.

That is what he had felt, he realized, with a slow recognition. He remembered sitting in Lestrade’s kitchen all those years ago, watching him cook, knowing he was cooking for him. It made him feel safe.

Cared for. Anchored.

He had indeed been a nomad at that time. Not just his physical residence and his ‘transport’ but even his gypsy heart.

Never still. Never content.

But he had gone back to Lestrade again and again because he had made him feel safe. Cared for. Even protected.

He had been his refuge during troubled times. But he had never bothered to get to know the D.I better, beyond what he could deduce. What was his favourite food, what did he do in his free time ( when he wasn’t rescuing drug addicts of course) , where did he go on holiday, what did he like to read……Perhaps one was supposed to know such things about one’s friends……

But was Lestrade his friend? He was not sure. Well if not then what was he?

He found himself unable to decide on a name for the relationship they had………he was his friend in some ways maybe but he was also perhaps his guardian……….and his professional mentor…….Where would he be now without The Work? He shuddered involuntarily at the thought.

Lestrade had given him that and more. He had been his safe space and his caring was un-conditional.

Sherlock went through his Mind Palace and saw Lestrade standing in the background of the entire time of his years in London, looking grim and worried, hair greying year on year. But he was there. A constant. Like the North Star.

He was like a rock in the crashing waves of Sherlock’s life. A cave in which to shelter from the storm outside.

Was there really a name for someone like that?

.

.

Was there?! Was there a name for any of these relationships?!

John was more than his flatmate or his blogger. Greg was more than his colleague. More than his caretaker. Molly was more than his pathologist. Mycroft was more than his brother. Far more.

These people….they were his everything.

He kept the laptop aside slowly and walked to the window. He looked outside at the usual crowds. Crossing, walking, holding hands, laughing, chatting.

They were all goldfish. Ordinary. The walking pre-dead.

But perhaps….just perhaps…did they know more about living and life than he did?

Two women in their late forties passed by. They were walking hand in hand and as they came closer they looked up and saw him in the window and smiled.

Aha.

He gave them a withering look. He had his eyes on them. He just KNEW they were Ao3 writers. Spies. Looked so ordinary. Primark bags, Metro tucked under their arms. Pretending to be regular people.

He knew exactly the depth of depraved musings in their reptile brains.

He took a deep breath and was about to give them the full blast of his glare when a part of his brain shifted gears and it dawned on him that perhaps….just perhaps…he had made inaccurate deductions!

Perhaps…..they were in fact the exact opposite of evil…

Perhaps they were on the side of angels?!!

And for some obscure mysterious reason although he was not an angel, they all seemed to be on his side!

Oh my good heavens above!! He realized with a complete shock.

They were in fact subversive pirates sailing the online high seas! Pens as weapons. The true renegades! Not only is everything fair in love and war but this was a war for love!

But they looked so innocent and ordinary! No wicked looking eye patches, high boots, parrots on their shoulders or swaggering gait. He would now be forever suspicious of any woman in her 30s or 40s. Hmm…. Also some of the younger ones, and maybe even some of the men.

He wondered if in this situation he was the cat and they were Schrodinger? They would decide whether he was with someone or not and he never knew till he opened the fic……

But in his own life maybe he was Schrodinger and his relationships were the cat ! And he would never know what his relationship potential was with any one unless he opened up and figured it out……Woah!!

He got a massive head-rush from so much meta- level thinking.

Was that an intellectual orgasm?!

He wondered how many of these Mycroft felt every day…..

These writers were creating new synaptic connections in his brain!

His already genius brain was being challenged in ways he had never imagined possible. And not only that, but they were also nudging him to see for himself and to decide for himself.

He had choice!! He had to give consent.

These were warriors but the outcome of this battle would have victors on both sides.

He wondered faintly why the word Victor seemed to rouse some memories but he was no longer sure which memories were real and which were created and layered over by all these fics.

He had this sudden image of a small battleship, The HMS 221B, (led by Mycroft of course. Who else?), with him and John and Greg and Molly and maybe even Anthea and Mrs. Hudson on it.

The HMS 221B was surrounded by many, so many ships--all filled with cheering writers and readers wielding pens, so much mightier than swords!

But they were on his side!

That was such a staggering and staggeringly life-changing thought that he had to wait and breathe in and out and assimilate it.

Maybe he should stop resisting them and accept what they were saying……?

Chapter Text

Sherlock was now in high powered speed read mode. He was reading almost the entire screen in one blink and his Mind Palace was in overdrive with trying to sort them all out. It was like an octopus at a postal service.

John

Greg

Slash

Angst

Fluff

Happy Ending

Mature

Explicit

Data and facts and fics were being zipped around in his Mind Palace and sent to their final destinations as they were sorted out.

He found a story with himself as a 19 year old being rescued by Greg from some drug den. Yes, that sounded about right…..so he slowed down to read it…..but then WHAT in the unpaired socks was Greg doing to him…….doing with him …?!!!

His eyebrows almost flew off his face. And they had the audacity to call this fic ‘’Moral Guidance’?!!

In fascinated horror he continued to read:

“Fuck,” whispers Lestrade, his forehead pressed to Sherlock's. They're both shaking from orgasm and covered in sweat, and when he finally lets go of Sherlock's wrists, Sherlock weaves trembling fingers through his hair. Lestrade swallows and squeezes his eyes shut.

“You think too much,” says Sherlock, his voice soft.

Lestrade lets out a humorless laugh. “Aren't you usually complaining that it's the other way around?”

“No, I complain that you don't think efficiently enough,” says Sherlock. “There's a difference.”

When Sherlock finally huffs and says, “You're an idiot,” he sounds so much like himself again that it makes Lestrade smile. “Wanting to fuck someone and wanting to protect them from themselves, or whatever ridiculous notion your savior complex has dreamt up, are not mutually exclusive feelings.”

Lestrade heaves a sigh. This whole thing is sitting like an ache in the pit of his stomach, but he can't help being amused that Sherlock, of all people, is the one lecturing him about emotions. There are a million things he could say to that, ranging from the sarcastic to the serious, but in the end, he settles for, “Has anyone ever told you how bloody stubborn you are?”

“Regularly.”

Lestrade looks at Sherlock, takes in the sweep of his cheekbones and the curve of his lips, and the darkening bruises on his neck that Lestrade's left there with his teeth. It hurts to think of losing all this heartbreaking brilliance to the other side.

“It's not a bloody marriage proposal, Greg,” says Sherlock. “Either say yes or don't, but don't waste my time.”

“I don't even know what I'm meant to be saying yes to, Sherlock,” says Lestrade, because he doesn't, and he's both horrified and astounded that he's considering saying yes anyway.

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, and it occurs to Lestrade, not without a healthy dose of shock, that Sherlock hasn't the faintest idea either. But then Sherlock's lips quirk, and he gets that look in his eye that means there's trouble to be had, and he says, “Well, I suppose we'll just have to find out.”

Lestrade considers for a moment, the reckless daring of it and all the ways it could go wrong, then presses his lips to Sherlock's.

“So that's yes, then?” says Sherlock. There's a giddy edge to his voice, like he gets when there's a murderer on the loose or crown jewels gone missing, and that should probably be terrifying but Lestrade, god fucking help him, just finds it endearing.

“I've no idea what the devil I'm signing up for, but yes, that's yes,” says Lestrade, then sighs and adds, “You're going to be a right handful, aren't you?”

Sherlock grins against his mouth, and against his better judgment, Lestrade lets himself be pulled down into a kiss.

.

.

Surely Greg had never EVER thought of him that way?! Could he have??

What was it that they called them together?? Sherstrade? Really? Why not LesLock? Or Holmestrade? Or …oh who cares he grumbled.

And what in the moaning moonberries was a Daddy Kink?!

Like a twisted father? A contortionist parent? A father whose trousers needed ironing?? What did this even mean?!

Hmm. All this was very, very mysterious. He didn’t think Greg was limber enough to even touch his toes honestly but yes, his shirts could do with the kinks being ironed out. But why would his father do that?

Now he really had to find out!

 

.

.

Sherlock doesn't think he has daddy issues... or a daddy kink and yet he starts to spend an awful amount of time in Greg's bedroom.

.

.

All Sherlock needed to do was to sit and wait for him. But hours of hiding in the kitchen, in all sorts of uncomfortable positions caused back pain. Greg saw him wincing when he sat down and asked what was the matter. Sherlock still wasn't sure how they went from purely professional conversation to a massage.

It was obviously best to do it in the privacy of Greg's flat. Sherlock tried to relieve the pain in the car, but his own attempts at massaging his lower back were far from satisfying. He wanted Greg to see that it was serious and not at all a sneaky way of getting back into his bedroom.

They didn't waste time. Sherlock took off his coat and his jacket. He hesitated with the shirt, perhaps he would only pull it up. Greg said he had the oil in the bedroom. They went there and Sherlock tried not to look at the small bottle Greg took out of the drawer. He didn't want to know if it was only a massage oil or another type of oil for other sorts of activities.

Greg saw he hadn't taken off his shirt and asked, 'Is it just lower back pain? If so, leave your shirt on.'

Sherlock's left shoulder was suddenly aching too.

He lay on the bed, face down. He couldn't focus on the memories of his previous night there or on the exciting new kind of tension he was starting to feel, the pain was distracting. Distracting enough to forget his lower back was still covered.

Greg chuckled at the sight and started rolling up his sleeves. 'I don't want you to have oil stains on your trousers.'

Sherlock groaned when he pushed a hand under his stomach to undo his trousers. He moved to sit up, but Greg stopped him with a hand on his back. 'Let me,' he said and touched his hip to encourage him to lift up.

Sherlock didn't refuse. Greg reached around, opened Sherlock's trousers and pulled them down, revealing the bare skin. Out of all days that he ignored underwear, that was the most memorable one.

.

.

These writers thought he wandered around London without underwear?!!

He snorted at the thought. He didn’t take his partial Scottish heritage that seriously. He was so sensitive to touch that he wore that damn coat in all seasons to prevent being accidently touched by anyone and took cabs everywhere to avoid contact. He thought in horror of his neglected man parts being constantly rubbed at by his trouser seam and wobbling from left to right as he ran to catch criminals.

Honestly. These writers needed some anatomy lessons.

Maybe John could write a short note that he could post for them in a comment. A monogram on “External Genital Organs of Male Humans and the various Apparel Designed for Protection thereof.”

Or maybe just simply “Balls and Smalls.”

He chortled as he tried to imagine John’s face when he asked him for that note. He would save that for a day when his flatmate was being especially annoying.

He went back to reading.

He planned to be quiet, but the first touch of Greg's hands made him gasp. He wasn't used to being touched. Greg's large, slick hands slid up and down his back, spreading the oil. Slowly, softly. And then a little harder. Sherlock couldn't contain a low groan when Greg applied more pressure. He was kneading his lower back, massaged the muscles anywhere he could reach. He didn't realise Greg was that strong. He loved finding that out.

'Not too hard?' Greg paused after another deep groan from Sherlock.

Sherlock felt the impulse to lean into the touch, keep Greg's hands on him. 'No, no. You can go harder, I don't-' he stopped mid-sentence and frowned at his words. He knew it was only a massage, a platonic one and not a foreplay.

'Ah!' He gasped when Greg continued, using more force than before. 'Oh!'

'Yeah, it hurts so good, doesn't it,' Greg said, sounding smug.

Sherlock whimpered in response. Greg was right. His fingers were digging into his sore muscles and Sherlock didn't protest, didn't ask him to be gentle. He had never felt that way before. He didn't understand why he melted into the bed, what made him so pliant and responsive. He gave up on controlling the sounds he made with every strong stroke. The ache that brought him there dissolved into a something sweeter. Greg carried on.

.

.

He took a brief pause. That did sound nice actually. Relaxing. Safe.

Maybe he could ask Greg the next time they met. He could tell him that he had no interest in sharing bodily fluids but a massage sounded like a good idea. He started giggling at the thought of what would happen to poor Greg if he ever found these fics. His giggles turned into a complete hysterical fit and he spent almost four minutes laughing and weeping…Then he pulled himself together sternly.

He had no time to fool around! There were thousands of fics waiting for him.

He frowned at one he read which said it was a WIP. What was a WIP?

He needed a whip to get at these writers who wrote WIPs….especially when they start something juicy and then just abandoned it like that…..ok here was one where Greg did sound sweet…..he had been his shield…..yes that was true….and then he followed a link in a comment which said to check out a list of ficrecs.

It said ‘10 fics sadder than Alone on the Water.’

Well, as a scientist he would of course have to read Alone on the Water first now wouldn’t he?! He muttered at the screen.

He opened it and started reading.

What in the labours of Hercules was this?!! They gave him a ……they made him…….oh John! Sherlock felt tears spill out of his eyes at the end.

Could John possibly have such feelings for him? Could he believe these writers?

He looked at the window which he had opened on his laptop for the 10 fics that were sadder. Why?! Why would anyone write things so sad and then even sadder? And why would anyone read them?!

He read the note by the person who had put together the fic list.

“All this to say, “Alone on the Water” might have hurt me coming into the Sherlock fandom when I was starry-eyed and wonderstruck, but as a jaded, cynical JohnLock fanfic vet who has been to war and back (as so many in the fandom can relate), I’ve come to find that AOTW doesn’t even touch the angst some Sherlock fanfic writers can create.”

These people were crazy, he realized. They were sado-masochists who wanted to cause pain to themselves and to others. But….but they also wrote those deeply romantic and funny stories….and those thoughtful, caring and insightful ones too….….so what was the truth?

Was there any absolute truth?

He had a deep and overwhelming desire to share this with someone. He wanted to discuss it with someone else. Exchange ideas and theories and speculations. He wanted to analyse what it all meant. He wanted to analyse the patterns and deduce the trends. He wanted to have a serious meta- level conversation about all this.

Well..…….who could he possibly share all this with?! John was Not Gay and would probably go back to Afghanistan and Greg would look at him even more sadly than he already did and wander off with his hands in his coat pockets, ripping his nicotine patches off in distress.

No, he needed someone who would not judge him and who would understand what he was thinking. Mycroft would have when they were younger and Sherlock always had a thousand questions to which Mycroft always had two thousand answers.   

But now?

He scowled. Now his brother was 'the British Government' and had no time to be with Sherlock unless it was for a case or one of those annoying Christmas dinners.

Of course Mycroft had turned up in many of the stories, umbrella and all , and some of the writers had his tone and attitude down so perfectly that he had snorted more than a couple of times.

Pitch perfect!

But they never paired him with Sherlock.

Oh well...... Sherlock thought, they were brothers….and even these writers (depraved and decadent as they were), probably had some kind of line in the sand.

Some kind of limits to their imagination…….

Or did they?!

He had quickly read a steaming hot fic earlier through a comment link which had him and John and Greg in a threesome and although he didn’t really enjoy the idea of so many people touching him and so much…….but if he imagined it was about some people he did not know…such as umm ….a Sherlock Jones with John Smith and Gregory Brown, then it was all pretty intriguing, simply in terms of the mechanics and geometries and calculated velocities.

Though he thought he did prefer his regular fish and chips with an extra dash of vinegar over such sex sandwiches, thank you very much for asking.

They had all ended up rumpled and sweaty and in a tangled heap on the bed at the end of the story.

Sherlock shivered at the thought. A bit too messy and unclean for his taste.

He had had a vision of his older brother, cool as a cucumber, wearing his sleeve garters and a pristine three piece suit, his favourite purple tie perfectly knotted, cufflinks sparkling and pocket watch tucked away neatly. Not a hair out of place. The expression of disdain and barely concealed ennui at having to deal with goldfish.

Would these writers ever imagine him otherwise?!

Flushed. Mussed up hair…in pajamas…….he had not seen Mycroft in pajamas in over a decade now…

Or………his mind tiptoed softly around the thought….…maybe without his pajamas…….his elegant pale fingers unbuttoning his night shirt.

Sherlock suddenly had this flare in his lower belly.

He winced. This was new.

He had felt weirded out by the idea of anyone touching him. Even Greg, although he was used to Greg touching him more than anyone else in his life. All those drugs and withdrawals….

Nope! His Mind Palace offered with a wicked grin. Someone else has touched you way more, Princess.

Sherlock frowned and Mind Palace Sherlock helpfully provided a little movie room with a film rolling on the screen.

Of course.

Mycroft.

He saw himself sitting on his shoulders and in his lap and climbing on his back and snuggling up next to him while Mycroft read him a book. He saw Mycroft’s fingers drawing circles on his back and soothing him when he was frightened and playing the piano and those hands….oh those graceful hands.

Powerful hands. 

He saw them now all grown up, wearing black leather gloves, lifting a cigarette to his lips and smoking and suddenly he felt like he needed a shower. A cold shower.

He shook his head to make that thought go away and with one finger poised over the keyboard he hesitated and then tentatively he typed in Mycroft Holmes/

And the first choice the algorithm offered him was with Greg lestrade.

What in the million melting chocolate digestives was this going to be about?!!

Chapter Text

Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade.

Slash.

Mycroft with Greg.

His brother. With his D.I.

Hmm……Sherlock wondered what new wicked and sinful story would be unravelling in front of his eyes.

He looked at a fanart with a photo of Lestrade grinning. He had NEVER seen Lestarde grin. Those brown eyes, that silver hair, that smile. The man was…..delicious.

He sat up in a panic at his own choice of words.

Was he a salted caramel tart to be described as such?!! He chastised his brain. As if he was something he would want to hold in his hands and dig his teeth into…..and lick the taste off his lips….sticky and sweet with a hint of tears?!

He shuddered as he realized that he had been morally corrupted!! Utterly corrupted and beyond redemption.

Just a few hours of reading fanfics and he had had more lustful thoughts than a priest playing the organ for choir boys.

And just look at Mycroft in this image!

https://mottlemoth.tumblr.com/post/178040592635/kalina-ionescu-this-is-what-they-look-like-in

With his scruffy beard, casual posture….and oh…his breath caught in his throat. His shirt….he had no tie and two buttons were open. He felt a slight shiver as he looked at Mycroft’s eyes……..what was that expression. Was this what they called ‘bedroom eyes’?

‘Come hither.’ they said. ‘Now!’

‘Don’t make me wait.’

‘Hot’….. one part of his brain whispered. ‘Tantalizing.’ ‘Exquisite.’

Hush! He admonished his brain. Was Mycroft a spicy chocolate drink to be described like this?!

As if he was something sweet and warm and satisfying to swallow……. with just a smidgen of a piquant after-taste. Hmmm.

Am image swam in front of his eyes of Mycroft sitting in a Jacuzzi tub filled with swirling warm chocolate, his pale arms stretched out along the rim and he himself was sitting beside his big brother, feeding him tiny marshmallows with his fingers , placing them on his pink tongue……….

Greg turned up and stood just behind his brother, wearing only a towel slung low on his waist, holding a red hot chilli pepper in his hand. He was grinning and stroking Mycroft’s cheek with that……

It took three entire minutes of not breathing for Sherlock’s brain to wake up and emerge from that day dream, desperately seeking oxygen. He wiped the drool off his chin and realized that his brain was probably seriously glucose deprived now.

That was the only explanation for these wanton imaginings.

So he walked to the kitchen holding his laptop open in front of him. He was never ever going to let go of it!!! It was the portal to a universe he had never imagined in his wildest dreams and as he stood by the countertop with a can of baked beans and ate directly from it with a spoon, he gingerly opened one fic and read.

Mark of Approval. Hmm…..interesting title he thought.

.

.

Mycroft found himself in the darkened black-and-rose bathroom, standing naked before the mirror. As he washed the heat from his face, his languid eyes trailed his own bare chest in the glass.

Soft pink bites were scattered across his neck and shoulders like rose petals over snow.

Every single one was a memory.

.

.

Sherlock stood stock still for almost two entire minutes, spoon and beans forgotten, simply unable to wipe that image from his mind. He dared not even blink his eyes for fear that the image would become even clearer.

Mycroft was naked.

Naked.

And ‘soft pink bites were scattered across his neck and shoulders like rose petals over snow.’

He remembered Mycroft’s pale cool skin from the time they used to go swimming together as kids. He used to love putting his own (always hot) palm on Mycroft’s back and draw in the cooling from him as they rested in the shade of the tree.

That same cool pale skin. With bites on it.

Surely they were not talking about mosquito bites were they?!

Was Mycroft going to fall ill with malaria?

.

.

Three nights now.

He'd picked Paris for culture, for coffee and for conversation.

They'd now spent nearly sixty hours locked in the room, ebbing and flowing from one round of exhaustive sex to the next.

Mycroft felt alive.

They'd barely done anything else. Fucked, rested, and fed each other by hand with whatever room service cared to bring them. Yesterday afternoon, they'd tried to watch a film - and ended up fucking restlessly on the couch. Mycroft hadn't the nerve to be surprised. The heat wasn't easing yet. The fever hadn't broken. It didn't even cool for long, and it seemed to be returning more potently each time.

.

.

Mycroft and Greg.

Gregory Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock was starting to feel dizzy. Like there was no blood left in his brain any more. It seemed to have gone somewhere else. Temporarily vacated the most important part of his body.

To go somewhere that he usually ignored.

He blinked and willed his blood flow to change direction. Up!! he groaned. Go up!

He needed to know what happened next.

To Mycroft. And to Greg.

They had spent sixty hours having sex. SIXTY HOURS.

In that much time, goldfish would forget that they are goldfish 140,000 times. 465,000 rats would be born in London alone. Mycroft’s heart would beat 520,000 times.

Wagner’s Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg could be performed 12 times.

.

.

He opened his eyes to the mirror as his lover appeared - sleepy, shadowed, mouth lifted in the half-smile he seemed to save for Mycroft.

Three restless nights of relief, and Lestrade somehow doubled in appeal every morning.

There was an ease to his movements as he idled into the room, a glint to his gaze as it held Mycroft's in the mirror.

.

.

“No, no, no, HELL NO!!!” Sherlock yelled at his laptop, shaking his fist.

This writer…ugh…Mottlemoth. How dare they?!! Back off Lestrade!

No one was allowed to touch his Mycie like this.

Mycie. Where had THAT come from?!! It had been simply decades since he had even thought of him by that name, let alone called him that.

This horrible writer had made Mycie naked and had him bitten and subjected to ….to carnal encounters….to fornication for over 60 hours?!

Did they not know that so much sleep deprivation can cause a mental breakdown?! Even he needed to sleep every three days while on a case…..

.

.

"Kiss me?" Greg whispered, as he cupped Mycroft's face in one hand.

As they kissed, and Greg's tongue eased tenderly into his mouth, Mycroft realised he wouldn't be returning to England the same man who'd left it.

He was incredibly glad.

.

.

But….…but all this sounded so tender and….so intimate….and loving.

Would Mycroft want this for himself?

No. Sherlock decided. Nope. No way. He did not CARE if Mycroft wanted it. He would not let him have it!!

He had to distract Greg.

How could he do that? Yes of course!!! Maybe he would have sex with Greg himself.

But then what would John do all alone in the flat……oh!

Even better. He would get John and Greg to have sex with each other!

Yes. That would work as a distraction and John’s cock and Greg’s mouth could leave him and Mycroft alone to get on with their Work.

How could he do that? He thought furiously as he tapped his fingers against his thigh, jittery and impatient.

Of course!!! He needed to find out if anyone had written about John and Greg. That would give him ideas on how to get them together.

So he started to look.

And the archives being this place of endless delight and infinite variety with enough fics to please even Sheherzade and her 1001 Arabian Nights, offered up plenty for him to choose from.

He typed carefully--- John Watson/Greg Lestrade. He had perfected a system of reviewing tags and summaries by now so he raced through the pages checking on the hits, comments and most importantly bookmarks. He had started to avoid incomplete works and those with too many chapters but there was something about this fic that caught his eye. Hmm. It was a part two but that was ok. He could check back on the part 1 later. He needed something to help him strategize for now.

Awakenings. That sounded promising.

.

.

It had been nearly four months since Greg had first laid eyes on John Watson. Four months of noticing the way he moved, the way he dressed, even the way he smelled. (Like strong sunlight after a rainy day, slightly musky, hopeful and clean.) Four months of seeing him, always with Sherlock, tagging along on crime scenes, taking notes, making his own observations. Usually good ones, but after a sideways glance from Sherlock, John would invariably shut down, his mouth becoming a hard thin line.

Lestrade tried to encourage him on one or two occasions, but John just looked up at him and shook his head so slightly that Greg almost thought he had imagined the motion. The last time, at the scene of a mugging gone so very wrong, Greg couldn't stop himself from moving in a little closer than was strictly appropriate, staring down into John's blue-grey eyes. John hadn't moved away, keeping his eyes locked with Greg's for a small eternity. Until Sherlock had called to him imperiously, and they both let out pent-up breath. John had grinned apologetically and turned away, following after Sherlock like an obedient puppy.

.

.

Hmm. Sherlock mused as he read that. Lestrade did seem to look at John more intensely than was professional.

.

.

Four months of this, and he wanted him worse than ever - even with Sherlock potentially complicating the outcome. Forty-five years of life on this earth had left Lestrade with one sure bit of knowledge. If there was something or someone that you wanted, you had to try. It might not work out, and he knew that in this case, the odds were definitely against him. But if he didn't try, he would never know, and that would be the worst of all. Greg was very much like Sherlock in that manner. Knowledge was power, after all.

.

.


Sherlock reflected on that. It was true. Lestrade was like him in many ways in his dogged pursuit of justice. In fact…and he had a sudden revelation---in fact it was he who was like Lestrade!! It was he who had been imprinted by Lestrade, like a duckling starts following the first thing it sees after being hatched.

He slapped his forehead at the epiphany and thanked all the stars above that it had not been Anderson he had seen first. Lestrade was the first one he had consciously had a relationship with that wasn’t filled with conflict. The way it had been with Mycroft ever since he left for college. The way it had been at Uni with that jerk Sebastian and all the other idiots he was perpetually surrounded by.

Lestrade had been different. He had been patient. He had been non- judgmental. He had been non- threatening. He had given him space. He had given him trust.

Maybe it was time for him to return the favours by making him happy….yes, he was going to figure out a way.

.

.

He glowered down at the waterlogged body that had been pulled up on the rocky shore of the Thames. Beaten, but not badly. It looked like a simple cosh on the back of the head, another mugging gone horribly awry. But something about it niggled at Greg. It felt - personal, somehow. So he had called in Sherlock and Co.

.

.

Sherlock smiled smugly. Of course. What would Scotland Yard do without him?!

.

.

Sherlock called to him, and John trotted to his side, pulling a pair of nitrile gloves out of his pocket as he went. Greg watched as he crouched and poked and prodded in a professionally detached manner before looking up and beckoning Greg closer.

"He was alive when he hit the water. Drowned."

Greg shuddered. "Awful way to go."

"It was pretty quick. I don't believe he regained consciousness before the water seeped into his lungs."

"Still. Eugh." Greg gave an exaggerated shiver, winning a quick smile from John.

Sherlock looked up from where he had been studying the ground, eyes narrowed. "Was he found here?"

"No, someone spotted him in the water and called a couple of uniforms who were nearby. They hauled him out, but didn't touch anything else once they realised he was deceased. That's when they called me." He ran his fingers through his silver hair. "At sodding five o'clock in the bloody morning," he muttered.

John looked at him, concern suddenly creasing his forehead. "Lestrade, did you get any sleep last night?"

Greg blinked at him. "Uh, yeah. A few, well, a couple hours, anyway... And it's Greg."

John smiled brightly and reached out to grasp Greg's upper arm, sliding his hand down until it rested just above the elbow. "Well, Greg. You won't be of any use to anyone if you have a physical breakdown. You need to sleep."

Greg resisted the nearly overwhelming urge to grab the lapels of John's jacket and haul him in for a kiss. He cleared his throat instead, mentally willing his voice to come out strong. "That - has been rather difficult as of late."

"Oh?" John took a small half-step closer and his hand tightened on Greg's elbow. "And why is that, I wonder?"

Greg swallowed as he looked down into John's face, so very close now. His tongue was suddenly too thick for his mouth, and he could feel the furious blush flooding his cheeks with heat. John's eyes flickered down to Greg's mouth and his tantalisingly pink tongue danced over his bottom lip invitingly. Greg started to lean into him, desperately unable to control his response.
 
"John, I - "
 
"It was the wife." Suddenly, Sherlock was just there beside them, feigning a cool indifference to the two men's posture, barely a hand's breadth apart. John's hand automatically dropped from Greg's elbow and he shook himself slightly.
 
He glanced over to the cordoned line where a petite blond was pacing agitatedly, worrying her thumb between her teeth. "She looks like a brisk wind could knock her over. You're saying that she coshed a 20-stone man and then dumped him in the river?"
 
"Follow the tide patterns upstream, and you'll find the place where she dragged him. She isn't clever enough to have covered her tracks. She tried to make it look like a mugging, but didn't discard his personal effects. You'll find those in the boot of her car, under the spare, along with the weapon that was used, probably a jack handle. Everything except the wedding ring. That was removed rather forcibly, judging by the scrapes on his knuckle, and tossed into the river as well. He'd been having an affair."
 
Greg eyed him sceptically and then looked the woman over again. She stood barely five-foot and moved like a bird, with small jerking motions. "I still don't see how she could have done it."
 
Sherlock's nostrils flared. "Apparently, finding out that her husband of fifteen years had been spending all of their savings on a sweet little rent boy was enough to lend her the strength!" He stared at Greg venomously. "Don't you remember? Or is that not how your situation resolved itself?"
  
"Sherlock!" John hissed at him, voice appalled, eyes flinty.
 
Greg drew himself up and faced Sherlock squarely. "Obviously not, as I was not found floating facedown in the river, you poncy git. My 'situation' as you so delicately put it, was, and is, no concern of yours." Lestrade raised a finger, poking at Sherlock's bony chest. "Don't you forget that you are only allowed on these crime scenes at my discretion, Sherlock Holmes. If nothing else, I at least deserve your respect. Got that?"
 
Sherlock snorted and swept Greg's arm aside before turning and stalking away.
 
"Sherlock!" John's voice was tight and furious and he threw a desperate look at Greg before striding after Sherlock, quickly catching up to where the taller man had halted.
 
Greg turned away. "Donovan!" She had been interviewing the witnesses who had first seen the body, but she turned and headed his way, notepad at the ready. "Bring in the wife, search her car. Chances are you'll find his wallet and effects in the boot. If so, charge her." He glanced over to where John and Sherlock were arguing animatedly. "I'm knackered - gonna take the afternoon off. You can handle it, yeah?"
 
She nodded absently, still scribbling. "Course." She glanced up and gestured vaguely. "They having a domestic, then?"
 
Greg sighed. "Something like that, I suppose. Go on, and if anything comes up, phone me. I'll be around."
 
"Gotcha." She turned and gestured to Anderson, releasing the scene to forensics. They swarmed down to the shore in their little paper suits, eager to begin measuring and collecting.
 
Greg turned back to the scene of the 'domestic' just as Sherlock glanced in his direction, chagrin clear in his expression. He took notice of Greg watching and his face smoothed out into calm neutrality before he strode away, leaving John standing alone. His posture was ramrod straight as he stared after Sherlock, shoulders squared and hands clenched into tight fists.
 
Greg circled him warily, making sure that John could see him clearly before he spoke. He knew better than to sneak up behind an ex-soldier, especially when said ex-soldier was clearly well and truly pissed off. "John?"
 
John glanced at him and his posture relaxed slightly, but his mouth remained pressed together firmly. His hands unconsciously released, then clenched, released and clenched. "Greg, I'm sorry."
 
"No, don't you dare. If you start apologising for him now, you'll never stop. It's nothing to do with you. Old history."
 
"He had no right to - "
 
Greg chuckled lightly. "No, he didn't. But neither you nor I will ever be able to convince him otherwise." He glanced at his watch. Barely eleven o'clock. "Bit early, but I could do with a pint. Care to join me?"
 
John looked back at the crime scene with surprise. "Aren't you on duty?"
 
"What's the point of being a Detective Inspector if I can't have a drink or two on the job?"
 
John's eyes widened slightly then narrowed. "You're taking the piss."
 
"Took the afternoon off. You're right, I could do with a rest."
 
"Wow, a whole afternoon. Lazy sod." Greg grinned and John eyed him with delight, his shoulders dropping slightly. "You should smile like that more often."
 
"What, with Sherlock flouncing around being snide all the time? That would take a hell of a lot more cheer than I'm capable of mustering." John laughed, and his stiff posture finally relaxed completely. "How about that pint, then?"

.

.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at that. What was this constant desire for alcohol that they had?! He never understood it. Beer tasted like processed urine. It probably was for all he knew.

If he really HAD to be compelled to consume alcoholic beverages, he would always prefer something from Mycroft’s bar he realized. A fine aged single malt. Or some exquisite liquer.  But never mind all that. He needed to see what these two were up to.

This was most compelling!

.

.

  
There were a couple of patrons scattered about in the dim room, probably the regulars. They both ordered a pint of bitter and a meat pie, then settled into a companionable silence at a nearby table, waiting for the food to arrive. John's knee brushed against Greg's casually as they sipped at their drinks.
 
"So, football, huh?"
 
"I might even have a uniform or two stashed away somewhere." Greg patted his belly ruefully. "Probably a bit tight now."
 
John's eyebrows rose and he looked Greg up and down. "You seem pretty fit to me, mate. Perhaps you should drag them out and try them on. I'd be more than happy to act as your fashion critic."
  
Greg swallowed and cleared his throat. "Yes, well... Hm. How about you, any sport in your past lives?"
 
"Yeah, rugby."
 
He caught Greg in the middle of a draught of bitter, and he choked on it a bit. John grinned wickedly.
 
"Low center of gravity, and I'm sturdier than I look. I can be hell to budge."
 
"Now that, I'd really like to see."
 
John winked. "I can arrange that." His knee pressed into Greg's again, firmer this time. Their food arrived, forcing them to break eye contact.
 
Greg hesitated, wanting to be sure of himself. "John Watson, are you - flirting with me?" Greg took a hasty bite of pie, eyes dropping to his plate.
 
John chuckled throatily and neatly captured Greg's knee in between both of his. "What do you think?"
 
'I think that I'm about to combust, that's what I think.' Greg raised his head reluctantly, meeting slate-blue eyes that were absolutely burning with desire. His mouth fell open and flopped around for a bit before he was able to wrest it under control again. "I think I'm confused."
 
John sat back, chewing thoughtfully. "About?"
 
"You've been pretty clear with everyone that you're not involved with Sherlock, that you're not gay."
 
"Ah. Well, strictly speaking, I'm not. I'm bi."
 
"That's quite the technicality, Doctor Watson."
 
"I can't help it if people don't ask the right questions. Besides, I've never been good with labels. As for Sherlock, he made it very clear very early on that he was not interested." He took another bite, chewed some more. "I think he might be asexual."
 
"No, he has desires the same as most people. He just chooses to ignore them." Greg picked at his pie, nibbling at a piece of crust. 
 
John's eyebrows rose. "And how would you know that, Detective Inspector?"
 
"Um. Well..." Greg sighed. "I'm not sure how much I should tell you, seeing as you're his flatmate and it's his story as much as mine."
 
John leaned forward and stroked his fingertips lightly across the back of Greg's hand. "I'm interested in you, Greg. Tell me whatever you're comfortable with."
 
Greg shivered unaccountably at his touch, quickly realising that he would tell this man absolutely anything he wanted to hear. "I've worked with Sherlock for five years, but I first met him eight years ago. Half-naked in the backroom of a gay club, about to be beaten black and blue."
 
John's eyes widened. "You were where? He...what?"
 
"I believe it was a half-arsed attempt at weaning himself off of whatever he was messing about with at the time."
 
"I just - don't even, I mean...what? What was he thinking?"
 
"It's Sherlock. God only knows what he was thinking. God knows what I was thinking. It was a pretty confusing night, I can tell you that much." He fiddled with his pint glass before knocking back the remainders. "It was my first time - with a man, I mean."

.

.

Sherlock blinked. Why?! Why did all these writers feel compelled to have him half naked or fully naked and doing obnoxious things like this?! But he was curious now to know what he had been up to!

.

.
"With Sherlock?" John's face was completely astonished, his mouth hanging listlessly.
 
"God, no! He was completely strung out. You wouldn't have even recognised him."
 
"Oh, perhaps. Truth be told, I'm having a harder time imagining you at a gay club."
 
Greg rolled his eyes with a little smile. "A man's gotta pull somewhere... But yeah. He was grimy, even skinnier than he is now; a complete prick, of course. But there was something - I worried about him, y'know?" John tilted his head, studying Greg's face. "I had to see him before I left the club. I had come in with the man who administered the beating." Greg's face darkened. "I didn't leave with him, though. I couldn't - not after I saw..." He shivered, and John's knees briefly squeezed his again.

Greg stared into the middle distance, fingers absently twirling his empty pint glass. "It hurt, seeing him like that. I tried to, I dunno, comfort him or something. He responded - physically." He huffed out a quiet laugh. "I've never seen a man so pissed off over a stiffy before! Even though he was angry about it, he would have - well. But I couldn't. I never would have been able to forgive myself." His eyes touched John's briefly. "After that, the only times he let me touch him were when I was hauling him out of some drug pit or when I was cleaning off his sick. And he was mostly unconscious for those moments."

John winced and reached out to stroke Greg's hand again. "You're a good man."

Greg snorted. "Yeah, people keep telling me that. And yet, here I am. Just on forty-five years old, and nobody steady for the past two years. Only the occasional shag here and there. Guess I'm too bloody good for most blokes."

"Is that what you want? Something steady?"

"Yeah, I do. I miss having someone to come home to, y'know? At least you have Sherlock for that."

John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, coming home to God only knows what. Half the time I'm afraid to open the kitchen cupboards, and I'm fairly certain he's incubating something deadly in our microwave. Would you like to know what I found in the fridge just yesterday?"

Greg grinned and shook his head. "Not particularly, no."

"A head! A bloody fucking severed fucking head in my fucking fridge!"

Greg stared at him in shock before throwing his head back and guffawing. "Oh, saints preserve. You poor sod!" He eyed John and giggled. "And the mouth on you..."

John blushed beetroot-red. "Problem?"

"Nope. It's fucking lovely."

Their eyes met again, and something sparked between them. This wasn't just lust or desire, no. There was something else there, something warm and lovely thrumming in the air between them, and they both knew it. Greg nodded toward John, his eyes dropping briefly. "What about you, then? Anyone interesting caught your eye lately?"

"Fairly recently, yeah..." John smiled warmly at the blush heating Greg's cheeks, his own eyes dropping shyly. "But prior to this, no. Sherlock has somehow managed to bungle up each and every one of my dates or potential girlfriends since I moved into that blasted flat. I am - beyond frustrated."

"I can imagine." Greg glanced down at his hands. "Only girlfriends, then?"

John's eyes shifted down and then back again. "Guys are, well, we're usually easy to pull and all that, and I've always had a lot of fun with them. But I had always kinda pictured myself as getting married and all that, y'know?"

Greg nodded ruefully. "I do know."

John smiled briefly. "After Afghanistan, though... I'm not so sure that's the direction my life is heading. Who would be fool enough to marry a damaged ex-soldier who chases after dangerous criminals and a mad genius night after night?"
 
"Only someone who really understood the situation, I suppose."

John's dark blue eyes locked onto Greg's. "Exactly."

Greg fidgeted. "What exactly is happening here, John?"

"The start of something wonderful, I should imagine. Or hope."

"But we're - well, we work together. I'm a bloody Detective Inspector. I can't."

"Oh! So that's why you hadn't... I was beginning to think I'd misread you."

Greg blinked. "What's that?"

"I was pretty certain that you were interested in me, but you never made a move! I wondered why, and now I know. You're too goddamned professional!" John lowered his head slightly, looked up at Greg from underneath golden lashes. "You're also a bit of an idiot." Greg sputtered and John held up a hand in a placating gesture. "We don't work together officially, now, do we? I'm pretty sure you're not paying Sherlock, and I know I'm not getting any paycheques from the Met. So really - what's holding you back?"

Greg's mouth dropped open again as he processed John's words. "Dear God. I really am an idiot." All of his reservations suddenly fell away as he leaned toward John, reaching for his knee under the table. "You have no idea how badly I've wanted you. Ever since I first laid eyes on you. You're gorgeous, you are. So strong, and you don't put up with Sherlock's bullshit. I admire you so much, John." He ran his hands as far up John's thighs as he could.

.

.

Sherlock let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. He felt dazed. He felt all tingly from having read that line about Greg’s hands stroking John’s thigh.

He looked at his laptop as though it was booby trapped.

What had this Ao3 done to him?! Was he ever going to be able to have a non-sexual thought again in his entire life?!! Was he scarred forever now?!

Why couldn’t these writers run amok murdering people?! It would at least give him something useful to do! Instead of …ugh…and now he couldn’t even sleep without seeing Mycroft standing there looking in the mirror at those bite marks.

Not the way he usually looked at Sherlock. Always with that disapproving tragic air he had. Drama Queen. Bossing him around the whole time.

Oh goodness. He had forgotten his primary objective here!

Mycroft and Greg……. Bite marks on his chest like roses scattered on snow.

Mycroft’s chest. With bite marks. Left there by Greg.

Suddenly a fire roared in his chest.

His Mycie!! No one else was going to mark him! He had no idea if Mycroft even had sex but if he did, then by jove, it would be only with him!

Keep your paws off him Lestrade!

.

.

So it was that he was gnashing his teeth at the thought when Greg called him just then to say he and John were at the pub and maybe he wanted to join cos he must be bored.

Sherlock snarled at him. “Well good. Stay there and leave Mycroft alone.”

Greg looked at his phone utterly baffled. 

What the hell had gone wrong with Sherlock?? Leave Mycroft alone?!

He hadn’t seen the older Holmes in months now. Too long of you asked him, but if the only reason they met was because Sherlock was in danger, then yeah, he would rather not meet him at all.

He was a bit of an eye candy though, Greg thought fleetingly. All that power. Yet all that vulnerability when it came to Sherlock. It was a bit of a heady combination.

John was looking at him and shaking his head. “What did Sherlock say? Just ignore him. You know he is as mad as a hatter. Especially if there is no case. “

Just then Greg’s phone buzzed. He read the message and almost fell off the stool. He showed it to John silently.

{I won’t worry if John doesn’t come back to Baker Street tonight. Wink face.SH}

John paled. He blinked.

He did have a bit of a crush on Greg but he had thought he had hidden it so well. In fact he had not even posted a single fic about them together because his feelings were still a bit new. Unexplored territory.

John tried to play it cool and rolled his eyes at Greg. “Sherlock is really as crazy as a cut snake sometimes.”

“Maybe.” Greg said with a slow smile. “But he is a genius. Maybe he has made some deductions?” And Greg winked.

The bastard just winked at me John thought and blushed at the implications of that wink. He cleared his throat and took a rather large gulp of his drink. Sherlock was going to be the death of him one day…..but nothing ventured nothing gained, right?!

Meanwhile, Greg had tilted his head, put a twinkle in his eyes and was biting his lower lip.

This move had never failed to turn any person of any gender into a puddle. Ever.

And yup. It seemed that even Not Gay people were not immune as he saw John flush to the tips of his ears.

“What the fuck Greg?! Are you checking me out??”

“Naah.” Greg said with an exaggerated sweep of his hand. “Sherlock is putting ideas in my head. And me believing them. Silly me, right?!! I mean, hey you are Not Gay. And even if you were, you live with the brilliant and beautiful Sherlock. Why would you hook up with grey old plodding me?!”

“Because you are normal and kind and fun and can hang out in pubs without deducing people till they want to deck you?” John blurted out before he realized what he was saying.

And then he went red all over till he thought he was going to combust.

“Well, well, well Dr Watson!” Greg said, giving him a cheeky grin. “Who would have imagined.”

Greg looked around the pub and frowned at his glass. He drank it up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “What say we get out of here? It’s getting too noisy to hear what you are saying.” And he winked again.

John couldn’t have jumped off the stool faster or with greater alacrity if his life depended on it. He wore his coat with hands trembling with excitement.

That git Sherlock had somehow managed to do something right for him. Finally!

 

Chapter Text

Yesterday, Mycroft Holmes had been standing with his arms crossed over his chest as his surveillance team alerted him to what was going on. He almost rolled his eyes in exasperation

Mineisbigger

Donthinksoloudly

Everyoneisanidiot

Really Sherlock?! Talk about the most obvious aliases. He smiled to himself. Not like eyesonyou.

He asked his team to allow the TOR browser to be set up and then had the links shared to his secret email account.

Well, secret to Sherlock. His team knew that the ‘brothermine’ email was the most heavily firewalled and encrypted. They knew their boss took absolutely no chances with this.

As a steady stream of links passed over his screen Mycroft realized that Sherlock must have been bored. And while most other people would have looked at porn, his self- absorbed, probably asexual, brat of a brother had googled his own name.

Mycroft got equally bored after a few pages and decided to shut it down for the day.

.

.

This morning was going to be a very busy one so Mycroft was up at the crack of dawn. As he finished his morning tea and realized that he still had ten minutes to spare he remembered that he needed to check in on what Sherlock had been up to last evening.

He opened the stream and the first thing he realized was that Sherlock had discovered AO3.

What the ….how in the…..What?!!

His Mind Palace offered a perfect recreation of Edward Munch’s Scream.

His brain scrambled to try and understand the implications of this.

.

.

He had discovered Ao3 an entire year ago and in the interest of keeping track of popular trends had read many of the stories, his lips curling in distaste at the constant pairing of Sherlock with John.

One day he had gathered the courage to create a pseud so he could post comments and then finally had start posting stories. He needed to get them out of his brain somehow and he enjoyed the idea of hiding in plain sight.

He had decided to hide in plain sight and gone with sherlock221Bismymuse.

He had considered ‘sherlock221Bismylove’ or ‘i_am_sherlocked’ or even ‘no.one.but.sherlock.for.me.ever’ but thought that that was maybe a little bit too much and too long. He had always prided himself on being rather precise but never reveal too much all at once. There should always be a card up one’s sleeve.

So ‘sherlock221Bismymuse’ it was.

He had read with heartache all the hundreds of thousands of stories that everyone wrote about John and Sherlock. Yes, he supposed it made sense in a way. They were always together and they had an undeniable bond, or chemistry, that had had him also itching to kidnap Dr Watson on the very first day and gauge what was going on. He had tried to taunt him and asked if they could expect a happy announcement by the end of the week.

Thanks to Mrs. Hudson and Angelo he knew exactly how often they went out and what they were up to when out of the sight of his cameras.

It was all for Sherlock’s safety of course. 

But somehow it was never enough. It just told him what Sherlock was doing. Not what he was thinking. Or what he was feeling. He wished he could enter his Mind Palace and stalk him there.

Ooops. Did he say stalk? No not really. Observe. That was the word he was going for.

He must be tired today giving in to this Freudian slip.

He needed to download some more of the Three Patch Podcasts to listen to as he ran on his treadmill. Sometimes he despaired at how almost every waking moment of his was occupied with Sherlock. Thinking of him. Worrying about him. Constantly.

Daydreaming about him…..he admitted softly to himself.

He allowed himself to acknowledge this once a month. Never more. He had to compartmentalize these feelings and desires and store them on a distant cold moon in his Mind Galaxy. Like Pandora’s Box, he feared that if unleashed it would devastate his life as he knew it. Everything he had worked so hard to build, all the walls, the moats, defences, all crumbled to dust in a matter of seconds.

And oh boy had those defences been given a good shake to their very foundations when his trawling of Ao3 had thrown up a fic called ‘And the Fever When I am Beside him.’

Those were his early days on the site and although he had of course understood the entire algorithm within minutes and gone through 58,000 JohnLock fics in a day and a half, he hadn’t bothered to do much more.

Why dig into his own wounds on a regular basis?

So he had taken his time to gently explore some fics of Sherlock with Greg which he found to his surprise he did not feel the same kind of chest pain with. Some with Molly were just entertaining because he felt he knew that his brother may or may not be asexual and aromantic but he was quite certainly not heteronormative.

So, as unsuspecting as a newly born lamb frolicking in the green meadows, Mycroft had lazily clicked on the fic written by Scriggly.

It had started off rather well.

For two months, Mycroft and Sherlock lived together and worked together, Sherlock’s old playful, affectionate side creeping out more day after day, slowly eclipsing all traces of the sullen, aggressive, surly genius his little brother had become after completing drug rehab. Mycroft’s loneliness gradually faded with Sherlock’s transformation into his old self, hanging on his big brother’s every word, happiest in Mycroft’s company, never running out of things to talk to him about

.

.

And then 10 minutes later he was sitting there drenched in sweat, working up an actual fever.

Who was this?! How did they know the darkest secrets of his heart?!! Things he had barely allowed himself to even think?!!

He made a note to find scriggly and have them deported.

How in the hells bells had they found out his deepest darkest secret and made it public?!!

20503 hits…….so any people had read it?! And given kudos?? And 135 people had bookmarked it?!

Who were these people?? They had a tag called Holmescest?!!

What the fuck?? Mycroft swore for only the fifth time in his life.

He read the story again trying to find some clues about what this could mean. He had skipped the introduction in his laziness and now it stared at him, as though glowing with neon lights, sirens blaring.

This is a love story.

That is all. Five simple words. With the power to destroy him. And Sherlock.

He read it again, his senses blanked out to the world around him, only white noise, his own heartbeat thudding in his ribs and echoing in his ears.

.

.

Mycroft pulls back to peer at his brother. Sherlock is breathing heavily, hands clutching Mycroft’s forearms. Mycroft’s hands are splayed open in the air on either side of Sherlock’s waist. 

“Sherlock, I haven’t the slightest-” 

Sherlock kisses him. 

Sherlock’s lips are impossibly soft. His tongue licks into Mycroft’s mouth, across his teeth, swirls around his tongue. Mycroft can't breathe. 

Sherlock’s lips move against his ear. “Sorry, Mycroft. Sorry,” he whispers. It sounds like a sob. Something inside Mycroft breaks. Sherlock begins to pull back, clears his throat, adds, “You can send my stuff-” 

Mycroft grabs Sherlock’s waist with both hands, slamming him against the wall. He crowds against him, crushing his mouth against his brother’s, sucking on his bottom lip. He takes Sherlock’s hand and trails his fingers along his own hard length. Sherlock gasps and presses himself flush against Mycroft. Oh. An answering hardness throbs hotly against his thigh. Oh God. 

The room tilts. Mycroft must be dying: It hurts to breathe, his blood is on fire, his skin is on fire, his ears are roaring. He is drunk on Sherlock’s scent, Sherlock’s tongue against his in Sherlock’s mouth, Sherlock’s fingers intertwined with his against the wall on either side of his brother’s precious head, Sherlock’s erection against his, searing hot through their layers of clothes. Mycroft has never been so aroused in his life. He thrusts against his brother as if he wants to flatten him against the wall. Sherlock rolls his hips against Mycroft’s and nibbles on his bottom lip. 

Mycroft’s mind short-circuits. He growls, devours his brother’s mouth as his hands frantically undo Sherlock’s button and tear his trousers open. His brain doesn’t understand he’s sunk down until wood digs into his clothed knees. He desperately yanks down Sherlock’s boxers and swallows him whole. 

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Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod

He thinks he is going to have an anxiety attack. He might pass out. He had never allowed himself to even daydream or fantasize in such detail and here……..out in the open, in black and white, in the Queen’s English, his darkest, most sinful, immoral, wicked, degenerate and perverted, disgraceful, scandalous, deplorable lust filled desires had been spilled out like….….like the four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.

 

The pie had been cut open by Scriggly and the birds were spilling out and singing…..oh my goodness.

What could he possibly do to contain this?!!

He had read with growing panic and distress as he searched for the Holmescest tag.

What he found was enough to sink the Spanish Armada. To fill up the Mariana Trench. To fire a rocket to Uranus.

These people…these writers….they had no filters, no boundaries, no limits to their imagination!

He had a sudden craving for all of them to come true. Well almost all. All those with a happy ending. He read rapidly and indiscriminately and after 3 hours even his colossal Mind Galaxy was reeling.

Some planets had changed orbit, some dark matter was seeping in from the edges and the Moon was about to collapse into a black hole under the weight of all that he was trying to bury on it.

Breathe! He told himself. Breathe. Keep Calm and carry on!

He had barely had 3 hours of sleep that night and the next day he had not even realized that he had guided the Prime Minister to endorse Brexit.

Damn he thought later as he went home. A lot of people were going to be very unhappy but hey, his mind had been on more important things!

He went home and hung the umbrella up, took off his coat, shoes and socks. Then off came the waistcoat, tie, sleeve garters and he opened the top two buttons of his shirt, rolled up his sleeves and poured himself a glass of whiskey and sat down on the sofa, still numb from the shock of what he had read.

He needed to see the patterns, categorize, filter, deduce, cover his tracks, protect, contain, lock the doors…..but …was that even possible?!

This was the internet! The online spaces were like an extension of people’s minds and identities now and he could no more erase them than….he wondered fleetingly if he could ask Zuckerberg to do something about it, after all he mined so much data illegally …….but then he remembered that their own Cambridge Analytica had tied up with him and had played a role in that disaster currently stalking the Presidential house in the country across the pond.

No. he needed to sort this out on his own. The less people knew about it the better……and it was already too many people!!!

He tossed off his drink and went to his office room and booted up his secure encrypted laptop up, pen and paper by his side. He was going to take notes the old fashioned way.

By midnight he had identified the serial offenders.

Scriggly, daasgrrl, dioscureantwins, scarletmanuka, chasingriver

And then there was paxlux and The Physics of Present Tense.

It happens instantaneously, but it takes years.

It’s like looking up at the stars and seeing the light and knowing those stars are so far away in time and space, even if you can see them.

It’s like looking up at the stars and spinning around with your arms out and letting gravity take you.

It happens. Inevitable. Irrevocable.

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Yes yes, lord yes!! Mycroft wanted to weep. That is exactly how he felt about it!

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One afternoon, Mycroft comes home to find Sherlock waiting for him, sprawled on his sofa, scowling vehemently at the telly. He watches Mycroft eat, drinking his way through three cups of tea, and they play a card game they invented, though Sherlock purposefully cheats and Mycroft still wins. He has his violin with him, drawing out Chopin, slow and mournful, a nocturne, and Mycroft listens, sees him thinking through something with fine presses of his fingers and turns of his wrist.

Before he leaves, Sherlock says, “Westermarck had it wrong,” a lazy smirk on his face and Mycroft laughs.

They’re drifting, together, apart, together, apart. They’ve slept together (Sherlock continuously arguing with him) forty-seven times in the last ninety days and they haven’t kissed on the mouth twenty-six times in the last ninety days.

There’s a ring of teeth imprints on Mycroft’s thigh and a spate of bites along Sherlock’s ribs.

If Sherlock pushes on Mycroft, then Mycroft is in return pushing on Sherlock, whether he wants to or not, and they’re drifting, like insensate people pulled by the tide.

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.

And then there were those writers with a one-off misdemeanour.

Sherlock was a warm, heavy weight in his lap, and Mycroft stroked his back, with occasional detours to rub the top of his head or the nape of his neck or behind his ears. It was soothing...and not just for Sherlock, who went boneless and purring at the touch. Mycroft could feel the day's tension flowing away with each stroke and pat.

Sometimes this was all they did: simply shared a comfortable evening together in front of the fire, and then Sherlock went home to his flat with a rare peace in his eyes and Mycroft went to bed and invariably slept a full six hours without waking once in the night.

Mycroft rubbed the top of Sherlock's head again, then stroked firmly along his jawline and the soft edge of his throat. He rubbed under his chin, and Sherlock pulled away just enough to nip his fingers. Mycroft sucked in a quick breath and left his hand suspended in mid-air. Sherlock nipped again, gnawing gently at his fingertips, then darted his tongue across two fingers before biting once more.

When he nuzzled against the placket of Mycroft's trousers, Mycroft didn't hesitate to unbutton and unzip himself. Sherlock nosed curiously at the gap, hindering Mycroft in his efforts to slide his pants down enough to expose his hard cock, but Mycroft simply pushed his head away with a quick, gentle hand and had himself arranged momentarily.

Sherlock took no affront at the rebuking nudge, his entire focus on Mycroft's erection. It might have been an unnerving look--very like a cat stalking small prey--but for the fact that they'd done this so many times before that all Mycroft could feel was anticipation.

"Kitty likes his cream," Mycroft thought, as he often did at this juncture, but would never dream of saying. Some things were simply too cliched for words.

Sherlock did like it, though; that much would be obvious even to a lesser observer than Mycroft. He lapped at Mycroft's erection with a quick, clever tongue, his eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure. No sucking--adult cats didn't suck, so neither did Sherlock--but having his cock licked for upwards of a quarter of an hour was just the sort of pleasurable torture that Mycroft most preferred.

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Mycroft was almost trembling with desire by the time he was done reading this. What would he not give for such a blissful evening even if Sherlock was here only as a cat??!

Now that the initial frantic panic had gone away, he had a gradually dawning comprehension that these people were basically endorsing what he had been feeling for all these years. They were not outing him…well they were in a way but they were saying it was fine. They understood it.

He could calm down. He could take his time to read them all. He could ….he could even enjoy them!  God knows these writers had a wilder imagination than he did. There were truly more things in this heaven and earth than were dreamt of by him!

Thus began his journey, much like Lewis Carroll and Alice Liddle who, with her sisters, had gone on a slow boat ride and had asked for a story.

“And ever, as the story drained
The wells of fancy dry,
And faintly strove that weary one
To put the subject by,
“The rest next time -” “It is next time!”
The happy voices cry.

 

Thus grew the tale of Wonderland:
Thus slowly, one by one,
Its quaint events were hammered out –
And now the tale is done,
And home we steer, a merry crew,
Beneath the setting sun.

 

Alice! a childish story take,
And with a gentle hand
Lay it were Childhood’s dreams are twined
In Memory’s mystic band,
Like pilgrim’s wither’d wreath of flowers
Pluck’d in a far-off land.”

 

Mycroft recited under his breath, the opening poem of Alice in Wonderland, and sighed.

 

If only …..what dreams may come….and he started to read, slowly this time, savouring every word, feeling every gasp against his lips, every swoop in his belly, every touch against his skin as written by these wonderful, amazing, incredible writers.

 

Once he in a while he scribbled notes in his diary.

 

Many of the serial offenders were not quite active anymore but there was LadyGlinda. She was so totally on their side that it moved him to tears, a bit. She always gave them happy endings. Always. And lots of hot sex.

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Sherlock smiled. “No, never. I never wanted anyone, just like you didn’t want George. I counted the days until this would happen – me, living with you, nobody around. Nobody can live up to you. If you reject me, I will never touch anyone else.”

“How could anyone… reject you…” Mycroft certainly couldn’t and he wondered why he had even tried to refuse.

And then their hands pressed each other before they started exploring the other one's body with their fingers, and Mycroft felt smooth skin and hard muscles and then he kissed soft, plush lips and of course he should have known his fantasy man had always been the anticipation of Sherlock as what he was now – an irresistible, wonderful, perfect man.

“I need you,” Sherlock said, and without any experience, Mycroft knew at once what he was asking for.

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Yes, she was so right he thought, letting out a blissful sigh. Sherlock truly was an irresistible, wonderful, perfect man.

 

He read her fic where Sherlock texted him and then …oh be still be poor heart! Came to Paris to meet him?! Paris?! The city of lovers….oh she was so kind, he thought, even though sometimes her description of ….err…their various body parts did have him blushing into his bread pudding.

 

I mean there was no way she could possibly know……could she?!

 

He sat up in alarm at the thought that she may be the pseud of someone who may have accidentally or professionally seen him in his full glory??!!

 

Horror of horrors….could she be Lady Smallwood?!! O_O or Anthea?!!

 

He was almost paralyzed with fear at the thought but then he dismissed those thoughts from his mind. Anthea was surely too busy for such shenanigans and seeing how Lady Smallwood kept wanting his wood (he snorted at his naughty innuendo), why would she write him with Sherlock?!

Unless….oh unless she really WAS a Russian spy and this whole things was a KGB sponsored conspiracy to have him discredited and humiliated and out of a job…..

 

He pondered that for a while, turning the idea this way and that.

 

Eventually he decided that it made no sense. He was just a minor official in the British Government. If the Russians really wanted a scandal they would make the King abdicate because he was in love with an American divorcee….oh wait, been there done that. Hmm…maybe they would make the Prince have an affair with a married woman….oh wait…been there done that too….yeah, no. He was too low down on the totem pole of potentially embarrassing private lives of British citizens. And in any case the British were managing to embarrass themselves just fine without any foreign help thank you.

 

With a heartfelt sigh he turned to re-read the Paris based fic. It Started With A Text.

Awww! That was lovely! He toyed with the idea of leaving a comment…… that is why he had made the pseud anyway.

Should he? Should he not….oh what the hell. He would.

So he left a comment

There is so much I love about this story ! Sherlock making the first move to check on his brother and invite him out to dinner, John despite being so thick wit his Irene obsession but being a good friend after all and OMG did you just move the scene to Paris ?!! What a brilliant setting for a rendezvous with your forbidden lover <3
Favourite lines:

“Who else?” Sherlock played with the half-empty glass in his hands. “He's all I could wish for. So handsome and so fascinating.”
“Is he?” Mycroft seemed to be rather astonished.

(Poor Mycroft and his image issues. Listen to us carefully Mycroft--You are perfect !!)

'I really want to be with him. And not only for a night or two.”
Mycroft looked him in the eyes. “Forever then? If it works out?”

( Aww. First day first show and its a proposition and proposal all in one. Very efficient but then what else do we expect from geniuses right ??)

Adorable. Thank you for writing this lovely story :)

To his utter shock Lady Glinda replied almost right away!!

Awww, thanks for your long, lovely comment! It makes my author's heart beat faster! :) I wasn't aware they are rushing it that much but of course it's true :D But then… what should they wait for? They are brothers, they belong together, and you can't imagine how much I loved to write this bar scene, imagining Sherlock in his fancy clothes and all sophisticated, nervous but willing to throw himself at Mycroft's feet. And yes, silly Mycie, questioning his attractivity. He is wonderful and he is Sherlock's! :)

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Wow. She really felt strongly about them didn’t she. It warmed the cockles of his icy heart.

He moved on to more stories and then he found something called the anatomy series and read the first story.

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Sometimes you didn’t need a Holmesian gift for deduction to know that you were standing on the edge of something awful. Logically she knew that the unknown was more terrifying than whatever was under that industrial strength black plastic.

Greg looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.

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His eyes narrowing by the end of it. Hmm….we are not amused he thought.

He read the next chapter and the next. By chapter four he decided he needed to post a comment.

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This is extremely intriguing indeed! I do hope Mycroft isn't really dead!!!

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And eloquated replied

Oh thank you so so much! This review really made my morning. I'm not going to give anything away, but I'm fairly sure everyone would like him not to be dead (myself included!).

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Hmmm, Mycroft wondered. It was so odd that these writers behaved as though they were not in control of their characters. It made no sense. They spoke of muses and characters as though they were real.

Cogito ergo sum. I think therefore I am.

If they could not control these characters who did they think was going to do it for them?!! Goblins? Huh. He sent another comment

Fingers crossed :) Love Mycroft too much to have him not be alive and interfering in everyone's lives :P

As expected, the author replied:

I do think I'm going to have to write something happy for them after all the Hell they're suffering this time! Let them have at least some small moment of squishy fluffiness!

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Hmm…Mycroft thought once again rubbing his scruffy stubble. He was going to keep an eye on this one. Maybe befriend her via email. See why she kept wanting him to die.

As soon as he thought of that he realized it was a brilliant idea! He was a Holmes after all… 

So he started making slow and steady inroads, by joining a Facebook group these people had, sending emails, he even tried to set up a Tumblr account but it was too incoherent for him to cope with so he gave up on it.

In the meanwhile, somehow he ended up with a plan to co-write a fic with Eloquated.

Ok…he needed to be on his guard and not reveal his OTP right away…so he played along and co-wrote a fic with Sherlock and Molly, with himself and Greg pairing up on the sidelines. He sighed every time he sent an email with his part written up. The things he suffered for Sherlock….

 

Finally, eloquated suggested they write a Holmescest. 

He never got tired of seeing that word in black and white. 

Holmescest. Him and Sherlock. In a relationship. Romantic and sexual. 

He could hardly refuse now could he?! So they wrote up one fic where much of the ‘action’ so to speak took place via letters. His old –fashioned heart was delighted at the idea and he pulled out all the stops and brought in quotes form all his favourite poets and was a bit in love with the fic by the time it was done.

He really wished he could find these writers in real life and recruit them all for MI6. They were ruthless and brilliant people. Sharp and loyal. Oh so loyal!!

He had been keeping his eye on Lady Glinda. She never ever killed him and gave him the most amazing sexy times with his baby brother. Not only that but she had proved her loyalty repeatedly by saying that even if Mycroft came into her bedroom she would send him away cos he belonged with Sherlock.

He had been so moved when he read that comment. He had to blink away his tears. This was true loyalty! If he was the Queen he would have certainly made her a real Lady. Maybe a Duchess.

She had also said often that she didn’t care if everyone died as long as the two Holmes brothers survived and were together! 

In fact he had been so pleased with her that he had gifted her a fic where everyone did die and he and Sherlock lived and together.

There were so many readers who supported this idea. Shadow_Yanice, Purrfectlmt, SammySatine ,Elsa9…..It was so unfortunate that none of these people made the law.

Mycroft went into a little daydream where the law didn’t exist. Wouldn’t Sherlock love that kind of world?!

But he didn’t realize how difficult it would be to control the criminal elements in such a world. He sighed. Alas and alack. His daydreams would always remain only that.

He could deal with it. It had been so many years after all.

But now?! Now what would happen if ……..no, when Sherlock discovered these fics?! It was just a matter of time.

He needed a back-up plan.

Chapter Text

Meanwhile Sherlock was back to brooding.

Maybe John and Greg’s goldfish brains would understand what he wanted them to do and leave him and Mycroft alone.

But now his brain had gone into scientist mode. He needed to explore all the variables. These authors seemed to have no boundaries whatsoever…..or did they?!

Surely they wouldn’t dream of pairing him with someone like….ummm….like say Mrs. Hudson now would they?! Nah. No way.

Nope.

Would they?!!

So of course being Sherlock he had to push boundaries and ask inappropriate questions so he scrolled down and found himself with Mrs. Hudson right away. It had a simple title.

Sherlock and Martha. By Iwantthatcoat.

Yeah. I bet you do. Sherlock thought grimly.

Martha. Mrs. Hudson was Martha.

Of course he knew that. But to see her name written that way without the protection of Mrs. on one end and Hudson on the other made it seem so…so stark. Made her sound like a ….a woman. Not like an old widowed housekeeper at all. It gave her an identity. As a person. Outside of her role in his life. Of being his landlady and his Not Housekeeper.

A woman.

Like he was a man.

It made him feel all weird and tingly to think of her that way.

What would these authors think of next? He thought with a snort.

Him and Mummy?! And he froze as the thought crossed his mind.

No no no no no no no no no no no…HELL NO!!

He was NOT going to search for that because he had this really really odd feeling that he just MIGHT find something and then somehow he knew that Mummy would find out and then ….ugh…that did not bear thinking about.

Suddenly his pairing with Martha Hudson sounded perfectly safe and even interesting.

He took a couple of deep breaths before he gathered the courage to read. He clicked on ‘entire work’ because clicking after every chapter was just too annoying for words. He started reading at superfast speed and stopped at an intriguing paragraph.

“That's very interesting, Sherlock,” he says, not looking up from his notebook. “And I think very illuminative. There seems to be a definite pattern emerging. Your fondness for murder scenes and death seems indicative of your present emotional state, your self-destructive urges and your alienation from regular social interaction.”

Sherlock tugs down on his sleeves where the track marks would still show if one were to look closely enough. He is wearing long sleeves and his usual suit jacket, but he still feels exposed.

“What do you think?”

Sherlock shrugs.

“And of course this pattern, once isolated, can be coped with. Recognize the problem and you are halfway to its solution. But tell me, what do you do for fun? What activity gives you a different sense of enjoyment than the others? What do you find fulfilling? What gives you that certain satisfaction?”

“I go to funerals.”

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Sherlock grinned. Yup. That sounded about right. Fascinating how these authors seemed to know him so well. Creepy…but fascinating!

As he read further he felt something deeply sad sitting on his heart. Mrs. Hudson was alone. Like him. She may drive him crazy with her wittering but he knew she was clever and he knew she was brave. She had led a full life and maybe he should find her someone to be with, besides that old codger Chatterjee who had a wife back home in Bangladesh.

Surely she deserved better?

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She strokes his hair as the tears continue to fall.

“Yes. I cry. I cry for them. I cry for you. I cry at the first snow, the completely unnecessary beauty of a rose. I cry when a man tortures his brother... when he repents and begs forgiveness... when forgiveness is refused as well as when it is granted. To cry is to laugh. To laugh is to cry. And the main thing in life, my dearest, is not to be afraid to be human.”

Sherlock brushes the tears from her eyes and kisses her lips delicately, then far less gently. They head back to her bedroom.

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Dancing vanilla cupcakes!! He whistled when he was done reading it.

These people were worse than serial killers!! Honestly!!

What had he been doing all these days-- trying to find murderers?! He should have been tracking these people instead.

These were crimes against….humanity? Sense and logic?

Could he sue for slander?!

On Mrs. Hudson’s behalf of course. He didn’t care about his own reputation.

But he had a sneaking suspicion that she would only smack him with her tea towel and giggle away rather than be offended at all.

Hmmm… maybe he should tell her and see what she says.

In fact………and that thought suddenly made him sit up straight…..in fact….maybe SHE was the one who wrote that story!! She was cheeky enough to do that. What was that writer’s name? I wantthatcoat.

Isn’t that what she had said to him the day that Mycroft had sent him the black Belstaff he wore everyday now?

Singing angels in cherry pie heaven!! Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable MUST be the truth!!!

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Just then he heard a knock on the door.

“Hoohoo, are you decent?” Mrs. Hudson swept in with a tray. “Got you your favourite cherry pie.”

He just blinked at her, unable to move from the sofa or say a single word.

“Don’t stay up too late and don’t do anything naughty!” she said before dropping him a lush wink.

“Oh Sherlock!” she said in that breathless way. “I am going out on a date and will be back late. See you with your morning tea!” And she leaned in and kissed him on his cheek, waved cheerfully and left.

Sherlock felt as though his entire Mind Palace had wobbled. Seismic force 5……6…. 7 no STOP! He shook his heads to get rid of all manner of evil thoughts.

Mrs. Hudson ALWAYS spoke to him like this. It was just these dirty, dirty writers and their filthy brains and their ideas that were making him imagine things…..but she was a bit flirty with him wasn’t she?!

And…when he had hidden that phone from the CIA man she had put it down her…..the top clothing thing she wore on the inside… her…..the….thing that women wear.

Mrs. Hudson had pulled out the phone from there and given him a cheeky smile….

No. No nononono.

He had seen her making eyes at Greg also. ‘That Handsome Man’ she called him. It was just her exotic dancer past.

That reminded him, he hadn’t seen her video on YouTube in a while……and just as he was about to click on it some part of his still functioning brain reminded him that yeah true but maybe, just maybe, today and right now was NOT the best time to do that?!

He took a deep breath. Ok. He could do this.

He breathed out. He took another breath in and then out.

“Fooo” he said as he breathed out. Lamaze. The breathing technique based on the idea that controlled breathing can enhance relaxation and decrease perception of pain. 

The way he had read in the fic that he had done with Molly when she was in labour. With their baby.

He blinked again.

He must have had sexual intercourse with Molly to make her pregnant, right? Exchanged bodily fluids. Wow. Eww. Gross.

Although it had all sounded quite interesting in the fic. Rather well written he thought and hummed to himself. Molly did smell nice. And he would never ever EVER say it out loud to anyone but he actually liked her baggy jumpers. A lot. They were a kind of comfort zone for him. That is who his Molly was.

He could imagine that they had been best friends since school and she was still helping him with his messy projects. He didn’t have to do any ‘adulting’ around her.

That is why he had reacted so cruelly when she had come all dressed up like an adult person to the Christmas party.

But…….sex with Molly……he pulled an odd face at the thought.

Then his eyes flew open as he remembered something.

Filthy flying fish and chips!! How did these writers know that Molly’s bedroom had been one of his hiding places?!! He really, really needed to tell Mycroft about this massive leak of information.

It HAD to be an inside person. No one else could possibly know about the number of days he had spent in Molly’s bedroom.

Actually neither did Mycroft…… he realized slowly.

Only Molly knew. Hmm…what if she was the one who had written those stories??!

What was that name of the writer again? Blackwithtwosugars?

Hmm….that could be Molly. That would explain why she blushed so much whenever they met. She was writing all this stuff as fantasy fulfillment.

Ugh. What a mess he thought as he kept the laptop aside and lay down on the sofa. He felt as if the entire world was just a seething morass of feelings and desires just writhing around like giant coils of tortured snakes. No! Worse!! It was a seething morass of multi-headed hydras, like the one Hercules had to fight!! 

Even if he lured these creatures from the safety of their online den and used his club to smash the heads, as soon as he smashed one head, two more would burst forth in its place! If he shut down JohnLock, then Sherstrade would bite his toes. If he whacked Sherlolly on the head , it would burst forth with MarthaLock and ugh...there was no hope.

It was all closing in on him as he stood there muttering "Alone protects me...alone protects me....Mycie!! Help!!"

 

His Mind Palace was in a complete disarray. He needed to go in and fix it.

But exhaustion got the better of him and instead of a trance he fell into a fevered dream where Mrs. Hudson kept dancing all over the living room, throwing cherries at him with every twirl while Molly sat on the sofa, pregnant and glowing as he caught and fed her those cherries.

Then suddenly Mrs. Hudson ran out of cherries and started throwing flying kisses at him and unbuttoning her blouse.

Sherlock stirred in his sleep.

No! Mrs. Hudson STOP or England will fall he shouted.

“Sherlock!!!”  Molly cried out loudly just then and Sherlock looked at her and saw to his utter horror that she was having a baby…..but when it came out it was only one large eyeball.

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He got up with a gasp, his heart hammering in his throat and he looked around in a frenzy, at the dark living room. He was on the sofa. Alone.

There were no eyeball babies coming out of Molly’s body and there was no Mrs. Hudson about to launch into a striptease.

Thank goodness for small mercies he thought as he got up to go wash his face. His own eyeballs were drying out from the non-stop reading and probably bloodshot too.

Owww! He yelled, second later and looked down to see what he had stepped on. It was a cherry pit.

He stared at it as though it would confess to its crimes and shuddered and threw it away. Maybe he was still dreaming.

A dream within a dream. A meta- level dream he thought as he went back to the sofa and didn’t even realize when he fell asleep.

 

Chapter Text

Sherlock found himself hovering between consciousness and some kind of a hallucinatory discombobulated state of in-between-ness.

What was real? What was merely a figment of his and the fanfic writers’ imagination?

How could he test any hypothesis without affecting the outcome?

Aristotle had said that there were three types of friendships:

  1. Friendships of utility
  2. Friendships of pleasure
  3. Friendships of the good

The first two types of friendship are easily broken. But the last type are hard to find and develop. A friend will tell you what you want to hear, but a good friend will always tell you what you need to hear.

What if these writers were all telling him what he needed to hear even it was not what he wanted to hear?!

The most baffling mystery was –WHY?!

Why did these people care??

Why did they put him in a series of complicated or fluffy or angst situations with all the people in his life? Why did some give him happy endings and lots of love and sex while some gave him tears and trauma?

What was the purpose of it all?

How did it help either the writers or the readers?

Of course!! He slapped his forehead in annoyance. All he had to do was google the answer….and there it was. He immediately found hundreds of interesting commentaries:

“Young women are so attacked for loving the media they love that it is a radical act for a young woman to love something unashamedly. And transformative fandom is the most radical act of all, because it reverses that “lady thing to respectable thing” process. It takes a piece of media that may not have been designed for young women and makes it for young women.”

Sherlock pondered on all that for a while. The game is afoot he thought.

All things considered, Shakespeare, that most revered of all authors, never wrote a single original plot. He took stories from so many others and re-wrote them in his own style, using his own words, but putting them in the mouths of characters created by others.

Did that not make him the equivalent of a fanfic writer?

Or to put it another way, it made the fanfic writers the equivalent of Shakespeare!!!

He high fived himself at that epiphany and grinned like a mad clown.

Sherlock considered his own extremely steep learning curve since the morning. He had gone from being aghast to curious, from being shocked to interested, from being staggered to fascinated and eventually to acceptance and …perhaps even to willingness.

That was a powerful force out there to get him to undergo this kind of transformation!! That is what it was. He had been transformed by these fics—these Transformative Works!

They were now woven into the fabric of his ‘knowing-ness’. It was like a process of alchemy. He was no longer who he had been at 8.05 am that morning before he had discovered fanworks.

Aristotle had famously rejected Plato's theory of forms, which states that properties such as beauty are abstract universal entities that exist independent of the objects themselves. Instead, he argued that forms are intrinsic to the objects and cannot exist apart from them, and so must be studied in relation to them.

What if he could not find the true meaning of his life without studying it in relation to that of these others who were intrinsically woven into his existence?

He tried to imagine himself in isolation. ‘Alone protects me’ he thought as he imagined that pristine quiet empty world.

No strong arms holding him up during withdrawals, no gentle hands feeding him, no rough voice at the other end of the phone, asking him if he would come to the crime scene.

 

No one standing just behind and beside him at the crime scene, running interference with the media, with random idiots, no one sitting next to him in the cab, no one bringing takeaway, or writing a blog painstakingly with one finger.

No one at the morgue giving him sharp and clean findings that would assist with solving the crime, no one bringing him black coffee with two sugars, no one to notice how he was feeling.

No one to bring him his morning tea. No one to bake him cookies.

His Mind Palace shivered with pleasure at the thought of being so alone.

Isolated. Quiet.

No one interfering, talking, asking questions, thinking too loudly, breathing too loudly…no one to bother him. At all.

Ever.

Someone sighed rather loudly inside his head and he was startled.

Mycroft was standing there, leaning against his umbrella, wiping some imaginary speck of dust from his coat sleeve. He looked slightly apologetic which was possible mainly because he was not real….. Sherlock thought with a scowl.

Did he not hear me say ALONE? What part of it did he not get??

No, it was rather obvious that no man is an island and no matter how often he proclaimed that alone protected him, it was not going to make it true or real.

Why had Mycroft made that his mantra? He needed to find out.

Did John really want to have sex with him? Did Graham? Did Molly?

What did these writers want from him?

He needed to solve this like any other case. Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains……..

But how could he POSSIBLY eliminate the impossible?!

Well, he thought with a shrug. There is only one way to de-bunk or prove a thought experiment isn’t it?!

It was going to involve the use of his real corporeal Transport and put at risk his hidden sociopathic heart.

Of course, a true scientist would not hesitate to sacrifice himself on the altar of the Truth. Jonas Salk had tried vaccines on himself. Koffman had tried out LSD.

Experimenting with fanfics was probably somewhere in the middle of that spectrum…….

Ok.

So….. logically, given the sheer volume of data to disprove (or confirm…) he would have to start with John.

It was a testimony to how befuddled his Mind Palace was that he did not even notice that it was 2 am and John had not yet come home.

He would find John after he had had his morning cup of tea.

Then he remembered his dream and was so frightened that Mrs. Hudson might actually come up with his tea and maybe….start removing her clothes or something, that he locked himself up in the bedroom and booted his laptop back on.

In the meanwhile, (and this case was genuinely a 10 if he had ever seen one that complicated and dangerous and downright compelling,) there was no sleep to be had.

 

He read a few more articles and came up with his own list of why fanfiction gets written:

  1. The story presented has gaps that are asking to be filled
  2. The writers are not representing real-life variations/ non mainstream realities.
  3. People want to explore what a new perspective could do for a fictional character, similar to the way people daydream about their own life choices and wonder…. What if…?
  4. People want to create positive stories because….life itself is difficult and challenging?

So this was part escapism, part subversion, full rebellion and here to stay.

Hmm…now the next mystery to solve was---why him?! He was not fictional!!

Unless…….oh the thing that John was babbling about some months ago---no, no, no NO! He had dismissed it as something idiotic that people kept wanting from him.

‘Wear the HAT Sherlock!’ ‘Put the collar UP Sherlock!’ ‘Sign this BOOK Sherlock.’ ‘ Make a TV series on your cases Sherlock!’

Surely John had not sold the rights of his blog to BBC?!!!

He gripped his curls in frustration. Why had no one told him this?!! What was Mycroft doing , allowing these cases and his little brother’s LIFE to be sold like a tawdry rag for the voyeuristic pleasure and consumption of the teming unwashed millions and the shoals of goldfish swimming the murky seas of society?!!!

His life was being televised?! And fanfic writers were filling in the gaps and offering him alternatives. That was the only explanation.

He had been worried about them spying on him but instead his own life story was being beamed into their homes every week!!!

He sat there, simply paralyzed with inaction at the revelation of this impossible truth.

Chapter Text

He wondered anew if he had fallen into an alternate universe. Did he possibly dare to check if BBC was sharing the details of his cases and his life with the whole world? 

Was he ready for that other dimension to open up barely 24 hours since he discovered fanfiction?

Had he really read all those fics in less than 24 hours or was this an unusually vivid and grotesque nightmare? After all, time passes at a different pace in the dream world. For a second he felt a sense of fleeting relief. None of this was real!! But then he remembered the story from Indian mythology which says that we are all a dream of the creator and when it wakes up we will all be destroyed, as easily as a dream is lost to us when we wake up. They call this ‘Maya’ meaning illusion, and hence preach detachment from all material things and even people.

He spent a few seconds imagining multiple parallel and alternate universes inside a dream that he was having while himself being inside someone else’s dream. The idea made his brain pulse in waves of what he would have classified as an intellectual orgasm, if he had ever known a physical one and recognized it for what it was.

He was not sure if he made a conscious decision or just accidently typed the words ‘alternate universe’ into the search site……… and what in the billions of blue blistering barnacles was this??!

The screen was drowning in an avalanche of AU fics.

He could not fathom this.

These authors were already creating storylines in his life that simply did NOT exist. Was that not enough that they now had to create alternate universes also?!

Honestly. Human beings were the scariest thing in the universe.

In all the universes. In every parallel multiple alternate universe tied up with wormholes. Inside someone else’s dream.

He could not even understand what some of the names of these alternate universes meant.

Dark!Lock

DragonLock 

FemLock

KidLock

NarniaLock

Omegaverse.

PirateLock

PotterLock

SickFics

Soulmate AU

StripperLock

TeenLock

VampireLock

 

His head was beginning to reel again.

This was an endless list! There were more alternate universes than even Stephen Hawking could have imagined. He took a deep breath. He needed to do this scientifically.

Begin at the beginning as the King had told Alice. And go on till you come to the end: then stop.

It had been very wise advice then as it was now. So he would try out one of each and see if he wanted to read more.

Dark!Lock it was. He found one that was short enough to read all of it. ‘Senses’ by phipiohsum475

Sherlock looked at his fingers; at the scalpel they held. He felt the ridges of the metal and saw the clean sharp edge of the blade. He ran the pinkie finger of his opposite hand across the metal heat, watching the skin divide at the slightest touch of the tool. Droplets of blood bloomed, sweet and delicate, a welcome, loving reminder of his childhood.

He pressed softly into the flesh beneath him. The tang of blood drifted into his nostrils, and he breathed in deeply, relishing the way the scent poured into his lungs, then the tainted air flowed into his heart, and pumped into the rest of his body, mixing with his own blood. He drew the line longer, deeper, to allow the blood to flow, the smell engorging his mind with sensation.

The gasp of his victim, muffled by the gag, resonated in his ears, the sound traveling down the canals to the drums. The gurgle of pain vibrated sweetly; the auditory connection sent waves of pleasure through his body that raised his flesh, the hairs standing on ecstatic edge, bumps ridging the lining the largest organ of his body.

The blood ran freely from his victim now, rivers dribbling down the man’s sides. He dipped his head to lap at the blood, licking a broad stripe across the deep wound he’d created. The iron shocked his taste buds, the bitterness alarming his senses, his mouth blossoming with the gorgeous flavor of submission and fear.

He continued carving his victim, watching how beautifully the deep red contrasted the tanned skin underneath him. The man struggled, but not the struggle of escape. He struggled against his own pain, against the weakness of his own traitorous body. Sherlock watch him attempt to still himself under the blade, trying to let him mind control his body, and failing.

Sherlock finished his artwork, a stylized symbol of his own design. The letters ‘SH’ could be carefully discerned within the line work skull, and the reddened flesh angrily protested its treatment. Sherlock cleaned the blade carefully, then loosed the restraints. He removed the gag from his victim, whose pain twisted his face, though he remained silent. Sherlock treated the deep wounds with alcohol, listening to the hiss of his victim, then bandaged the large ornamental artwork.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered.

Mycroft looked back, the pain in his eyes, but reverence shining through.

“I’ve always been yours.”

.

.

Sherlock sat there with his mouth literally hanging open, reeling with shock.

What the HELL was that all about?! What went on inside the brains of these writers? Where did all this come from?

And Mycroft?! He felt something odd at the thought of having him tied up and carving his initials into him. Should he add this to his list of experiments? He wondered how much time he would get to carve into him before he was arrested and thrown into some kind of life imprisonment, probably in solitary……..No, this would stay on the fantasy trial list but not on the real trials one. Sad but practical.

Although….the idea of having Mycroft under his control was giving him a strange fimbly feeling. A tingling down his spine.

A little frisson of……excitement?

He catalogued it all and put it away in that large and chaotic room Mycroft occupied inside his Mind Palace.

Chapter Text

As he was going ahead alphabetically he decided to check out DragonLock.

He scrolled down, reading the summaries at superfast speed. Here was one that sounded interesting. ‘Ending The Night’ by MIstressMycroft. (He wasn’t sure how he felt about the writer’s name, but by now he had become a bit de-sensitized to such details.)

DI Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes first met when Sherlock wandered onto one of NSY’s crime scenes high on drugs. After Sherlock overdoses and begins his recovery underneath this brother's watchful eye; Greg finds out there is something special about the Holmes brothers.

Hmm…that was rather intriguing. But why would they imagine him as a dragon?!

In what way did that change the potential for relationships or his interactions? Mycroft still seemed to be Mycroft with his annoying interference and overbearing ‘big brother’ behaviour and all the fics ended up pairing him romantically and sexually with John anyway.

Why this need to not have him be human?

He felt as though he was missing some critical clue. Something central, something core this entire enterprise. Oh well, he needed to gather more data obviously! What about this? ‘Not Exactly Fire and Death’ by spooklock

Sherlock is accidentally transformed into a dragon through some shady experimentation with some previously undiscovered plants he brought back from a case in New Zealand. Previously thought to be hallucinogens, the plants turn out to have qualities which nobody anticipated. Sherlock and John grow closer as they attempt to navigate and adapt to Sherlock's new form. Domesticity, angst, comfort, fluff, a bit of casework, general shenanigans, friends to lovers, and dragonlock being bathed adorably by a very gentle John.

 

Huh there they went again, Sherlock thought to himself. Even as a dragon he ended up in a relationship with John. 

Here was one more. ‘The Dragon And The Kiss Of Love’ by  LadyGlinda

A lost invitation card leads to a vicious curse. Only a kiss can make it undone. But who will kiss a dragon? 

Sherlock started speed reading as always, wondering if he was going to end up kissing John here again. Borrrring……Then something caught his eye.

,

He was best friends with John, the groom's son, and Greg, son of the head of the royal guard. And Molly, the gardener's daughter, took a deep liking to him, and he was the pride of old Mrs Hudson, the cook.

But nobody loved him more than his big brother Mycroft. He had an ocean of love for his little brother, and he needed and possessed a realm of patience for his never-ending questions.

.

.

That was so true.

Mycroft did have an ocean of love for his brother. No matter how annoying Sherlock found him now as an adult, because he just KNEW that when Mycroft looked at him he saw an 11 year old brat and not a grownup 26 year old genius. The worst part was that Sherlock also felt like an 11 year old brat in front of Mycroft. He wanted to stick out his tongue at him and rub a sticky spoon on his suit …and maybe drop an eyeball in his teacup….Sherlock snorted with delight at the idea.

Somewhere inside his head he was stuck at that age….he wanted to be stuck at that age….. when his big brother had still been a fond and tactile presence in his life. Ruffling his hair, putting his arm around his shoulders. Even letting him sit on his lap sometimes. Letting him get into his bed at night, curling his icy cold toes between Mycroft’s legs to get warm and tucking his face into Mycroft’s chest, the soft satin of his pajama top curiously addictive as he rubbed his cheeks on it while Mycie patted gentle circles on his back and soothed him back to sleep from the nightmare he had fled his room to escape.

He came out of his little reverie and blinked. He read on.

.

.

His mind produced images of the past sixteen years he had been allowed to spend with the brother he loved so much it hurt. He had taught him to speak, to walk, to read, to calculate. He had been there when Sherlock had hurt his knees or cried over an animal they couldn’t save. When Sherlock had got older, he had taught him how to dance and to be polite even when he was surrounded by annoying people (and frankly, most of the highborn people were very annoying).

Sherlock was his one and only.

And lately… he had noticed how handsome he really was. How wonderful. And there had been a strange stirring in him when Sherlock was pressed against him at night, and a part of his body had shown unwelcome movements, but he had forced it down with his strong will. It was just a biological reaction after all… Nothing unusual about it but shameful nonetheless.

.

What unwelcome movements?! Like seizures??

Mycie didn’t have epilepsy as far as he knew. Oh was it borborygmi? Digestion? He supposed even someone as perfect as his older brother did have to digest his food like regular humans…..Hmmm. Weird.

Reading on.

.

'If  he kissed me, I would turn back into a man the next instant', shot through his mind and he blushed. But of course this was not possible. A brotherly kiss was not what his crazy aunt had meant with 'true love's kiss'. Fleetingly he thought, 'And it's not what meant, either' and then he could feel something… very weird appearing to move in him; it felt as if he had swallowed a large, living creature that now turned in his stomach, only that the feeling wasn’t limited to his stomach. It spread out into his limbs, his throat, his brain…

“It's almost noon,” Molly said innocently. “It won't even happen, will it?” She sounded rather disappointed. Of course – she would only ever get to kiss Sherlock if he really turned into a dragon…

He didn’t answer. He was sweating now. His hair seemed to stand on end. His fingers were cramping.

“Oh. Oh God…”  

Well, she had noticed after all… “Run,” he rasped out. He remembered all the good times they'd had but the memories of days in the sun and laughter and tickling each other with grass were starting to blur already.

“No! I will kiss you and save you because I love you!”

But I don't love you…  Strange… He had never thought about this. Did the dragon have to have loved the person who kissed him while he still had been a human? Or did only the person who delivered the kiss had to love him?

But it didn’t matter, did it? Because the dragon wouldn't remember anything of his previous life. Or would he? Would someone as smart as Sherlock be able to connect with his human memory? Mycroft had helped him build a mind palace to store all the knowledge he had collected over the years. Would he be able to go back into it and find all the fond memories? Would that even help?

Molly screamed and Sherlock realised his hands had changed into claws. And then his trousers exploded from his body as his legs and torso grew bigger, and Molly glanced at what was revealed – and at the same moment got covered by large scales that shimmered like silver. His teeth grew longer and his face, oh God, his face! It felt as if his skin was ripped from his skull!

And then there was a light that blinded him, then darkness, and then all thoughts vanished in pain and dizziness and - hunger.

.

.

Sherlock paused, almost breathless at the description of himself turning into a dragon. He went back to reading, as fast as though he was on horseback, giving chase to a fearsome dragon himself. Faster, faster, galloping, flying. Chapter 2 then 3 then 4.

What in the curdled chocolate milkshakes was this about?!! WHAT ???!

Mycroft was his true love?? MYCROFT?? His OH SO annoying- superior- I am the smart one- I know EVERYTHING- don’t be SILLY Sherlock- I run the world- and I buy you your clothes- because you are a foolish foolish boy- and don’t make me call Mummy—big brother?!! That same one?? 

Huh….the imagination these writers had.

.

.

“Come to me.” Sherlock slung his arm around his brother's neck as soon as he had sat down. “Can you stay with me for a while?”

“I will stay with you all day if you want.” He had already told his mother and Greg he didn’t wish to be disturbed, and he had taken care of all important matters for today.

“How about tonight?”

“Tonight you will be sleeping beside me, as you've always done. If you want…”

Sherlock's heart melted at the slight insecurity in his brother's eyes. He thought Sherlock had changed his mind about them being together? No way… “Of course I want that. And now I want you here. With me.” He didn’t speak more plainly but he didn’t have to.

Mycroft felt his cheeks flush. “Are you sure?”

“Lock the door…”

Mycroft swallowed and got up to do so. He had never touched another person intimately. Neither had Sherlock.

But now they would find out what it meant to make love.

.

.

Sherlock’s jaw dropped so fast and so far it almost hit the laptop keyboard.

He felt completely discombobulated. Maybe he had genuinely slipped into some alternate dimension. He didn’t remember hearing the TARDIS, but surely this could not be really written down in black and white on Planet Earth.

Mycroft. Making love.

To him.

A small thought that was nagging him and which he was refusing to fully acknowledge was that the idea was not as horrifying to him as the awareness that it OUGHT to be horrifying.

Because …well…..…it was taboo and wrong and ….surely it was illegal?

But …duh….so was the 7% solution. So was the shot of cocaine injected into his bloodstream. The hissing sound of the cool white liquid entering his hot veins….those little molecules rushing around his brain, sharpening the edges of his deductions…..taking away the pain…the noise….the emptiness…..He caught himself almost drooling at the thought.

No no no. This was wrong. He should not be thinking about drugs. He should definitely not be thinking about making love to Mycroft.

And he should most certainly not be thinking of Mycroft as drug.

He visualized Mycroft entering him. Through his skin by osmosis. Through his lungs as molecules of oxygen. He was already all over his Mind Palace.

Would it really make such a big difference to the world if he entered him physically?

He blinked rapidly, looking far too much like a goldfish than he would have liked.

He was tired now. He was overwhelmed. He rubbed his eyes and thought how nice it would have been if Mycie was really here just to hold him and soothe him to sleep. But he wanted to know what happened next…He really wanted to know.

.

.

Time seemed to stand still while Mycroft was nibbling and kissing at his skin, engulfing his suddenly stiff nipples with the hot wetness of his mouth, and Sherlock felt his arousal grow with every passing second. But he didn’t want this to be so one-sided, so he tore at Mycroft's clothing until his brother was naked as well, half undressing himself, half being freed from any fabric by Sherlock's now impatient hands.

And they were devouring each other with their eyes for a moment until Sherlock couldn’t help but pulling at his brother's large, erect penis, making him moan deep in his throat, and the next moment the tender petting turned into frantic grabbing and hungry touching and greedy kisses, and somehow they ended up on his bed with their heads on each other's crotch, and Sherlock licked and sucked his brother's manhood and had his own treated the same way, and he knew they were both not far away from feeding each other with their intimate essence.

.

.

He just stared at the screen. He wondered if he could run down the streets, screaming and waving his hands in the air, his dressing gown flapping behind him.

Who were these writers, he wondered for the millionth time since the day had begun.

Did they have normal lives?? Did they have sex with their siblings and elderly housekeepers?? Did they all have backyard full of butchered dead people? Were they all putting LSD into the water supply?

Fanfiction was not just subversive….it was insane. It was full of flaming lunatics. His patterns and deductions about the stories inside this la la land were truly just the tip of the iceberg. Merely scratching the surface. Barely making a dent into the magnificent madness that lurked online in these spaces.

He was lost in thought for a while as he pondered on the infinite multiverses that existed inside the head of each fanfic writer and reader. He had always fancied his Mind Palace as being extraordinarily complex. Nothing compared to Mycroft’s Mind Galaxy of course, but still, something way more labyrinthine and complicated than that of the goldfish.

But….now he was beginning to wonder if that was true.

If these regular ordinary people wandering the streets, looking so regular and ordinary and humdrum, could hold simultaneously the knowledge and plotlines and ideas of these hundreds of alternate universes……and ALSO holding down jobs, having relationships, surviving, laughing, loving……..then who were the real geniuses?

Suddenly he had a deep craving to find out what that felt like. Maybe he could experiment with writing some fanfics?

He thought for a bit. First he needed a protocol to examine what the others were writing. 

He would conduct this trial using his Transport. He would also occasionally refer to fanfiction to look into variables.Should he plan a randomized double blind study? 

He pondered on that for a bit.  He could call everyone to 221B and make them stand around in the living room, like that odd detective Hercule Poirot often did. They would all be blind-folded, including himself and then he would go around kissing everyone. He could keep a chart on a clipboard and note his findings. He tried to visualize that. 

He would need to grade the kisses on their feel. Soft or rough. Mycroft did seem to use a chapstick regularly so his lips might be the smoothest. Maybe he kept a tube of Vaseline in his pocket. Nah. What would he need that for? Hmm…maybe Molly’s lips would be softer? He thought about that for a bit. He was rather curious to find out. 

He wasn’t sure how many women John had kissed in the short while that they had known each other. What if some germs were still lingering on his skin…..and Greg would smell of the cigarettes Sherlock knew he still sneaked once in a while despite the two of the having promised to give up and wear patches. Well….he had also sneaked in a couple last week. In fact Mycroft had offered him one. 

Mycroft’s mouth would taste of tea, he thought suddenly. Darjeeling. Or maybe English Breakfast Tea. And maybe mint. Mycroft hated the smell of smoke and was always chewing mint. Sherlock licked his lips as he tried to imagine what that would taste like. If he was close enough to kiss him, he was sure he would smell Mycroft’s cologne also. A combination of cedarwood, vetiver and maybe a hint of cinnamon. 

He took in a deep breath. Yes of course, the kiss would need to be judged in totality of the experience wouldn’t it?

So what else would he judge a kiss by? He frowned. He had no idea. 

These fics had some rather messy sounding kisses. Lots of tongues running over lips and …ewww……inside the mouth.

All that writhing and sucking and tasting …..…as if they were a pair of copulating eels. 

In fact male dolphins sometimes used eels to masturbate. Ugh. 

If he had to be an animal he would prefer to be an octopus which has a long, detachable penis, so that when a female swims by, he could send it off to mate with her. It might be interesting to be a banana slug which is a hermaphrodite and can mate with itself. The ideal combination. Of course, when they do mate with another member, sometimes they have to bite off the other one’s penis.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the idea.

Imagine having someone’s penis in your mouth. Holy vegan butterscotch ice creams.

That would taste decidedly odd……..the texture of a dog’s chew toy and wobbly and …….sausage-y. He shuddered at the thought. He really preferred fish and chips over hotdogs and burgers and buns.

Maybe he would prefer to be a porcupine. Their mating ritual involves drenching the female in urine from seven feet. Also, porcupine sex is very rare as females are only receptive to sexual advances for between eight and 12 hours per year. That was a very reasonable ratio in his opinion, between time devoted to sex and time devoted to intellectual pursuits.

Why were humans so odd? Why was evolution so inconsiderate?  Why would it make procreation so complicated and …and so..….fluid-y? 

The whole dance of communication and relationships people went through to get to the person they wanted to kiss every single day---just thinking of it exhausted him. 

You had to smell right, look good, even if beauty was a social construct ……., dress well, talk properly, be polite, charming even, have power of some kind whether it was money or connections, acquire the right accessories—jewellery, cars, watches, whatnots. And then there was the entire mating dance ritual. Go out for dinner and drinks. Talk. Talk some more. Laugh at each other’s painfully pointless jokes. Drink some more. If all that ‘worked’ to mutual satisfaction then eventually you would end up in some room on a bed exchanging lots of bodily fluids.

He shuddered. Did he really want to invest in this level of physical contact and mental engagement with any of these people? 

What if he kissed John and then John touched his cock?!! 

What if he asked Greg to massage his back and …and then Greg touched his cock?! 

No way. He needed to tell them all that this was only ‘phase one’ of the trial. No one was to touch him. Only he would initiate the touches. 

Would they agree?

 

He pondered on that for a bit. Well…all these writers seemed to think so…oh wait! 

Was it because of the way the actors were portraying them on TV? 

Oh of all the squalid soft boiled eggs……..why did John have to do that? He had to check out the TV series now before he could take a decision on his study. 

It would be rather embarrassing if he called everyone for a blindfold circle kiss and it turned out to be a wild goose chase.  After all a good study ensured the safety and consent of its participants. He also needed to ensure the integrity of his data. 

So his methodology would need to take into account secondary information from the TV series first. How utterly tedious.

 

He was sure the actors would be mediocre and stilted and idiotic and swan around saying pointless and nonsensical things, wearing ‘work’ clothes and prancing around fake looking dead bodies……he sagged at the thought of having to suffer through all that.

Chapter Text

Meanwhile, a few miles into the night, John was lying down next to Greg, fucked out of his mind by that smug bastard who was grinning away at him like the Cheshire Cat. Four times in two hours. That had to be some kind of a record for men of their age.

“So…..Not Gay huh?” Greg asked with a wicked chuckle.

John rolled his eyes. “Well no one ever asked the follow up question.”

Greg laughed.

John smiled. He could get used to this laugh. It sounded like rich hot chocolate sprinkled with cinnamon……and hell, he could get used to his smile too. As well as his lazy wink. Not to forget his clever tongue. Or his taste. And he could lie down here next to him for a year and a day and never leave.

John closed his eyes in panic. Bloody hell. Was he falling for Greg?

Greg got off the bed and ambled to the bathroom, turning to drop a wink over his shoulder because he just knew that John would be watching him. He laughed when John blushed.

This was better than he had imagined, Greg thought to himself. He had never expected, though he had hoped, that John would get his head out of his arse (or rather Sherlock’s arse) and pay attention to him. Now that they had crossed this line, he wonders what else John may be amenable to.

Go slow he told himself in the mirror. Don’t spook the man. After all he has had only a couple of years with Sherlock. You have had five years to fine tune your fantasies.

He nodded. Yup. Definitely not going to bring it up till at least the fifth date. Or maybe at least the fifth time we have sex.

He grinned at his reflection. Which may well be in the next hour or so…….

.

.

Two hours later as both of them lay down next to each other again, sore but satisfied, Greg propped himself up on his elbow and traced the line left by a drop of sweat down John’s neck, over his chest.

John shivered and groaned. “Greg I can’t. I don’t think I am going to walk straight for a week you bastard. Don’t even try anything right now.”

Greg grinned at him. “Are you complaining Dr Watson?”

John turned to look at him. “I have never seen you smile so much do you know that? And never ever heard you laugh.”

“Yeah well, we only meet at crime scenes and Sherlock would bite my head off if I smiled, let alone laughed.” Greg paused. Then he continued in a softer voice. “Anyway, you never really noticed me much did you? Can’t blame you. Sherlock does have that effect on people.”

John swallowed. Shit. Sherlock.

He would notice and he would most certainly deduce. And bloody hell, he was the one who told him to go home with Greg so he definitely knew and oh jesus he was never going to let him hear the end of it.

Greg was watching his face and was able to read almost every thought he had. Well, he was Scotland Yard’s finest and he had spent five years ‘learning’ from Sherlock.

He kept his tone very casual and asked John. “So….you and Sherlock….?”

“For fuck’s sake Greg!” John said, in a weary tone. “Don’t you start! There is no ‘me and Sherlock’. You of all people should know better! How long have you known him? Five years? Longer? How come there isn’t a ‘you and Sherlock’?”

Greg looks at him thoughtfully. “Hmm. The lady doth protest too much. Don’t tell me you have never ever thought of him that way?”

“And what if I have?” Damn it John thought to himself. That came out way more petulantly than he wanted. “Haven’t you?”

“Maybe.” Greg said with a half- smile.

John raised his eyebrows. “And?”

“And nothing. If wishes were horses…. and all that.”

John’s mouth was twisted in disdain. “I don’t think he even thinks about sex, the bastard. And why the fuck are we having pillow talk about Sherlock? Isn’t it enough that he is in my face 24/7 already?”

“Yeah sure.” Greg said soothingly. “We can talk about other things…….so.....what do you think of Mycroft?”

John almost choked.

Greg laughed till he had tears streaming down his cheeks. “Your face!!!” He finally gasped when he was able to breathe.

“Fuck you.” John said, but there was no anger behind it. “How am I supposed to fall asleep now?!”

It was 2 am and John wasn’t sure if he should make a move to go back home, when he didn’t really want to. Greg saw him fidgeting and rumbled.

“Hey John, get your ass back in bed. Unless you have to get back to Sherlock….” and he dropped him a very suggestive wink.

“You know Greg.” John said, in a deadpan voice. “It almost feels like you WANT me to have sex with Sherlock the next time instead of with you.” Then he blushed. “I mean. Next time as in…if we do…”he cleared his throat.

Greg’s eyes glinted. “Of course there will be a next time. I don’t do one night stands John. There will be a next time. And if you want …maybe a time after that too. And another.”

John could feel himself flush beetroot red.

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Greg woke up early, force of habit, although it was a Sunday. He looked at John sleeping in his bed and smiled to himself. One down, two to go.

He put the kettle on for tea and as he sat there waiting he reached for his phone, checked for any important messages and then opened some of the pdfs he had downloaded ages ago.

He liked to begin his day with happy thoughts. He would start with ‘Sharing John Watson’ by CaptainLevi:

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"Stop it" Sherlock suddenly said, startling Greg out of his thoughts.     

"What? What is it now? Am I thinking too loudly for your highness?" Greg answered, unable to hide what had slowly grown into resentment against the handsome, genius, bloody perfect Mr. Sherlock Holmes, with his shiny curls and his gorgeous alien eyes. God! Greg had to get a grip and stop acting like a bloody teenager

"You're ogling him again" Sherlock complained.

"I am not!" Greg whispered in a bit of a panic. He looked at John, still kneeling by the body and assessing its state. He clearly hadn't heard anything. Greg sighed in relief.

"You have to get over this ridiculous crush you've got on him, he is mine Greg, and I don't like sharing.”

“I know.” Greg said, unable to keep himself from continuing to stare at the graceful curves of John’s body “But I can’t get over it. I want him, and I need to get it out of my system.”

Greg had to let it out and confess to what had been driving him insane for the past couple of months. He wanted John Watson at any cost. Just one night, one chance to have that body. It wasn’t that he had feelings for him or anything, it was just good old undeniable, desperate force of lust for a particular army doctor.

He wanted him in his bed, under him or above him, to worship and devour his body, not necessarily in that order. The only thing standing between him and that was bloody Sherlock Holmes, who happened to be obsessively in love with the man, who, of course, reciprocated.

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes at him, ignoring the confession completely, and went on to deliver deductions to a love-sick mesmerized John, who looked like he was about to snog him right there.

“I might have an idea” Sherlock whispered to Greg with a strange smile before he followed John out of the crime scene.

“What sort of idea?” Greg heard himself calling after him.

“Something you might like. Come by Baker Street at 8, I’ll text you the details.” he said and turned around to catch up with a clueless John.

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Greg made himself a cup of tea, helped himself to a couple of chocolate digestives and sat down again to read another feel-good fic he had saved on his phone.

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‘The One’ by sherlock221Bismymuse

John stood by the window overlooking the garden, a mug of hot tea in his hands, steeped to perfection, watching the new flowers blooming, steam rising from his drink, savouring the rare moments of silence in the crazy place of bedlam he was grateful to call home.

The quiet was mainly because Sherlock was still asleep. No one generated as much chaos as he did, even now, at the ripe old age of 55. Ever since he had seen the Avengers movies with Rosie, John had been secretly convinced that his former- best friend- now- lover of two decades was in fact Loki come to live amongst them.

Fortunately so had Thor or Odin or whoever it was from Valhalla, in the form of Gregory Lestrade. Greg. The grey wolf who led their pack, even though to an outsider it may seem as though Mycroft was in charge. In their heart of hearts everyone knew that it was only Greg whose roar would finally silence Sherlock, and whoever controlled him controlled their pack.

And what a pack they were!

John grinned as he always did when he thought of the four of them and the bizarre, insane, simply un-believable fact that somehow, somehow in this inexplicable and mystifying universe they had found each other, managed to stay together and been magnificently in love with each other for longer than most conventional couples who say ‘I do’ were managing to survive.

It had been fifty fucking shades of fantastic. Or as Greg would have growled—‘fifty shades of fantastic fucking’’ and then Mycroft would have blushed to the tips of his posh ears, still adorably coy about using such language.

As he was standing there daydreaming, John felt a pair of warm, strong arms reach out and hug him from behind, slowly and firmly.

‘Morning Greg’ he said without needing to see who it was. He knew the touch of each of his lovers better than he would probably recognize his own hands in a line up. ‘Cuppa tea?’

‘Mmhmm’ said Greg, sleepily.

All those decades of overtime and late nights and physical exertion while working at the Scotland Yard meant that he was the one among them all who really and truly savoured his late mornings and lazy days after retirement. He simply loved the luxury of being able to wake up without an alarm and to get the day started as slowly as he wanted.

‘So, today is the day?’ He asked John, his voice still gorgeously husky from having just woken up.

‘Yes it is sweetheart’ John grinned. ‘Your suit is ready. Sherlock is going to throw a fit when he sees it though’, he warned him with a wink.

Greg groaned. ‘I am not awake enough to think about that right now John! 20 years and he is as possessive as he was in the beginning. How much will be enough for him? Bloody bottomless pit of want that he is’ he muttered and cursed.

John calmly took a sip of his tea knowing that this was all just a sham.

Greg absolutely and unabashedly lived for the days when Sherlock was in a gloriously possessive mood and demanded Greg’s full and complete attention and secretly John also looked forward to those occasions when Greg would call Sherlock ‘Sunshine’ and ruffle his hair and Sherlock would lean his head into his hands looking like a giant and mostly feral cat.

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Oh this fic always made him feel so good. So warm and comforted. Like drinking a cup of perfectly brewed sweet tea on a quiet Sunday morning, after having had some fantastic sex. Five times. In one night.

Ah this fic was a favourite too. ' The Adventure of the Extended Family' by EbonyKnight, RomanyWalker.

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How did I get here?  Greg Lestrade wondered bemusedly as Mrs Holmes passed him a slice of Victoria sponge on a bone china cake plate. ‘Here’ was wedged between his lovers on the sofa in their parents’ lounge, ‘meeting the parents’ for the second time in his life, and the terror it inspired outstripped that of meeting his former in-laws all those years ago by several orders of magnitude. Really, who would not be afraid of meeting the people who had spawned the Holmes brothers?

Each had tried to prepare him in his own way, but Mycroft’s placating ‘it’s only Mummy you need to watch out for,’ and Sherlock’s scoffed ‘you regularly sleep with the most dangerous man in the country but are afraid of our elderly parents?’ had done little to help.

“Thank you,” he said at his politest, and made sure to smile. Mycroft had warned him that she was the brains of the outfit, so Greg deliberately avoided eye contact with her, lest she read the real nature of their relationship in the crease between his eyebrows.

She beamed and cupped Greg’s cheek. “We’ve been looking forward to the boys bringing their sweetheart home. I can’t tell you how pleased we were when Mikey told us. Not a regular set-up, of course, but my two have always been very different from other boys,” she said, taking the armchair beside her husband.

Greg looked at Mr Holmes and would have sworn that, for just a moment, something knowing had crossed his expression. He cleared his throat, groping desperately for something to say, but was saved the necessity when Sherlock petulantly demanded, “Where’s my cake?”

“In the kitchen, dear,” Mummy replied, looking at her youngest son with fond exasperation. “You’re not a guest so you can fetch your own. Now, Greg, which room will you want to sleep in? Mikey said that you usually share with both of them so that Sherlock doesn’t sulk, but I’m afraid none of the beds here is big enough for three.”

“Must you, Mummy?” Mycroft asked with a much put-upon sigh, and Greg pressed against his thigh in solidarity.

“Yes, dear; I need to know where to put the supplies, because I doubt you packed any. Without that nice girl you have working for you I’d still need to be bringing your dinners up to London, and Sherlock's too busy playing detective to think of these things. I won’t have your Greg coming here and being inconvenienced.”

Mr Holmes reached out with a visibly arthritic hand and patted Mummy’s leg. “Now, Minnie, don’t embarrass the boys in front of Greg.”

“I’m not embarrassing them, Donald; we’re all grown-ups, aren’t we? And Greg’s one of the family.”

“That’s very kind,” Greg said, feeling something of a warm glow at being so casually accepted by Mrs Holmes, despite his abject mortification at having his sex life openly discussed by his lovers’ parents.

“Nonsense, Greg. Now, dinner won’t be ready for another hour yet, so you eat your cake. I’m going to sort the bedrooms out,” she declared and stood up, bustling out of the room.

Mr Holmes watched his wife go fondly before turning his attention to Greg. There was definitely something knowing in his eyes, and Greg felt a sinking sensation in his gut; the expression he was wearing was one he was very familiar with, given that both of his lovers wore it regularly, usually right before announcing an astounding insight. “I can’t say how relieved I was when Mycroft told us about you. I needn’t worry about them being indiscreet anymore. You must know how impulsive Sherlock is, and Mycroft’s never been able to tell him ‘no’. I don't need to tell you how much I've worried over the years.”

On either side of him his lovers tensed as one, and Greg nearly choked, doing his best not to inhale the mouthful of Victoria sponge he had just taken.

“Very funny. Perhaps you're finally dementing,” Sherlock said, voice positively ringing with panic despite his obvious attempt to inject it with bite.

Mr Holmes merely cocked an eyebrow and stared at Sherlock. “You were taught better than to speak to your parents like that, Sherlock.”

A tense silence reigned for long moments until Mycroft cleared his throat and leant forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Well played, Father, very well played. Is Mummy…does she…” It was one of the few times that Greg had witnessed Mycroft - who was more than occasionally the British Government itself - ill-at-ease, and he wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

“Don’t be silly; your mother might be one of the foremost mathematicians of her generation but she’s still a complete flake. Breathe, Sherlock,” Mr Holmes added, directing a concerned look at his youngest son.

Sherlock sucked in a breath and launched himself up from the sofa. “You never said--”

“--Well, of course I didn’t.” Mr Holmes rolled his eyes in a manner eerily reminiscent of a stroppy Sherlock. “What would you have had me say? ‘Please don’t fornicate with your brother before dinner’?”

“Sit down, Sherlock,” Mycroft said silkily, and Sherlock promptly did as he was told, which was not at all unusual in response to that particular tone of voice. “Are you positive that Mummy doesn’t know?”

.

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Greg actually giggled every single time he read this fic.

Ah. If only. To be the meat in a Holmes brothers’ sandwich. That would be the day….

He would have liked to drift off into a little day dream but now with John sleeping in his bed his mind was keen on other things. He decided to finish off this morning reading session with the best of them all.

The fics written by The Woman under the pseud of MezzaMorta. Half Dead.

Sherlock did not know (although Greg wondered if Mycroft knew. Surely he knew!) but Greg and Irene had done theatre together, way back in the day when Greg was still figuring out his career options. As was Irene, obviously.

They had acted in two plays. One as an incestuous brother- sister duo in a play called ‘Tis Pity She’s a Whore’ (Ugh. Greg hated such language but those were the days…beggars can’t be choosers and all that. It had not paid well at all but he had been told that notoriety is sometimes the fastest way to success. Clearly Irene had taken that to heart).

The next time they had found themselves together was when acting in George Bernard Shaw’s Candida, where he played the lover to her married Victorian woman asking what a woman really desires from her husband. 

Soon after that he had taken a decision to join Scotland Yard and she had clearly decided to move to the other side of the law, so they had drifted away. But after the scandal in Belgravia they had caught up briefly and barely ten minutes into their conversation Irene had all but rolled her eyes at him.

“Not you too!” She had exclaimed. “How can all of us be in love with Sherlock Holmes?!”

“Excuse me!” He had exclaimed at first, but then decided that resistance was futile and asked “What do you mean ‘All of us’?!”

“Me. Obviously. Though at an intellectual level.”

Greg huffed a laugh at that. He had known that Irene had always preferred women. After all she had been quite un-moved by his head- tilt- wink- and- smile routine.

“John Watson.” She continued in a bored tone, counting off on her fingers. “You. Molly Hooper. Anthea. In her own way.” And then she gave a naughty smile. “And Mycroft Holmes.”

Greg as busy eating a slice of cake and had a coughing fit so bad that Irene almost needed to do a Heimlich on him. Once he could breathe again he gasped “Stop it Irene.”

“No honestly. It’s all in the eyes Greg dear.” She winked at him. “And I am definitely not the only one who thinks so!”

She had then showed him a link to something called Ao3 and Greg had been hooked. A month later she texted him to say that she had then created a pseud. He stared in disbelief at his phone when she then started posting extremely raunchy and sexy stories all featuring him, under the name of MezzaMorta.

Just putting your fantasies into words she had said when he had replied to the first story with a scandalized emoji.

Here it was. ‘Duo Trio Quartet.’

How did a D.I., a Doctor, a Consulting Detective and the British Government end up in a very smutty, silly, soppy relationship? Mostly because what Holmeses want, Holmeses get.

He grinned. Irene had a filthy mind in the best possible way. She had given him this amazing alpha male persona and oh the delicious things she had them all get up to. His favourite part in this was chapter 4 where he and Mycroft are having sex when Sherlock falls from the false ceiling where he has been spying on them. Then John comes over and ahhh….all four of them....

“Greg?” He heard John call out in a sleepy voice.

Yup. He pocketed his phone. He could read that later. One down, two to go.

“Cuppa tea John?” He asked cheerfully, pulling the curtains open as John groaned at the sudden light spilling into the dark bedroom.

 

 

Chapter Text

Sherlock was still dithering about subjecting himself to the TV show. He had so many fics to go through! He could not contaminate one data set with another, could he?

So he scrolled down some more.

FemLock?! Fem. Lock.

They wrote about his femur?!!

Why in the crumbling metatarsals would they do that?! Did they have fic devoted to all his 206 bones? Did they write an ode to his elegant spinal column and a sonnet for the curve of his jaw?

Maybe a Haiku on his kneecaps…..

He pondered that for a minute.

He was quite capable of going 3 days without sleep and food if the case demanded it but this ‘case’, this had him shook. His Mind Palace was overfull and wobbling and in chaos. His eyeballs were as dry as the underside of an old kilt, his hair was greasy from him running his hands through it so often. His tongue felt like he had been sucking on..….an old shoe.

So of course it took him an extra three seconds to realize that the more logical explanation was that ‘fem’ was short for ‘Female’.

Huh?!! How was THAT better in ANY way??

They wrote about him as a woman?

Why?? Why?? How would that affect his genius or deductions or life in any way? Did being a woman make a difference to how one could solve cases? Or work? Had they run out of women to write about??

He was truly baffled and intrigued. So he pulled up one fic that sounded promising.

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.Five Times Sherlock's Gender Didn't Matter (And One Time It Did) by Blind_Author.

Instead of being amused/grateful for John showing up at the end of "A Study In Pink," Female!Sherlock is coldly furious with John for rescuing her. She gets quite enough of that sexist smothering from her brother and Lestrade, she doesn't need another man in her life constantly assuming she needs rescuing and protection. Cue John explaining that he didn't come after Sherlock because she's a woman, but because she's an idiot and kind of insane.

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Hmm. This was rather bizarre.

He had often wondered why ‘normal’ people seemed to be so obsessed with bodies. They were just transport! If they came with innies or outies, how did it matter?!!

What was between his ears was way more precious and useful than what was between his legs.

He would never understand these goldfish. Of course goldfish did not have innies and outies. They had the most idiotic way of reproducing he had ever heard of. Naturally.

They spent hours each morning racing around the pond splashing water and basically acting crazy. The chase is performed before the heat of the day gets too intense, around 1 to 2 p.m. After that time each day, the fish return to normal behaviour. In warmer climates outdoor goldfish might spawn two or three times a season. Many of these baby fish get eaten by the adults, but when thousands of eggs are laid at each spawn.

He rolled his eyes at that. Just the sexual and reproductive life of goldfish was a solid argument against creationism. Because…why?! Just why would anyone create something so spectacularly moronic?!

Whales do have innies and outies though. Of course they are mammals and not fish, so that made sense. But their mating rituals were also fairly strenuous and idiotic. Humpback males batter one another with their fins and heads to establish dominance and win the chance of mating with a female.  Some bull whales may opt to sing deep, throaty vocalizations to attract females. The songs are made up of a series of clicks, groans and other noises that travel long distances underwater. Once the bull and cow whale have found one another and performed a courtship of diving, violent competition, song and other rituals, the bull maneuvers into position over the female at a slight angle with his belly touching the cow's side.

The male then ejaculates sperm from his outie into the female's innie.

And the innie of the female blue whale is as big as a standard living room.

Yeah.

But that image immediately brought to mind the size of the outie of the male blue whale and he almost choked on it.

Ugh.

He rubbed his eyes to get rid of all those underwater ejaculations.

He needed to soldier on. He was a man on a mission. Not a female or a whale.

Hmm….had anyone written a fic about him as a whale?! He wondered.

He searched the net but the closest thing he could find was something called Tentacle Sex.

Again all his brain could come up with as a reaction was ---Huh?!!

Heretic Pride by SarahT

Sherlock leaned forward with a scowl, scrutinizing his brother. Same thin frame, same dark hair brushed resolutely back, same slight iridescence in the pupils that would testify to the initiated of his lineage. But, other than a slight heaviness to his eyelids that suggested he hadn’t slept perfectly the night before, Sherlock saw no sign. He didn’t know quite what to look for, but how could something so momentous leave no traces?

Mycroft frowned. “This isn’t a subject for your scientific research, Sherlock.”

Sherlock drew himself up automatically. “The distinction between scientific research and study of the mysteries is completely artificial, and you know it.“

Mummy thought Sherlock’s interest in the natural world childish. She considered the study of scientific curiosities only a gateway to the deeper knowledge, and had once said that Sherlock was “mistaking the symbol for the signified.” He strongly suspected that, if he were permitted to attend university next year, he would be forbidden to take a degree in the sciences. Mycroft, as usual, took a more nuanced view privately, but…

“Regardless of what I think, that’s not how our kind sees it. If Mummy were to hear you talking that way—“

As usual. They could have this argument all night, again—Mycroft could spin out distinctions and refine hypotheticals like no one else—but then he wouldn’t learn anything new. He raised his hands. “All right. Is it not permitted to contemplate this particular mystery?”

“The mystery you’re talking about just so happens to be me.”

“Oh.” Maybe he’d misunderstood. “Are you embarrassed?”

“Not embarrassed, just…” Mycroft trailed off. “All right. But no measuring instruments.”

“Not til next time,” Sherlock said gleefully as Mycroft turned towards his wardrobe.

Mycroft being Mycroft, and so completely inconsiderate, he drew it out. He carefully removed and hung up his suit jacket, then did the same for his waistcoat. As he threaded the dull silk of his tie onto a hanger, Sherlock stared at the smooth cotton lying along his back. No sign.

Another pause. “I’ll manifest myself before you manage to get undressed,” Sherlock grumbled.

Mycroft snorted and slipped his shirt off.

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Sherlock frowned.

What could this be about? Surely Mycroft had not hidden a jellyfish inside his shirt?

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Sherlock wanted to examine at once, but, of course, Mycroft insisted on putting the shirt in the hamper first. Then, finally, without turning around, he spread his hands, and Sherlock darted forward and stooped.

Nothing. The skin over the lumbar region seemed smooth and unchanged. “Where are they?” he demanded, just barely restraining himself from poking it.

Mycroft seemed to sense his impulse, because he took a step away. “They couldn’t be emergent all the time, Sherlock, you must know that,” he said.

That was obvious, when he thought about it. He scowled. “What makes them come out?”

“Certain ways of thinking.”

“Like about sex?”

He could see the sigh expand Mycroft’s ribcage. “Not about sex. About…service to the Elders, I suppose you could say. Things that would please them.”

“That includes sex,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Certain kinds of sex, yes,” Mycroft agreed primly, folding his arms. It occurred to Sherlock that he hadn’t seen Mycroft without his shirt on in years. His latissimus dorsi and trapezius were more developed than he would’ve anticipated.

“Well, no one likes sitting around thinking more than you. Make them come out.”

“Give me a minute.”

Sherlock meticulously counted off sixty seconds. Nothing changed. “Well?”

Mycroft’s voice had a thickness to it. “If you don’t shut up, it’s never going to happen, Sherlock.”

“Fine…” Sherlock glowered at Mycroft’s back. It was odd, and a little disquieting, seeing his “raw material.” Mycroft was ordinarily so elaborately put together, so composed. It occurred to him now that much of the austere dignity in the way he’d carried himself in recent years might have reflected Mycroft’s own conclusion as to how Mummy might handle a reversion.

He shuddered, and just as he did, two slits that he could have sworn weren’t there before came open, one on either side of the spine, and a tentacle peeped out of each, then slid, wavering, out.

He swallowed.

They were slender and translucent, glinting here and there with a catchlight that seemed to be different from that in the room itself. It made them seem more like the visual distortions before a migraine than anything that was real. They moved uncertainly through the air. Fascinated, Sherlock put out a hand towards them, and, though they often got distracted, they slowly darted and nosed their way closer.

“Do you control them?”

Mycroft hesitated. “I think—when I think, I can make them obey my will. More or less. But it feels forced and awkward. When I’m not constraining them, I’ve found that they can carry out my desires before I’ve even realized they’re desires.”

Sherlock made a face. “Another sex thing?”

“There are some aspects of life, brother-mine, with respect to which your understanding can be remarkably crude.”

Mycroft’s tone was pointed, but Sherlock let it pass. He was too interested in the tentacles, their gleam and glide. One of them brushed his little finger, then coiled itself around it instantly.

Mycroft gasped. That was interesting.

“Ticklish?”

“No, just…very sensitive. Like someone putting a hand on one of your internal organs. No one else has touched them.”

 

Sherlock swallowed, his throat oddly dry and he felt as though his eyeballs were rotating in freefall inside their sockets. He had put his hand on one of Mycroft’s internal organs?! He wondered if they would feel cool to touch and not warm like everyone else’s. After all he was the Ice Man.

He tried to imagine Mycroft’s internal organs. Did he even have a heart? He used to. He most definitely used to….but now…??

Sherlock scowled at the thought. But no…no distraction, He needed to finish reading. Soldiers today he told himself. Keep calm and carry on.

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He gasped, closed his eyes again, and arched against the bed, as much as he could. With Mycroft holding him down and the tentacles everywhere now, he could barely move. Mycroft isn’t human. He had never felt the meaning of it before, not like this, not even at a ritual. This was not a hint of the otherworldly, a faint suggestion of power carefully subdued. This was being in the grasp of a god, and knowing that you had no assurances that he meant well.

But, at the same time, every touch was urging him to lie still, instilling submission into his nervous system, making his limbs heavy and compliant. Surrender to the eldritch would bring such rewards. And it was too late to fight, wasn’t it?

Too late, indeed, as he felt a sudden probing down below, and a pressure.

“Kiss me,” he muttered with difficulty. “Kiss me, please.”

And Mycroft did, his mouth burning against Sherlock’s forehead. He balanced there, still, as the tentacles writhed and slid all around them both, and the pressure built. Sherlock lay helpless in alternating moments of awareness and blackout as his breath was stopped and released.

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“That girl tonight.” He supposed he’d gotten an answer to his question. Mycroft had lived up to all the cold and rigorous duties of their world. But to be expected to go through all that with a woman, practically a stranger…”I don’t like the idea of you with them. With any of them.”

Mycroft sighed again. “You know I have to get married.”

He preferred to think it might never happen. “Until then.”

Mycroft pulled him a little closer. “Until then.”

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After he finished reading the fic, Sherlock just sat there, his ragged breathing the only sound in the living room at 4 am as the world had not yet started its pre-dawn stirring. He could hear the roar of his blood in his heart and could feel a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead, glide over his neck and pool in the dip above his clavicle.

Mycroft wasn’t human. Mycroft had tentacles.

Mycroft had kissed him.

Mycroft was not yet married.

Mycroft had never been with a woman.

He was no longer sure what was part of the real narrative and what was being supplied by the memories of the fics.

What if Mycroft turned up just now?? The way he had the uncanny ability to do when Sherlock least wanted him to.

In his three piece suit, carrying his ridiculous umbrella. Waving his tentacles at Mrs. Hudson as he came up the stairs.

Sherlock sniggered at the thought. That turned into a guffaw. And before he knew it, he was doubled up with laughter and wiping his cheeks as tears spilled out and he simply could not stop.

Finally when he got breathless he was forced to stop. He took some deep breaths and decided that he needed to wash his face before he could carry on.

As he walked away he used all his rapidly dwindling will power to suppress the nagging voice that was asking him if that had all been nervous laughter to cope with the unexpected erotic thrill that story had given him?

Could he deny that he had actually licked his lips at the thought of Mycroft’s tentacles finding their way to him……

No no no. That way lay madness.

There was a reason Mycroft had hidden his horror story collection as a child. No Edgar Allan Poe. No HP Lovecraft. No Edward Gorey. His imagination and overactive brain meant that Mycroft did not get any sleep when kid Lock read horror. Sherlock would creep into his room at night and stick his cold toes under his thighs and then be all over his Mycie like an octopus….

Octopus!!! Sherlock’s eyes flew open at the thought. Tentacles!!

Mycroft always called him an octopus during those years.

What if…….what if he had had tentacles and then they had been circumcised or tentacalized or whatever and maybe that is why he never felt like having sex with anyone….

He actually pondered about that for 22 seconds before he realized he had started to seriously blur the boundaries between fiction and reality.

He needed to move on and be done with this ‘case’ now! He still had the TV show to clue for looks. Umm look for clues. Whatever.

So… where was that list again? Ok….

Omegaverse.

Pirates

PotterLock

SickFics

Soulmate AU

Stripper Lock

TeenLock

Vampire Lock

He wanted to go alphabetically but the urge to read Pirate Lock was so strong that he gave in and read that first.

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The Heart of a Pirate. Starlight and fireflies

Lieutenant John Watson, first mate on one of the greatest ships of the line in British Royal Navy history, has never seen a pirate in person. That is, until one strange, foggy night, when a mysterious ship attacks. Taken on board the unknown ship, John finds himself surrounded by the last people he has ever wanted to encounter. But perhaps life is not as black and white as he has supposed it to be, and perhaps the curly-haired pirate will provide him with a greater adventure than he had ever imagined…

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“No!” John cried. “You launched an unprovoked invasion of our ship and attacked the men on it. Your intention was to cause harm.”

The pirate considered him with a cocked head, still looking amused. “You have a point.”  John only scowled in response. How dare he continue to take this so lightly?

“In my experience, the members of the Royal Navy are complicit in certain… international affairs,” the man continued. John frowned, unsure what he meant but slightly hesitant to ask, considering his current position. “Still, all your wounded made it back to the ship. And you’ve a good doctor on there, haven’t you?”

John nodded and let out a breath, trying to keep the worry from showing on his face. “What of your doctor? Should he not take a look at this?” he asked with a glance down at his shoulder.

The pirate looked down too, lips pressing together. “Our doctor, it seems, was killed in the struggle. We will endeavour, nonetheless, to tend to your injury.”

John considered that for a moment, eyes on the bandaged wound, hoping those efforts would be enough. Then he turned back to face the pirate. “So what are you going to do with me? Since it seems we’re stuck together.”

“Well,” the pirate’s mischievous look was back—assuming it had ever completely left—in his cocked brow and crooked mouth. “You’ve proven yourself a brave fighter, if a bit… unrefined. I believe we could have a use for you.”

John stared, surprised. That almost sounded… promising. “So I’m... not to be a prisoner, then?”

“I don’t know what you’ve heard of pirates,” the captain sighed. “But you appear to have an uninformed idea of how my crew, at least, operates. I think you shall be surprised.”

He turned to leave, but then paused at the doorway. “Rest now, sailor. We will speak further in the morning.”

“Wait,” John called. “You’ve attacked my ship, are keeping me trapped on yours, and you won’t even tell me your name?”

He looked back and smiled, amused. “You are entirely unafraid, aren’t you?” He chuckled. “The name is Captain Sherlock Holmes. Welcome aboard the Sea Dragon.”

And with a wink, he departed.

Sherlock grinned to himself. He LOVED this story! This was going to be one of his favourite stories! He bookmarked it and also downloaded a pdf. He was a pirate! How spectacularly cool was that! He was a swashbuckling menacing take no prisoners kind of pirate! Of course he HAD taken John prisoner but whatever. He was a lean mean killing machine. Yeah.

He would have high fived someone if there had been anyone there. So he compensated by slapping his own thigh instead. He looked around the dark and empty living room and then went back to reading.

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“So, sailor boy,” Irene smirked. “How’s life on a pirate ship treating you?” She signed her words as well, and John found himself glad Ekene was being allowed in the conversation; Irene was rather intimidating to speak to on her own, and Ekene had a calming presence.

John shrugged. “Not as bad as I thought.” He wasn’t sure how to reply without giving himself away.

Irene and Ekene exchanged an amused, conspiratorial look. “And the Captain?” she pressed. “What of him?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” John evaded. He was grateful Irene could not hear his heart start to pound.

Irene tilted her head. “I was just wondering what he sees in you.”

John frowned, so Ekene elaborated. “Captain Holmes never takes to anyone this quickly.”

Irene nodded. “You may not understand yet, since you just met him, but Sherlock is… special. He holds everyone at a distance. No one,” she raised her eyebrows. “No one gets past his walls.”

“Why?” John found himself asking.

“It’s how he wants it.”

“But,” Ekene lifted a finger. “He is an honourable man. You may not see it, but he has a reason for leading this life. And he cares… about many things. About justice.”

John glanced at Irene, slightly skeptical. What honourable reason would there be for piracy? But she appeared to agree with Ekene if her emphatic nod was any indication.

“I’ve worked on several ships, sailor boy,” she said. “And I’ve never served under a captain like him. His crew trusts him.”

“To the ends of the earth,” Ekene added. “That is worth all the riches in the world.”

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When Sherlock finished the story he gave a sigh of delight. He leaned back into the chair and his eyes glazed over as he slipped into a day dream. He was the Pirate Captain. Everyone was in awe of him and trusted him. He ruled the high seas!!

He could see his ship solidly rocking against the waves, flying the Jolly Roger from its mast, striking terror into the hearts of anyone who saw them coming from miles ahead.

Then an even larger ship turned up. Mycroft was at the helm, that very characteristic sour expression on his face as he held his umbrella open and squinted into the sunlight. As that ship came alongside his, Mycroft handed him a file. A case for you Sherlock he said and then turned around and went away.

Sherlock glared at him and stomped his foot. “I am a terrifying pirate! I don’t take orders from you.”

Just then lots of other ships started coming his way. Soon he was surrounded by them. The ships had very odd names indeed. JohnLock, Sherstrade, Sherlolly. It was as though someone had given Scrabble tiles to a bunch of monkeys who had thrown them in the air and made up random words from half names.

What would they come up with next? Mylock?

Just then a black dragon flew over all the ships and set fire to all of them with his breath.

Sherlock woke up with a start. He had dozed off in the middle of his daydream!! He had no time to waste!! He had to check out the next AU.

Omegaverse.

It sounded so intellectual.

He deduced that they were based on Greek Poems? Alpha Beta Omega. Like Homer’s Iliad. Or the Odyssey.

Ah this was more like it.

He imagined himself as Socrates speaking the truth to all. But then he remembered that they had made him drink Hemlock. Ha.

Hemlock for Sherlock.

He imagined himself as Socrates lifting the cup to his lips, when Aristotle turned up and knocked the cup away.

“Brother mine!” he said. “Is there is a list?! Remember, I will always be there for you.”

Just then Homer turned up from stage right and said ‘My blog is mightier than your sword!’

Alexander the Great stood there and scoffed. ‘Not my division’ he said.

Sappho came around from stage left and asked Socrates if he would prefer a cup of coffee now that he wasn’t going to drink Hemlock.

‘Black with two sugars’ he said to her.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. Good heavens. He was falling asleep again. This won’t do. He wanted to holler for Mrs, Hudson to bring his tea but the idea of having her do a striptease terrified him way too much.  

No. he was sure that some good old fashioned Greek poetry would wake him up right and proper.

Omegaverse.

Hmm. He was impressed at the intellectual erudition of these writers he thought grudgingly as he settled down on his bed, pillow against the headboard and opened the first fic.

Chapter Text

Huh, why did this say Omega Sherlock Alpha John?

Were they supposed to recite lines in order? Was it slam poetry?

‘A/B/O dynamics’ said another tag.

What did that even mean? Like the blood groups?

A and B being the dominant traits and O being recessive traits and the mix and match of compatible blood donation? But why was it here in the middle of fiction? And why wasn’t the Rhesus status included?

This was even more Greek to him than had realized.

And why didn’t they go Alpha Beta Gamma Theta? Why the jump all the way to the end with Omega?

This was very confusing and he was too tired for complicated deductions now.

He just wanted to read an invigorating Greek poem and perhaps an intellectual orgasm or two to keep him going.

Oh well, he had to start somewhere or he would never find out what this was all about.

This sounded thrilling. Black Ice by Ghislainem70.

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Mycroft Holmes perused the Spartan prospectus with mingled trepidation and resignation. Spartan supplied "elite private security" to individuals with the means to pay for the very best, as well as governmental regimes who found themselves short on real talent. There were some situations where the boilerplate goons simply weren't adequate to the task. Spartan's prospectus offered refreshing alternatives.

Still, Mycroft sighed with dissatisfaction as one dull, predictable candidate after another failed to suit his requirements, which were exacting.

He sat up straighter and took a sip of brandy when he turned to the page offering one John H. Watson. He had the fathomless stare of a man who had seen war and come back not what he had been before, all overlaid with a baseline of . . . despair, that was what it was. Still, this first impression was contradicted by the set of Watson's jaw, signalling, perhaps, an Alpha's determination to endure.  

The detailed C.V. established that this was the case for John Watson: service in the Royal Army Medical Corps, Afghanistan, tours of duty in Helmand and Korengal. Many documented acts of personal heroism and bravery. An Alpha male, under a long course of military-grade suppressants, a regimen that he continued to follow per Spartan protocols. A highly skilled doctor and field surgeon, whose hands were perhaps even more capable with a gun than with a surgical knife.

So far, so good. Two of his absolute requirements met: One: Lethal with weapons, and two, skilled in medicine. As to personal issues, this Watson was unattached, never bonded.   A marked preference for betas over omegas but with no long-term entanglements of any kind. Dr. Watson suffered from diagnosed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which was noted as "stable," and which Mycroft did not find a disqualifying factor. It was commonplace, after all, and he had come to understand that with proper management and incentive, it could even render the operative more useful. Hypervigilance and lack of trust bordering on paranoia were, after all, qualities that he cultivated in himself. Watson's PTSD was an asset in his books.

Physically, he was compact, broad-shouldered, and lean. His stature was nothing to some of the other options in the Spartan prospectus, paragons of muscular physicality, experts in martial arts and exotic weaponry. In comparison, John Watson's skill set looked, on paper, almost quaint.

Mycroft touched John Watson's photograph with his fingertip, smiled, and dialled the private number to Spartan's Chief Security Officer.

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Damn Mycroft. Always interfering in his life even in fiction!

And what in the banks of Styx was the meaning of a “marked preference for betas over omegas but with no long-term entanglements of any kind”

How could you entangle with a letter of the alphabet?

Sherlock sighed. This fandom still mystified him. A lot. He hoped that reading further would resolve the issue.

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"You're absolutely sure, Sherlock? I'm not saying I can't extract you on the other side, but things would be so much easier if you said so now, if you've changed your mind. You always have done," Mycroft shouted over the screech of the jet's engines.

His eccentric omega brother, Sherlock Holmes, had already taken the first step on the stair and was clearly enjoying looming over him, Mycroft thought. He despised any possible outward sign that could be interpreted as the younger omega sibling giving way before the elder Alpha male.  

The wind whipped his brother's dark hair, exposing his gaunt, elegant features and shadow-smudged grey eyes, pale skin with a hectic, almost feverish air. Mycroft knew these signs. So many years of heat suppression in any lesser man would be inducing an omega crisis. Still, Sherlock was clearly in control of himself. As always. As such, Mycroft fully expected Sherlock to have orchestrated some means of a dramatic, last-minute escape.

He fingered the handle of the custom Smythson leather case, waiting for Sherlock's final answer. Sherlock smiled brilliantly, which always disarmed him, and took the opportunity to snatch the case from Mycroft's hands.

"You've made your best case, Mycroft. And ultimately, even I haven't been able to outwit time and pheromones. Tried my best. You might express some gratitude."

But Sherlock's glance flickered to John Watson, who stood by at a respectful distance, giving no sign whatsoever of overhearing them. Mycroft climbed the step next to Sherlock and pressed his lips to his brother's ear to be sure.

"I know you have something up your sleeve, Sherlock -- you always do.   But yes, I am grateful. Consider yourself thanked. And yet you're looking a little flushed, brother. Perhaps it will be you thanking me, in the end."

Sherlock glowered and looked away. "I doubt that, very much. Did you bring the stuff?" He indicated the case.

"Indeed I did. But I've given Watson here strict instructions to administer and monitor your doses. He has authority over your pheromone courses until you're arrived. Give Watson the case, Sherlock."   The pilot was signalling time to depart. They both watched John Watson pull on his pheromone mask.

Mycroft didn't try to wrestle the case away from Sherlock. Instead, with a firm squeeze of his brother's sharp shoulder blades under his habitual coat, Mycroft stepped back.

It was never a good thing to get too close to Sherlock.

Sherlock was, after all, an omega ultra. Literally one in a million.

He dabbed at his lips with a snowy monogramed handkerchief to remove pheromone traces. Even Mycroft, with his iron constitution, wasn't proof against the overwhelming allure of his scent.

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Sherlock blinked and re-read that entire section. Most of it made no sense whatsoever.

“younger omega sibling giving way before the elder Alpha male.”

What??  

“So many years of heat suppression in any lesser man would be inducing an omega crisis.”

Why would alphabets be hot? Why would he need to suppress it?

They both watched John Watson pull on his pheromone mask. It was never a good thing to get too close to Sherlock. Sherlock was, after all, an omega ultra. Literally one in a million.

.He dabbed at his lips with a snowy monogramed handkerchief to remove pheromone traces. Even Mycroft, with his iron constitution, wasn't proof against the overwhelming allure of his scent.

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Huh?? What was all that about?? He liked the idea of being one in a million but what was an Omega Ultra? Sounded like a smartphone. Or a designer watch. Or a very special kind of condom.

And why did he smell?? So strongly that John was wearing a mask and Mycroft using his poncy handkerchief??

He needed to find out more before he could read any further.

So he opened another window and typed in Omegaverse Ao3.

Lo and behold, there were pages and pages and he scrolled through quickly till he found something that could be helpful.

Alphas, Betas, Omegas: A Primer by norabombay.

Yup. That made sense. After all the Bombay Blood group was one of the rarest and oddest where the blood type that reacted to other blood types in a way never seen before. The serum contained antibodies that reacted with all red blood cells' normal ABO phenotypes.. The red blood cells appeared to lack all of the ABO blood group antigens and to have an additional antigen that was previously unknown.

This could be fascinating. All scientific and everything for a change.

He started reading eagerly.

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A brief primer on the concept of Alpha/Beta/Omega Universes: Also known as that trope suddenly showing up in your fandom that doesn't make any sense.

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Yes, exactly!!

He would comment on this after he was done reading, but he marveled once again at the amazing people that occupied this ‘fandom’ as they called it. They had answers to everything !!

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Alpha/Beta/Omega Verses, also known as Omegaverses, or Knottingverses are one of the greatest, and most confusing things about fandom. They are a shared idea, interpreted differently by each author.

Here is what is promised by the omegaverse:
mating/heat cycles
mpreg
knotting
semen. lots of semen. epic amounts of semen.
soul bonding

At least three of the five will be in every story. Assisted by a liberal helping of cock. And more cock. The  F/F omegaverse story is a rare creature and not often seen in the wild. Should you find one, you have a duty to return back and inform others.

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Sherlock shook his head and went back to see what he had typed in the search bar.

What did all this have to do with an Omegaverse??

Where were the Greek people? Or their poems?

Why were there any mating cycles and semen??

EPIC mounts of semen?

This sounded like a National Geographic programme on a bad acid trip.

And what was with the knotting??

Like macramé? Sailor knots? He had learnt some during his very brief stint with the Boy Scouts till he had deduced that their Guide was a man who was a bit too fond of the boys.

And soul bonding? What had that got to do with cock??

Why did EVERYTHING in this fandom finally come down to cock?!!

Was it that these mostly female authors had penis envy?

Freud would have been doing cartwheels if he had ever read any of these fics, Sherlock thought as he heaved a deep and tragic sigh.

What was this morass of semen and cock he was going to have to wade through??!

Well, stiff upper lip and all that. Keep calm and wade on.

So he waded….and the next few lines made even less sense.

What??! How did werewolves come into the picture??

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The omegaverse itself is something that appears to have been spontaneously created when J2 mpreg and J2 werewolves combined, had a soul bond, and created an idea that was perfect to spread out across all fandom.  If you don’t know what J2 is, you are going to be horribly traumatized by the rest of this document. You may want to google it first. “J2 Supernatural Fic” should get you where you need to be.

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Huh??! HUH??!!

What was an mpreg? Was it like an mba or an mphil?

He hated it when people didn’t use the appropriate upper case letters.

Was it a Masters in Pregnancy? But wouldn’t that be an Obstetrician?

And who in the weeping willows were J2?? That also sounded like a smartphone. Or a hip-hop singer. A J2 Omega Ultra. Sounded like one of those fancy battery operated toys that everyone would want for Christmas.

No, he could not afford to be side tracked.

He just wanted to understand this ABO business and why it did not deal with either Greek poetry or Blood transfusions and then he wanted to get back to reading Black Ice.

It sounded like a rather swashbuckling fic and he almost preened at the thought that he was one in a million. Even if Omega Ultra really did sound like a fancy watch for corporate honchos who were overcompensating. Or maybe a gold leaf condom.

So he read on.

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mpreg : Mpreg is short for male pregnancy, colloquially known as "assbabies". This is possibly the most straightforward part of the omegaverse. A male character has anal sex with another male character. The receptive partner gets knocked up via some method that no one wants to think too carefully about-  it could involve magic, science, or porn.  Likewise, don’t ask too many questions about the exact genital and orifice structure of the pregnant character.   After a pregnancy that is exactly like the textbook one in “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” (edition that the author found for a very small sum at a secondhand store), the baby will be born. Depending on the in-universe explanation for the assbaby, you will either see a c-section or a literal assbaby.

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What????!

As in WHAT??!!

He suddenly had this feeling that either Mummy or Mrs. Hudson was going to turn up there and make him wash out his laptop with soap.

Hell, HE wanted to wash out his laptop with soap.

Had they just said the words assbabies??

He gulped.

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A few miles away, Mycroft asked for an adjournment in a negotiation with Kim Jong-un because he had been tracking, with increasing fear, the progress of his brother on Ao3.

It mirrored uncannily some of what he had done but when he saw that Sherlock had discovered Omegaverse is when he actually started getting palpitations.

Anthea was watching him with narrowed eyes as he started perspiring.  The last time she had seen him do that was when Lady Smallwood had casually put a hand on his thigh and then turned and smiled at him.

Hmm. This was an interesting development. She suspected that he was looking at the updates from Sherlock’s laptop surveillance. He kept that phone too closely guarded for her to have ever confirmed her suspicions. But she hadn’t reached where she was by missing clues and losing the forest for the trees.

She tucked away this piece of information to tell Molly when she got home later. Molly Hooper had not quite gotten over her crush on Sherlock and that exasperated Anthea sometimes.

She had watched Molly set up an account on Ao3 in order to find an outlet for her unrequited love. She herself was convinced that there was more to her boss and his brother than met the eye. She had said so to Molly who had angrily churned out some fic where she killed Mycroft off.

.Anthea had read it and rolled her eyes.

Then she had secretly set up her own account. She had wondered what name to go by.

Something which would suit her personality. All- knowing. Rather powerful. Almost magical in her capacities. After all Mycroft was The Most Dangerous Man in Britain, but she was the one who managed his life. That kind of made her way more dangerous, although she wasn’t the kind to flaunt it.

She could unleash flying monkeys when she wanted to and she could do good as well as bad, depending on her mood that day. When she thought about it, Mycroft really was a bit like the Wizard of Oz. The man behind the curtain whose myth was much larger than his reality, not that he would ever admit to it.

Hmm. That kind of settled it. LadyGlinda was a good name to go by. 

And she would make it her mission to spread the word about her boss and his baby brother. She would ship them and ship them hard and make it all as explicit and sexy and adorable as she wished. And who knows?! Maybe if she sent it out into the universe it might even come true?

She allowed herself a tiny daydream where Mycroft had Sherlock bent over this very table, brown mahogany and red velvet contrasting against both their pale and lean bodies.

Mmmm….yummy. Maybe she should adjust the CCTV cameras a tiny bit so that in case it ever did happen she would have a ringside seat.

She smiled smugly and texted Molly.

{Someone is making my boss sweat. Wonder who…} A*

Anthea grinned when Molly replied with a scowling emoji.

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Mycroft had not noticed any of these shenanigans going on around him and was sweating even more profusely now. His neat soft white handkerchief was almost soaked through.

He knew that it was just a matter of hours or even minutes before Sherlock discovered the only fanfic after scrigglys that had given him a minor heart attack.

Not because of its content but because of the fact that he simply could NOT stop reading it. Again and again. And Again. And sometimes ….once again.

The title itself left nothing to the imagination. While every word in that fic was a testament to the dynamite imagination of the author.

"Damnation: The One Where Sherlock Shags the Fuck Out of Mycroft, and We’re All Happily Going to Hell", by phipiohsum475?

 

Mycroft sat in his room the evening after his submission in his finest silk pyjamas, the smooth fabric helping ease his mild discomfort. He treated the remaining anxiety with an exquisite brandy and a book of Persian poetry he’d set aside as a treat after his thesis was done. He’d found a fan to blow a cool breeze over him; the warmth of the brandy causing a blush to rise over his skin. There was an itch on his nerves, something leaving him unsettled. He heard the bold, arrogant stomping of his little brother, and all slotted into place. Mycroft rolled his eyes, mentally marked his location, and was thusly prepared when his bedroom door burst open, slamming it into the stopper on the wall and bouncing back onto his newly defined form.

“What is that scent?!” he demanded angrily, and Mycroft shrugged, prepared for the slightly obtrusive methods of his younger brother in his own search for answers. Sherlock turned on him, with a growl, and came up to Mycroft from behind, hands on his shoulders to keep Mycroft from standing. Sherlock buried his nose in Mycroft’s neck and moaned, “Fuck, it’s you! It’s bloody obscene, you smelling like that. How do they allow you out in public?!”

Mycroft tried to stand, to push back against Sherlock he sat in the chair, but Sherlock licked a wide stripe up Mycroft’s neck with his warm, wet tongue. Mycroft stuttered, the heat and moisture sending static down his spine and through his nerves. Sherlock took his moment of weakness to press his tongue deep into Mycroft’s neck, seeking for something Mycroft knew he wouldn’t find. And yet, he knew the moment that Sherlock’s tongue felt the deeply buried gland. Mycroft gasped and Sherlock chuckled.  Mycroft tried once again to stand, to escape, to flee from the slowly dawning realisation, but Sherlock, and his newfound strength, refused to allow it.

Mycroft slapped both hands down on the desk in front of him, as Sherlock dragged his front teeth over the gland he’d sought and successfully found. The alpha pulled back, “You- you’re an omega. I knew it. You couldn’t have smelled so delectable otherwise.”

“I’m a-“ Mycroft focussed hard to spit out, “-A beta. You know this. Beta.”

“No,” Sherlock growled. “Omega. My omega.”

“Sher-“ Mycroft began to protest, but Sherlock spun the chair around, pulled Mycroft from his seat, and backed him into his own bed. “Sherlock! This is- You can’t-“ Mycroft tried to stop him, but even he could tell that his own words were weak and superfluous. Sherlock would take what he wanted, and Mycroft would ultimately give it to him, as he always did.

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He had read it so many times by now that he almost knew it by heart. Despite that, seeing those words in black and white always gave him a thrill.

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“Bloody brilliant. Is.. is it always that spectacular ?”

“Certainly not with betas,” Mycroft scoffed, realizing now just how unparalleled the sex truly was, “I’ve not been with an alpha before though.”

Sherlock growled, “You won’t. No one but me. You’re mine.”

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Yes!! Oh god yess! He was Sherlock’s and Sherlock was his. But alas, the harsh reality of the cruel world would never allow this. Fortunately there were some people in the fandom who also shipped this and hard! He knew for certain that eloquated had read it and enjoyed it. He was sure that LadyGlinda would never have missed out on it.

He sighed. He was so fortunate to have met these two and so many of the other loyal shippers of Holmescest.

But….but to have Sherlock discover it?!! How would he ever be able to face him again?!!

When he had first discovered Omegaverse he had felt like wearing his special satin gloves and cleaning out the keyboard cos of the filth that poured out of it!!! Oh goodness the sheer filth of it all!! The monumental dirtywrongbad things that happened……….the glorious liberating explosion of all that carnal desire and lust!!! The sheer outpouring of all that sensual, erotic, lustful, salacious stuff …..just …the overwhelming rawness of it all, filled him with burning desire and then with shame.

But after having read that fic three times over through his laced fingers he finally decide to be brave enough to accept that he freaking LOVED it. He bookmarked it, gave kudos and even sent a comment.

Then he did what any reader does –set out to find ficrecs because suddenly it was not enough. He needed more. And more. And then some more.

It was like an addiction and for a fleeting minute he understood the siren call of the drugs that Sherlock battled and had a genuine moment of deep empathy. He wondered if there was like an Alcoholics Anonymous or Rehab for fanfic addicts.

There is no way he would allow anyone to send him there!!! Live without fanfiction?!! Hahahaha. He would claw the eyes out of anyone who dared suggest such a thing!!

He had found lists of ficrecs and had raced through them all in a matter of a few hours and then spent half the night shivering with desire and guilt and terror at somehow being found out. Not by Sherlock.  

But by Mummy.

Somehow he had this sneaking suspicion that someday Mummy was going to find out and then…..the gates of hell would be opened and the hounds unleashed upon him.

He shuddered.

But what a way to go!! One part of his brain said, giving a dark smile and licking its lips. Why don’t we read them again? After all…might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.

So he started with his saved fics. In my arms (temptation) by FrenchCaresse.

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Sherlock, too old at nineteen, has not managed to escape biology it seems. Sherlock is presenting. As Omega. And he has asked for Mycroft.

Mycroft is Alpha. Of course he is. It had never even been a question. He doesn't use his gender much, except when strictly necessary to ensure things go his way. He never succumbed to rut. He has never mated. Lovers are a liability, possible fodder for black-mail. Better to endure the occasional inconvenience of his body uselessly wanting to knot than to see years of work destroyed by a photo or two.

Control.

It is hardly difficult, after Sherlock.

...

Sherlock is Omega, unbelievably. Not Beta after all, as everyone had come to believe when he failed to present. Sherlock, too old at nineteen, has not managed to escape biology.

The news had thrown Mycroft like a blow to the gut; so short for a life-altering message. A few terse words.

"Sherlock is presenting as Omega. He needs you."

A cellphone number no-one knew, except for a couple presidents... And Sherlock. Always Sherlock.

The message was genuine then. Mycroft's world twisted sideways. He could actually feel his walls disintegrate to shambles, gravity re-orienting itself.

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Sometimes he did dip his toes into a different ship, just for variety. He had quite enjoyed being paired up with Greg. The fic did depict him as a fabulous Alpha. Preening, growling but loving. Ooh. Hot. A chance encounter by sanguisuga.

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His kisses were firm and authoritative, but not greedy or brutal. Hungry, yes - Mycroft could practically taste his want, his nearly overwhelming need, but at no point did he feel like Lestrade was going to take more than he was prepared to give. Not that he wasn’t willing to give him everything - a fact that surprised him more than he was likely to admit. He opened his mouth as Greg swiped his tongue over his lips, gasping into his mouth as he delved deep. Mycroft moaned low in his chest as he reached up to take hold of the Alpha’s lustrous hair, winding his fingers into it and holding fast. Greg growled and rocked his hips forward, making Mycroft damn near see stars as their erections ground against each other.

The intensity of his arousal surprised him - he was obviously no blushing virgin, but this was an entirely different sensation than he was used to. During his heat, his urges were base and animalistic, the need to be filled simply an itch that he was desperate to have scratched. This was something much more elemental than that, an unbearably sweet ache so deep inside, throbbing with each beat of his heart.

God, but he never wanted it to end.

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Mmm. That was delicious, but at the end of the day he would always come back to his one true love. Sherlock was the one for him. Always and forever. SO he read Devotion by chasingriver.

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He pulled both hands from his brother's body. "You need to leave, Sherlock. Even I don't have this much self-control. If you stay…" he trailed off.

"You'll give me what I want?" Sherlock finished his sentence, looking back at him through half-closed eyes.

"It's not right, Sherlock. You can't give valid consent in this condition." Mycroft's defences were weakening rapidly. He wasn't even arguing whether or not they should be bonded anymore.

"You know it's not just the hormones, My; I've wanted this for years. Besides, I altered the patches long before I came into heat. If that isn't forethought, I don't know what is. It took me weeks to get that formula right."

"You'll belong to me." It was the only argument he had left.

"I already do."

The remains of Mycroft's self-control disappeared and he stood up, pushing Sherlock onto the bed. He crawled on top of him and pinned his brother's arms next to his head.

"You don't know how badly I've wanted you, Sherlock," he growled and kissed him so hard his brother's whole body arched beneath him.

"I'm yours," Sherlock replied when Mycroft released his mouth.

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When Mycroft finally finished reading after dinner, breathless and aroused most painfully, he really needed to get in the shower if there was any chance he was going to be able to lie down at night.

As he drifted off to sleep he felt mildly sorry that the postponement of their meeting had caused Kim Jong-un to have his own uncle killed in annoyance.

He shrugged. Dictatorships. Can’t love ‘em or leave ‘em.

Maybe the fanfic authors should rule the world. Lots of sex. Lots of orgasms. Lots of feelings and desires and fulfilment. Much fewer assassinations, murders, dictatorships.

He had to wonder at the depravity of a fandom where Omegaverse made incest look like nursery rhymes.

Dear St. Jude…... Once Sherlock discovered Holmescest…. …

Well, maybe Mycroft could ask for a deputation as Ambassador to The British Antarctic Territory. Yes, that seemed to be a good place to be.

Surrounded by penguins and snow and scientists.

Surely none of them read fanfiction.

Chapter Text

Sherlock’s mind was still reeling at the expansion in his vocabulary. He could literally feel his cranial sutures and fontanelles creaking apart to accommodate all that slick and those knots and the suppressants and scents and glands and heat.

And the assbabies.

Was that even a word?!

Babies were just babies, right?! No one called them vaginababies.

He was so annoyed at this hegemonic labelling of everythinge.

Normative. Non- normative.

Do you have sex? No.  Weird.

Do you have sex? Yes. Cool. With whom? Someone of the same sex? Weird.

How do you have sex? Not vaginally?! Weird.

Why did anyone care?!? Would it not be better to ask -how many people were you kind to today? How many times did you smile? How many people care that you exist?

He frowned at himself. He was sounding like a new- age touchy- feely person. Maybe he could become a guru. Like this Hot Yoga person. He could become a Hot Detective. Consultation by Meditation.

He rubbed his eyes. What was happening to him?? Was he going mad? It was not un-heard of. He had read about people dying and killing others due to their internet addiction. But he was not an addict! He was just a user.

Even as he said that he could see Mycroft in his Mind Palace looking at him with that tragic air of despair and martyrdom in his eyes, as always.  

He tilted his head to one side and thought. Did Mycroft know about fanfiction? It seemed quite likely given that he had surveillance over the entire globe. Hmm…wonder if Mycroft was tracking his laptop….Sherlock thought in a moment of panic.

Oh well, too bad if he was. He deserved to be shaken up a little Sherlock thought with a smirk. In fact, on the off- chance that Mycroft WAS checking, let him read some more Omegaverse. If anything was going to make Mycroft’s head explode, it would be this. So, with far more joy than was indicated, Sherlock plunged into a series of Omegaverse fics, with all the delight of a small child attacking a bowl of ice cream.

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 The Games We Play by AnonyMouseHatesCaptcha

John pressed his nose into the crook of Sherlock's neck, inhaling the scent of him. He was more than ready. Sherlock was quivering with need, arousal bringing a blush to his cheeks. John growled, sucking and licking on a spot just above Sherlock's collarbone, leaving a stark red mark behind. Mine, he thought savagely. He pulled Sherlock's shirt open, buttons ripping off in his impatience. He gripped Sherlock's bare waist, bringing their mouths together, bodies pressed intimately against one another. They were both hard.

John maneuvered them into the bedroom, all the while without breaking off the kiss. Sherlock clung desperately to John, rubbing himself shamelessly against him. John sucked Sherlock's tongue into his mouth, and then grazed his teeth on Sherlock's full lower lip. He wanted to mark every centimeter of Sherlock's body, let everyone know who his Alpha was, cover him with his scent and bite marks.

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Ok, just no. So much biting and marking. He shuddered at the thought of his pale smooth skin full of bitemarks and bruises. Nope. Not happening. Let us read the next fic.

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.The Gilded Cage by BeautifulFiction

Stepping through the door, John felt his blood run cold, leaving him clammy and frigid as he took in the room beyond. It was a makeshift operating theatre, crude and dim. Various bloody tools lay abandoned as if people had simply turned tail and fled, abandoning the body on the bed. Her hospital gown was stained and the incision in her lower abdomen gaped like the split skin of a ripe fruit.

'Please tell me my first impression is wrong?' Greg sounded more than just sick. There was a thick vein of grief under his words. The same thing clenched like a vice around John's heart, and he swallowed, forcing himself to listen as Sherlock spoke.

'Chop shop,' he said succinctly. 'Profitable to the extreme for all involved, most of the time.' With a flick of his fingers, he indicated the surgeon's tools. 'High-grade equipment for the extraction; they were after the supra-ovarian structure, I imagine.'

'What's that?' Greg asked, looking at John, who could at least find some distraction in the facts.

'All Omega women have it. It's the glandular network that sustains the health of their eggs. It's part of the reason Alpha-Omega couples enjoy such a high conception rate,' he explained. 'Rather than a store of ovum that has been in the woman's ovaries since birth, like you get in a Beta, these are constantly constructed and replenished. It means she would be fertile for longer than a Beta counterpart, and she has a greater chance of twins or triplets.' John drew in a breath and coughed, wishing he could retreat further, but his back was already pressed against the wall. 'Omega males have a similar system, but it's harder to extract. An Omega man is unlikely to survive the procedure.'

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Sherlock was sucked into this story from the very first page.

Yummy!! That it was so bloody and full of intrigue. And squeee!! It had 31 chapters!!

Uh…did I just squee?? He thought to himself. Nah. No one heard me. I will make sure I never do it again!

When he was done reading after 10 minutes, he took a deep breath. That had been amazing!!! He simply could not wait to read more!

Six steps of courtship. Hmm. He didn’t much care for that but the author’s name intrigued him. Emptycel. Ok, he would give it a try.

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Disguise is the most effective way of obtaining information , Sherlock reminded himself through gritted teeth. He only had to bear this ridiculousness for a few weeks in order to track a pattern and catch a serial killer.  

But good Lord, was it ridiculous. 

He adjusted his fake glasses and the simple, grey waist-length jacket he normally would not have been caught dead in. He understood Lestrade's insistence that he did something to alter his appearance, but he couldn't help but be annoyed that his costume wasn't even remotely fun.  

He checked the time on his cell phone before deciding that it would alright if he showed up a little early. After all, his alter ego was supposed to be eager to find a mate. Or at least not abhor the idea. 

Sherlock wanted to vomit.

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Yes, this sounded exactly like him!! He wriggled in his seat to get more comfortable and read on.

When he was done he nodded to himself. This was AWESOME!! The only problem he had was-- Why did everyone make him an Omega all the time??!

He wanted to read something where he was the Alpha!!

He was FED UP of being the Omega. He felt like an Alpha. Greg would be an Alpha.

Stupid Mycroft would be an Omega. Always babysitting him and buying poncy paintings and matching curtains and talking about ‘making a house a home’ and whatnot. Molly would be an Omega. As would Mrs. Hudson.

Why him??! He had NO desire to be nurturing and nesting or anything.  

He paced up and down in the living room, half annoyed that the Omegaverse was not real, half relieved that no babies would be coming out of his ass at any time.

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He had been reading through all of the earlier day and the entire night.

He was now low on glucose and high on endorphins, pheromones, oxytocin and dopamine.

By the time he was done reading he could almost feel the slick coming out of his pants and maybe even feel some assbabies squirming inside him.

Umm. No that was just gas.

What a relief!

But he was also a bit disappointed.

He would never feel that kind of heat and passion and never throw anyone against the wall? Huh. Regular life seemed so DULL in comparison.

 

Chapter Text

Martin Freeman was proud of the fact that he has always been known for his fine method acting.

Of course he knew he worked hard for that and after all those years of doing random ‘man next door ‘ roles he has finally got a good break with the new BBC series based on a real life genius detective.

He now had a role playing Sherlock Holmes’ flatmate and blogger and partner in crime solving. Dr. John Watson.

The ‘real’ John Watson @bloggers‘r’us had sold the rights of his blog to the BBC and the famous script writer AC Doyle had been working on the screenplay.

There had been some murmurs of homoerotic undertones and some displeasure at queer baiting.

The Executive Producer Mark Gatiss had been particularly displeased and had eventually fired the man and decided to co-write the series along with his old friend Steven Moffat.

Privately, Martin wasn’t sure that much had changed honestly, with all the stage direction constantly being given to him and his co-star to ‘look at each other’s lips’, ‘stand at this angle’, ‘a bit closer’. ‘Just a bit more Martin’. ‘Yes, look longingly at him’ ….and what not.

He huffed.

In fact if you asked him he thought Mark had written up Sherlock’s older brother’s role in a decidedly queer way.

I mean who turns up and kidnaps their younger brother’s flatmate- to- be in that highly jealous possessive boyfriend way? And then asks not so subtly –can we expect a happy announcement?!

But hey, he shrugged. Ours not to question why….and so on.

 

This morning he had found himself wandering towards 221B Baker Street and decided he would take the chance to drop in and visit the great man himself.

If the Detective was also there, it would be great, but he felt that it would help him understand his own on-screen character better if he actually met the wonderful Dr John Watson in person.

Maybe help him snag a BAFTA or two.

What a fine man this Dr.Watson seemed to be.

Fought for his country in Afghanistan. Also a medical doctor. Rather a noble character all in all. A real hero.  So considerate and helpful and thoughtful and ….oh just such a fine man.

Sherlock Holmes was lucky to have him.

Martin found the front door open and climbed up the 17 steps. When no one answered his knock he pushed the door a bit and found that it opened and swung in.

He stepped inside what appeared to be a chaotic living room, with the early morning light filtering through the curtains and highlighting the motes of dust.

He muttered under his breath. Yes, Dr Watson had written about this ‘eloquant dust.’ He wasn’t so sure about this eloquence. What did it say besides—someone is not keeping this room clean?!

He chuckled at his own joke and turned to check if anyone was home.

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In the very next second he found himself being flung against the wall.

His hands were pinned above his head and an utterly crazed looking man with wild curly hair came close to his face and kissed him. Kissed him more passionately than he had ever been in his life. Martin moaned into that kiss and the madman opened his mouth with his tongue and did the most amazing things that made his very toes curl. He bit his lip and sucked on it and then let go of his hands to hold his face.

Just as Martin was thinking that this was a spectacularly realistic dream and that  he should never wake up ……the man let go of him and said something about ‘that will show them Alpha’ and then disappeared into a bedroom taking his laptop with him.

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Hmm. That had been interesting. Sherlock thought as he closed the bedroom door behind him.  Probably his first ‘proper’ kiss in a way but it was neither ‘bone melting’ nor did it feel like he was ‘on fire’, nor did it seem ‘life changing’.

Oh well, he thought as he went back to his room and shut the door, he always did think sex was overrated.

Stupid Omegaverse. He didn’t want John’s assbabies anyway.

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He wondered fleetingly that it was odd how John was wearing completely new clothes that he had never seen before…….but AAH ! He must have spent the night at Greg’s place…

But he didn’t smell like Greg either. Odd.

Hopefully John wasn’t going to have Greg’s assbabies. Sherlock shuddered.

He needed to go clueing for looks…..uh… flueing for cooks…..

He rubbed his eyes. He needed tea.

Should he called out to John to make him some tea? No. he would just ask him tedious question about sleep and food and life.

He still dare not call Mrs. Hudson in case she started opening her top clothes thing…

Maybe he didn’t need tea. Just some liquid to prevent dehydration. Any liquid.

Oh look! Here was a bottle of something that he could drink. Some of the best writers of the Bohemian period drank Absinthe. Maybe many of the readers did too.

Who knows? Who cares?

He just wanted to read some more Omegaverse where he was Alpha, for crying out loud!!

He settled down on his bed and started typing……. ‘Alpha Sherlock’

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Meanwhile, in the living room, a ruffled, terrified, painfully aroused and utterly baffled Martin Freeman rapidly tucked his shirt back in, tried to cover his groin bulge with his too- short coat , ran down the stairs and got the hell out of 221B.

Chapter Text

Martha Hudson woke up bright and early and switched the kettle on.

The kettle boiled. She poured the water over the tea leaves and let it steep for a bit. She prepared the tray and took out some cookies from the tin. She took a bite from the cookie. Ah. It was practically perfect in every way. Just the way her mother used to bake it. And her mother’s mother before her. All the way back till the dawn of time.

She hummed to herself as she bustled around in the kitchen.

Twinkle, Twinkle Little Bat
How I wonder what you're at!
Up above the world you fly,
Like a tea tray in the sky.

Childhood. What a wonderful place it had been. Lewis Carroll had been such an amazing man. Witty, brilliant and kind. They really didn’t make them like him anymore did they?

Except for that crazy genius renting her upstairs flat.


He may pretend all he could about emotions and caring and all that folderol Mycroft kept telling him but she knew. She knew that he was kind, he was witty and he was certainly brilliant. He needed more hugs. That is all it was. Like five a day of fruits and veggies, he needed five a day of hugs.

If only she could be sure it would not send him running down the street in a panic, she would make sure he got them from her. Even better would be if he got them from Mycroft but that boy was even more skittish. She was really running out of patience with the two of them.

Oh well. At least she could make sure Sherlock got some tea and cookies into him for now.

She was quite sure he had not had any dinner. She had gone out last evening and John did not seem to have come back till this morning, the cheeky bastard. And then he had run out almost right away. Sowing his wild oats all over London that man, she tutted and shook her head in despair.

She carried the tray upstairs carefully and pushed the door open. “Hoohoo!! Are you decent?”

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Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson come up and panicked. Oh he wanted tea and cookies desperately! But…what if she started taking off her clothes??

He narrowed his eyes and thought. Hmm. Maybe he could just shut his eyes really tight and just eat the cookies quickly and flee into his bedroom again.
In fact, maybe he would close his eyes and go out. Who knows if she had decided to come in without any clothes in the first place?!

The entire universe seemed to be a crazy place full of deranged over- sexed people. Why would Mrs. Hudson be any different?

So it was that Mrs. Hudson found Sherlock walking out of his bedroom, hands in front of him, eyes tightly shut and feeling his way towards the living room.

She sniffed and was about to tell him off for his manners when she sniffed again. Oh crap.

“Sherlock!!! Have you been sneaking into my herbal soothers again?!! And that too in the morning!! Task tsk tsk. If Mycroft saw you like this….I would never hear the end of it. Come here.”

And she pulled him down to sit on the sofa, handed him his tea and cookies. Sherlock scarfed it all down, eyes still tightly shut. Martha stared at him.

“Have you been smoking weed Sherlock?! Open your eyes and talk to me!”

Five cookies in and an entire cup of tea gave Sherlock the courage to peep at her through a tiny opening in his eyelids. He saw that she was fully clothed and opened his eyes wider only to have Mrs. Hudson gasp and cover her mouth.

“Sherlock!!! What have you been doing?! Your eyes are bloodshot and you have bags under your eyes. You look terrible, boy!! When was the last time you slept?”

“600.” Sherlock mumbled. “600 fics ago.”

“Fix?! What did you fix? Was something broken?” Martha asked, baffled. This boy was going to be the death of her one day. She had not met anyone as self- destructive as him in all her years.

Isaac had been an idiot, Louis had been reckless and Albert was crazy. Nicolas was positively a raving lunatic. Isaac of course had needed a dozen apples thrown at him till he got what she was trying to tell him. But why did she always get stuck with the self-experimenters? Ugh. The things she had had to put up with.

Anyway, she had not really cared for any of them despite their genius. But this boy?! She was genuinely fond of him and damn if she was going to let him do this to himself. She held him by his arms and hauled him up, and marched him off to his bedroom.

“You are going to sleep now Sherlock! I will wake you up after 5 hours and give you your lunch, with vegetables, which you will eat!”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest.

“Sherlock! Do you want me to call your Mummy?!!”

At that all the energy seemed to drain out of him. He just shuffled into his bedroom, scowling and pouting and Martha heard a dull thud as he fell onto his bed.

She shook her head and got to cleaning up the flat. Truth really was stranger than fiction. William had totally agreed with her when she told him that. In fact he had quoted her in his play, the sweetheart! “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

That poor boy Hamlet. Five hugs a day. That is what he had also needed. None of that blathering on about being and not being. To hug or not to hug. THAT is the real question she thought as she plumped up the cushions and flicked her duster on the table. With a final look at the living room, she picked up the empty tray, went out and closed the door behind her.

Ah, well. She had a lovely relaxed morning to look forward to now. More than enough time to check out if there were any comments on what she had posted last night, and she also wanted to read what her new friend had written.

It had been like a miracle, finding sherlock221Bismymuse on Ao3. It had helped her put into top gear her plan to get these two foolish boys together. She knew that it was really true what they said about telling the universe what you want and the energies make it happen. Heck, she had made it happen hundreds of times earlier.

So, how long would Mycroft and Sherlock resist this?

She booted her laptop and waited till it hummed and then started. She typed into her account, slowly and carefully.

e l o q u a t e d
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In another part of the city, Molly was finding her way to the University College London Hospital for a meeting. ‘Forensic Medicine and Toxicology: The next level Challenges and Innovation in Evidence Analysis.’

It was not bad but by lunch time she was done. After working with Sherlock for so long there was really nothing these people could teach her either about challenges or evidence analysis!! All she wanted now was a decent cup of tea.

Why was it that all hospitals served the worst tea and coffee?

She hated coffee. She only drank it when Sherlock came over because he liked it. She sighed and muttered to herself. “Dr. Molly Hooper, isn’t it time you outgrew this ridiculous crush? There are so many more fish in the ocean.”

She heard a chuckle behind her and almost jumped.

“Hi.” A caramel honey voice said, slightly gruff but warm. “Never really thought of myself as a fish, but there is always a first time!”

She just stared at him as he winked and tipped his head to one side and grinned at her, holding out his hand.

“Rupert Graves. Charmed I am sure.”

She held out her hand in a daze, wondering why Greg was here and why he was calling himself Rupert and why her heart was beating so fast all of a sudden.  Was he undercover? He was wearing different clothes and how come she had never noticed how very charming his smile was. She had never really seen him smile had she?

Oh well, she didn’t want to bust his cover and who knows, maybe he was the answer to her new promise to herself?

“Molly.” she said softly. “Molly Hooper.”
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In a third location, Martin sat in his kitchen, breathless from all that running back home. His hands were still trembling from that encounter.

He was Not Gay!! He was Not Gay!!!

Or……was he?!

He felt like he didn’t know anything anymore.

How could that one kiss have changed everything he thought he was??

All these years in the film industry, surrounded by people of every gender and sexuality spectrum, and today, out of the blue, he had been kissed by an utter madman with floating hair and flashing eyes and he had been sunk.
His battleships run aground. His sail on fire. His fleet drowned.

He was running out of metaphors. He needed help. Urgently.

He looked up the annexure of the contract he had signed with the BBC. As per the legal requirements there was an in- house counsellor for those who might suffer trauma from the intense and gory scenes they had to shoot sometimes, or even the implied violence and psychological issues.

He took a deep breath and dialled the number.

Someone picked it up on the second ring and asked in a cheerful voice.

“Good morning. The East Wind Clinic. How may I help you?”

Chapter Text

Sherlock fell into deep sleep the instant his head hit the pillow. Probably even while he was halfway there.

He had two hours of absolutely undisturbed sleep and then the dreams started to creep in at the edges. Half an hour later he was inside a full blown technicolour Dolby stereo 3 D dream.

He was standing at the gates of the most awesome fair he had ever seen. It seemed to be endless, with rides and stalls and people as far as the eye could see.

John was standing next to him and shaking his head.

“Don’t go there Sherlock. They are all Gay. Some are even bi-sexual.” He shuddered. “A Bit Not Good.

Sherlock decided to just ignore him and rolled his eyes and walked straight in.

Mrs. Hudson was standing just inside the gate, wearing a pointy black hat and giving out balloons. “Balloons and balloons my dearie!” she cackled, as she handed him a sky-blue balloon with his name written on it in silver. He held on to it and turned around every now and then to watch it bobbing behind him.

This was SO exciting already!! He had his very own balloon!!

He peered at it carefully. Um…was it made out of a condom?! Ewww. He let it go and watched as it went soaring up to the clouds. Maybe some angels could use it for having safe sex, he thought to himself.

He walked on and stopped at the first stall which was a coconut shy. He chortled with delight when he saw that Anderson’s face had been stuck on each coconut. He threw ball after ball and knocked them all down and was given an adorable little toy otter as his prize. He tucked it into his coat pocket so it could peep out a bit and carried on.

Oh my, a Ferris wheel!! He HAD to ride it!!

He stood in the line to get in and when he sat down he found himself sharing that cozy two seater with Molly.

Yay! He would have hated to be with a stranger. Molly was nice. Safe.

But something jostled his mind. Ummm…wasn’t she pregnant with your babies?!

So he looked down at her stomach and it seemed fine. Then he panicked. Stomach was for regular vaginababies!! What if she was having assbabies?!!

Suddenly the entire place was full of weird W- shaped crawling things, sliding on what seemed to be a road full of slick. They were all crying but he could not see their faces or the rest of their bodies…..ah, of course, these were assbabies!

He turned to ask Molly about them but she seemed to have disappeared.

Oh well, he could see all of London from up here and it was so beautiful. It had such a wonderful smell……smoke and tea and sweat and ……great Scotland Yard! Greg was sitting next to him now, grinning away like a Cheshire Cat.

“Do you like what you see?” he said and winked at him.

Sherlock panicked. Was he going to try and touch his cock??

So he jumped out of his seat. Falling. He was falling. His coat was flapping behind him but he was going to fall down and fall some more……….and just then someone swooped in and held on to him.

Now they were going up. Up and away. Just the two of them. He turned to see who had rescued him and scowled. Mycroft. Of course Mycroft. He had to stalk him even in his dreams!!!

And since when had he started flying?!!

He looked up to see Mycroft’s umbrella held in the other hand, open and carrying them away.

There was some music coming from the fair, faint echoes of a childhood song.

Somewhere over the rainbow bluebirds fly. Birds fly over the rainbow why them oh why can’t I ?

He wriggled in Mycroft’s grasp and Mycroft let go. ‘Alone protects us’ he said and Sherlock heard himself shouting NOOO as he fell down.

Down, down, down.

As he was falling he could see a large garden and on the grass was everyone he knew. Was it a tea party?

But as he came closer he saw that they were all stark naked. Without a stitch of clothing. As he fell he was kind of zooming in on them and could see the details more clearly.

They were all having sex.

Every single one of them was having sex with someone. Some were having sex with some two. Some were swinging over the others like trapeze artists. Huh. Who would have thought Irene could swing like that. Or that Sally was so flexible and bendy.

There seemed to be a swimming pool nearby. Some ships were sailing in it.
Oh. No. It was not a pool. It was a large pond. Filled with lube.

Wow. That was a LOT of lube he thought to himself, even as he kept falling.

There were lots of roosters running around going cock-a –doodle-doo, which was weird cos it was late evening.

Was that Sigmund Freud sitting there on a couch and taking notes? Oh, he seemed to be chatting with John. They must be catching up on medical updates. Odd place to do it in though.

He was still falling.

Curiouser and curiouser……he thought to himself and then, with a whump, he landed.

Right into a wooden box.

Oh no!! It was a coffin! It said ‘I love you.’

No!!! He did NOT want to be loved to death. Sentiment was a chemical defect on the losing side.

But now he was locked inside the coffin and he couldn’t breathe. Someone was knocking on the coffin.

“Save me!!” He shouted. “Save me!”

“Sherlock?! Sherlock wake up! Are you having a nightmare??”

It was Mrs. Hudson knocking on his bedroom door. “I got you some lunch. Come on out.”
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In another part of the city, Greg was watching John scarfing down his breakfast. More like a brunch actually given that it was almost noon.

“What are you laughing at?” John asked him grumpily.

“Is this what doctors mean by getting ‘five a day’ will keep you healthy?” Greg asked.

When he saw John’s expression, he started laughing till he had tears coming out of his eyes.

“You bastard.” John said but he was grinning.

“Hey you should sound way more grateful.” Greg told him. “5 orgasms in 12 hours is not a bad deal at all.”

“Yeah. And now I am going to be walking all wobbly for the rest of the week.” John said with a sigh.

Greg gave him his patented tilt-smile-wink look. “Really? We aren’t going to do this again all week?”

John blushed at how furiously turned on that made him. “Um..no..yes…I mean.”

Greg slapped him on the back and said. “Come on. We can figure that out later. Let me drop you back to Baker Street now, Princess.”

John almost choked on his toast. “Princess?!”

“Well, if the shoe fits...Mr. Not Gay.” Greg said with one eyebrow raised.

John had the grace to look away. “But why are you dropping me home? I mean I always knew you were a true gentleman but ….”

“It’s ok. I know Sherlock has been home all day and probably bored out of his mind. If he is done shooting the wall, you may well be his next target! I just want to make sure that you and your booty are both safe” Greg said as he bit John’s earlobe and made him break out in gooseflesh all over.

John wasn’t sure how he was supposed to cope till they were in bed together next. He really didn’t want to go back but he had to since he was covering for a doctor at a new clinic that afternoon and couldn’t really get out of it.

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They reached 221B to find that Sherlock had just finished eating lunch and Mrs. Hudson was clearing away some dishes.

“Hello boys!” she said, and dropped a lush wink at Greg. She had always found him handsome and she loved making him blush.

Such a gentleman! He reminded her of Sir Walter Raleigh. So chivalrous. So thoughtful. With the patience of a saint too! He had to be, to have dealt with Sherlock for so many years.
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John said he needed to shower and get ready and Sherlock nodded, wondering again why he had changed back into his clothes from yesterday. Maybe John had one of those kinks the fic authors wrote about. A smelly clothes fetish.

Greg sat there looking at Sherlock, waiting for him to spout something nasty. Some deductions, some cutting remarks. He braced himself for it and was utterly gobsmacked when Sherlock just looked at him and stood up, untied his dressing gown and let it fall to the floor.

Greg’s jaw dropped. Uh…was this a strip tease?!

Then Sherlock whipped off his T- shirt and threw it away. He held out his hand to pull Greg up from the sofa.

“I have a backache.” Sherlock said to him with a puppy-dog sad face. “I need a massage. Are you any good at that??!

Wowza!! Greg wanted to pinch himself and check that this was not all one big wild dream!! He had amazing sex with John yesterday and today ---he was going to get his hands on this yummy bowl of strawberries and cream!!

Was it Christmas already?!

He let himself be led inside Sherlock’s bedroom, already insanely turned on and going half mad at the seductive glances Sherlock was throwing at him. Peeping under his eyelashes, biting his lower lip.

Bloody hell!! Was Sherlock flirting with him?!! Or was it just one of his ‘I-don’t –care- about- the- consequences’ insane experiments?

Greg shrugged. Even if it was an experiment, he was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Good?” he scoffed. “I am bloody GREAT at massages. So….how far down is your back aching?”

Chapter Text

Greg wanted to pinch himself to check that this was real. Then he decided not to. Heck, even if it was a fantasy, he was totally in for it!

Sherlock flung himself wantonly on the bed, his beautiful pale muscular back contrasting against the crimson satin sheets, his curly hair spread out on the pillow like an angel’s halo.

Greg blinked at the sight and bit his lower lip.

Breathtaking! He thought to himself, swallowing hard. Flawless. Delicious. And I am getting invited to touch this?!!

“So, where is it hurting Sherlock? How did you hurt it? You must have been so bored yesterday without a case.” Greg said, smiling and speaking in a soothing voice, his fondness for this crazy man seeping into his voice, now that they were not at a crime scene and surrounded by blood and gore.

He had always worried about him and cared for him, right through his terrible drug addiction days and was proud of what he had overcome and achieved.

He placed a hand gently on the small of his back and Sherlock almost jumped up.

“Hey hey…….shh. Take it easy. I got this.” Greg said softly, feeling like a horse whisperer. He soothed him, rubbing his hands in languid circles over that creamy smooth skin.

“Do you have any massage oil here?” he asked Sherlock.

“Mm…no but there is some Holy Oil in the drawer. That case with the beheaded nun? I picked up a bottle from the cloister to run some experiments.”

Greg shook his head and chuckled.

Well, life with Sherlock was nothing if not interesting.  Holy Oil for what he hoped was going to be a rather devilish massage….rather ironic.

He found the oil and poured some of it on his hands and rubbed his palms to warm it.

He climbed onto the bed, his strong muscular thighs gripping Sherlock’s slender hips.

“Uh…..Lestrade? What….”Sherlock mumbled raggedly, lifting his head up off the pillow.

“Can’t reach your back properly otherwise.” Greg said, matter of fact as he straddled Sherlock and gently pushed him back down. He placed both his palms on his back and gently massaged using moderate pressure.

Sherlock gave out a low needy moan that made Greg hard as steel in an instant.

Fuck!!  Greg thought to himself. How was he supposed to last this entire massage?!!

He tried to move himself in such a way that Sherlock would not feel anything, but he should have known better.

“Lestrade?? Is that a torch or a gun or something in your pocket? It is poking me.”

“Uh…..Sunshine, just give me a minute will you.”

“Ok.” Sherlock nodded. “But don’t take too long.”

Fuck fuckity fuck. What was he supposed to do to resolve this quickly?!!  

Greg looked around the room frantically for a solution and decided to go with a soft pillow that he placed between them.

“Better?”

“Hmm. Carry on.” Sherlock said.

Greg started the massage again and was rewarded with yet another orgasmic moan.

“Feels good eh Sunshine?” he grinned, feeling safer with the pillow between them.

“Yes oh YES Greg!” Sherlock moaned loudly and sinfully. “Oh that spot. Yesss!!”

.

.

.

John had showered and changed and come down to leave for the clinic. He stood there at the bottom of the stairs, puzzled by the empty living room. Greg’s coat was on the arm of the sofa and Sherlock’s coat was on the hook.

So where……..and then his thoughts were utterly derailed by the sound of a frantic moan from Sherlock’s bedroom.

What the fuck?!!

He went closer to the door to figure out what was going on and heard

“Yes oh YES!! Greg!!” Sherlock moaned loudly. “Oh that spot. Yesss!!”

John jumped back like he was shot.

What in the FUCKING HELL??!!! Sherlock and Greg were in the bedroom.

Having SEX?!!

And Sherlock knew Lestrade’s first name??

Jesus fecking Christ.

.

.

John thought he was going to be sick. Of course he knew that he and Greg were not in a relationship. No promises had been made. But still…..not even two hours had passed since they had been in bed together.

He had a fleeting moment of jaw dropping admiration for Greg. This was the SIXTH time for him in 24 hours! Talk about stamina. That bastard silver fox.

FUCK.

Fuck him and fuck all gay and bisexual people. He was going to go back to being safely heterosexual.

Since he had made a lifetime practise of being in denial, he decided to also ignore the fact that hearing Sherlock moan had turned him on like crazy.

He forced himself to think of Afghanistan and the war and what was waiting for him in the new clinic. Fever, cough, pus, snot, vomit and such wonderful things.

No sex. No any sex. Of any kind.

He wore his coat and ran down the stairs before he could hear any more.

.

.

.

Mrs. Hudson peeped out and saw him as he slammed the front door shut.

Really, that Dr Watson and his comings and goings she thought with a frown. Always dating and running after every woman he looked at. Poor Sherlock. He needed someone steady and loving in his life.

She sighed.

If only Mycroft would allow himself to accept what was best for both of them. Oh well. She was going to send out those energies into the universe. Those two boys were meant to be with each other, come heaven or hell.

She put some vanilla cupcakes to bake in the oven. She would take them up for Sherlock later. Vanilla was his favourite. Such simple tastes her boy had.

Then she went back to her laptop, adjusted her reading glasses, took a sip of the elderflower tea and carefully typed out the next chapter of ‘Hell bent Heaven Sent.’

After months of planning, they were finally leaving England.  Their new life awaited.

Arm in arm to keep from being separated in the packed crowd, the brothers made their way up the long, angled gangplank that lead to the ship.  Mycroft made a note not to look over the edge at the greenish brown water, his heart beating hard against his breast.

Sherlock, veteran of a lifetime of pirate stories and dreams of the high seas, had no such hesitancy!

The ship was bright and clean, the neat carpet never worn and the walls still smelled faintly of  fresh white paint. There were endless miles of rooms and corridors, winding through the belly of the ship like a labyrinth, before exiting out onto the blindingly sunlit decks.  And all around them, excited people giggled and gossiped against the backdrop of shouted goodbyes, and we’ll miss you!  

“Oh Mycie.” Sherlock breathed in his ear as the ship’s siren blew and they felt the first tug of the mammoth vessel, the thrum of that enormous engine rumbling below them, sending a tremor through all passengers on deck.

“This is it Mycie! We are going to sail the high seas, and we are going to find our own treasure -- a life together, just you and me!”

And then that scamp sneaked in a quick kiss on his Mycie’s lips, and almost danced on the spot for joy.

It was happening! It was real!

All those years of hiding their longing and desire; the guilt, the shame, the pain of separation, then the gossip, the impossibility of staying apart, and then the months of planning, all leading them to this.

The Titanic.

Their own Noah’s Ark that was going to save them, the two of them, against the world.

.

.

Martha paused. It had been a few days since S had replied. Wonder what was up with them. She opened her gmail and sent an email.

Hey, all ok? Muse unwilling or busy at work?

El.

She got a swift reply

Hi! Just the usual. Work, travel, bit of health trouble. The muse has obliged so here is the next bit from me!

Sherlock slipped his hand into Mycroft’s, speechless with excitement now.

Mycroft looked at the beloved face next to his, the joy radiating from it and felt his anxious heart settle. If this was going to make Sherlock so happy? It was worth it. Always.  

He couldn't bring himself to scold Sherlock for his stolen kisses; not when his hand was warm and tight in his own.  "A few more days, dearest, and we'll be free." He agreed, and pitched his voice quiet as they stood together at the railing.  This was it. No turning back, or changing their minds; there was only the open ocean ahead of them, and the future they were determined to make for themselves.  

And yet, for all that hope, there was a touch of bittersweet as they watched the shores of their home grow small and smaller in the distance, before it vanished beyond the horizon.  They weren't the only ones, and when the speck had been swallowed up by the endless blue water, Mycroft squeezed his brother's hand and pulled him close against his side.

No regrets.  I'd follow you to the end of the world.

 

Does that work?? Let me know!

S

.

.

.

Meanwhile in Sherlock’s bedroom, as Greg leaned in closer Sherlock could smell cigarettes, gunpowder, autumn leaves. Greg really did smell like London.

Was there also a hint of musk?

.

.

He lay on the bed, face down. He couldn't focus on the exciting new kind of tension he was starting to feel. He was distracted enough to forget that his lower back was still covered.

Greg chuckled at the sight and started rolling up his sleeves. 'I don't want you to have oil stains on your trousers.'

Sherlock groaned when he pushed a hand under his stomach to undo his trousers. He moved to sit up, but Greg stopped him with a hand on his back. 'Let me,' he said and touched his hip to encourage him to lift up.

Sherlock didn't refuse. Greg reached around, opened Sherlock's trousers and pulled them down, revealing the bare skin. Out of all days that he ignored underwear, that was the most memorable one. Greg uncovered only the upper half of his bottom. He climbed onto the bed. Sherlock again lay flat, biting his lip in anticipation. He heard a wet sound behind him, Greg was warming the oil in the palm of his hand.

He planned to be quiet, but the first touch of Greg's hands made him gasp. He wasn't used to being touched. Greg's large, slick hands slid up and down his back, spreading the oil. Slowly, softly. And then a little harder. Sherlock couldn't contain a low groan when Greg applied more pressure. He was kneading his lower back, massaged the muscles anywhere he could reach.

He didn't realise Greg was that strong. He loved finding that out.

'Not too hard?' Greg paused after another deep groan from Sherlock.

Sherlock felt the impulse to lean into the touch, keep Greg's hands on him. 'No, no. You can go harder, I don't-' he stopped mid-sentence and frowned at his words. He knew it was only a massage, a platonic one and not a foreplay. 'Ah!'

He gasped when Greg continued, using more force than before. 'Oh!'

'Yeah, it hurts so good, doesn't it,' Greg said, sounding smug.

Sherlock whimpered in response. Greg was right. His fingers were digging into his sore muscles and Sherlock didn't protest, didn't ask him to be gentle. He had never felt that way before. He didn't understand why he melted into the bed, what made him so pliant and responsive. He gave up on controlling the sounds he made with every strong stroke. The ache that brought him there dissolved into a something sweeter.

Greg carried on.

He worked his way up Sherlock's back, his thumbs tracing the curve of his spine. He focused on Sherlock's left shoulder, moved his hand from his neck to his shoulder. Sherlock turned his head to the side to see it, letting Greg see his face. Greg added more oil and massaged the aching area more firmly. Sherlock pressed his face into the duvet, hiding his blissed expression. 

He suddenly became aware of Greg's legs almost touching his hips. He wondered what would happen if he lifted his bottom and started grinding against Greg's lap.

Sherlock finally noticed how exactly his body responded to the massage. Sexual arousal wasn't something he experienced often, not since he became adult. Maybe it was the stress or the drugs, or not the right touch. Greg noticed he became tense again, he must have. Sherlock didn't quite know how to solve that problem, he could press his jacket to his crotch when Greg was done with him.

'It's all right,' Greg assured him as he moved downwards again. 'Relax.'

Sherlock tried to focus on the right sensations, but it was almost too easy to roll his hips, slowly and discreetly. It wasn't enough friction, but he wasn't quite sure he was ready to openly hump the bed. He rather liked the tension, he thought. And while it lasted, he didn't have to analyse his surprising sexual awakening.

Greg reached lower than before. His hands were definitely on Sherlock's buttocks now. Without squeezing or sliding down, down and inside. Sherlock didn't mind, his mind offered vivid images of that, he could almost feel it, Greg's finger circling his opening, with all that oil and touching, it might happen, just like that.

His heavy breathing and more noticeable rocking of his hips surely caught Greg's attention. Sherlock wanted to use his hand, but there was no way Greg could miss that. Maybe he would smack Sherlock's hand, push it away and replace it with his own.

'Oh, God,' Sherlock panted, overwhelmed by his desires and imagination.

'Do you want me to stop?' Greg asked. Either he misinterpreted Sherlock's tone or was teasing him.

Sherlock didn't think twice, he asked him to continue. 'Please don’t,' he added brokenly.

.

.

“Feels good eh Sunshine?” Greg grinned, licking his lips at the sight of the luscious lubricated lumbar lines, dipping and curving down to those glistening globes hiding that glorious gateway to gay heaven. 

“Yes oh YES!! Greg!” Sherlock moaned loudly, sounding intoxicated and ruined. “Oh that spot. Yesss!!”

Greg pressed down once more, wickedly, almost purring with joy. Took a bloody massage for the genius to remember his name did it?! Well, well, well. He was going to make sure the lad would be screaming his name before they were done!

“Greg!! Greg, please….I don’t …I can’t…” Sherlock whimpered, thrashing now in Greg’s firm hold.

'Relax, Sherlock,' Greg repeated, his voice now husky with want. 'Relax and enjoy.'

He knew what was happening, he couldn't miss the suggestive movements of Sherlock's hips, his moans and the flush on Sherlock's cheeks and neck.

He got off to one side and flipped Sherlock over. He saw Sherlock’s eyes widen as he undid his own trousers and freed his throbbing manhood.

He aligned it with Sherlock’s, both of them now panting in wild abandon.

He slicked his hand with some more Holy Oil and leaned down to lick Sherlock’s cinnamon nipples, and then blew on them, causing him to shiver and arch with ecstacy, ( amen) exposing his swan-like neck.

Greg bit down on his pulse point and sucked and licked till he saw a purple bruise flowering there. Something primitive and animalistic growled inside his chest at seeing his precious Consulting Detective writhing below him so wantonly, and now marked by him.

He held both their sexcaliburs (yeehaw!) in one hand, and they rode to their white hot climax within seconds.

Greg then flopped over onto the bed, panting and shattered. Sherlock seemed to have also passed out from the episode, his cup of pleasure having runneth over. After half a minute Greg got worried and turned to his side and prodded Sherlock.

“Hey, sunshine? You ok lad?”

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly. “Lestrade? Did the earth move?”

Greg snorted and gave him a pinch on his bum and then scooted over and cuddled him.

Sherlock felt as though he was floating. He felt so….content. He felt heavy and light at the same time. He understood the unbearable lightness of being. He felt as though a tightly coiled spring inside him had been released.

His very first orgasm achieved with the help of another person.

That was quite a milestone. He must remember to store that in his Mind Palace once it had stopped being so floaty……

Greg kept touching him. Sherlock lay there with his eyes closed. He didn't want to move. The haze of the afterglow was too pleasant to ruin it. 

Greg was officially too indulgent with him. Not only did he let Sherlock fall asleep right there and then, but he himself got up after fifteen minutes and got a warm wet towel to wipe him down, peppering him with small kisses all over, which made Sherlock giggle cos he was ticklish.

When Sherlock finally woke up fully, he looked over at Greg who was still curled up next to him, his arm heavy and comfortable around his waist.

There was no awkwardness or guilt.

Greg looked at him with a warm smile and asked “You ok Sherlock?”

“Hmm.” Sherlock replied. “Yes. And I am so glad that you don’t have a bifurcated penis.”

“Huh?!” Greg asked him, baffled, and then started laughing. “Was there something in that Holy Oil? Come on, get up now and get dressed! I am off to the Yard for some paperwork.”

“My clothes are all outside.” Sherlock said with a pout.

“Well come on out then. John must have gone to the clinic by now. There is no one there.” Greg said, chivvying him out with his big palm on that lush booty, as he opened the bedroom door.

.

.

 

Molly had had such a wonderful time with ‘Rupert’ that she could scarcely believe herself!

He had been charming and thoughtful and flirted gently with her in a way that made her feel like she was being courted. They had found so much to talk about! Books, movies, music, theatre. He was so well read and had so many varied interests.

It was odd that he never said a word about the work at Scotland Yard but she figured he was really deep undercover.

She felt as though she had known him forever. Which she did of course. She had known Greg for simply ages, but never really spent this kind of time with him. She flushed as she wondered if they could roleplay with him as ‘Rupert’ even after they were together for good.

Her hand flew up to cover her mouth. Had she really thought that?! She wanted to be with him for good?? But did he feel that way about her? This was too fast perhaps?

She was thinking of these things as she walked briskly to Baker Street. She had some eyeball samples in her bag which Sherlock had wanted.

She peeped in and the front door seemed to be open.

.

.

.

A few miles away, Anthea was standing in her office, tight lipped, clenching her fist around her phone, waiting for the doctor to finish.

Ten minutes ago, Mycroft had had what even she could diagnose as a panic attack. She had called for Dr. Vaz from the Emergency Medical Services.

The only time she had ever seen Mycroft like this, ashen and sweating, was when Sherlock had been almost dead for two minutes before the paramedics had revived him. That had been years ago, during a drug overdose.

As far as she knew, Mycroft was quite capable of standing there unflinching, even if all of London went down in flames, or even the entire planet for that matter. He would flick some dust off his cuffs and carry on. He would destroy entire dictatorships with one signature even if the collateral damage was in millions, and he would quietly eat his egg and watercress sandwich after that. He would take a bullet for Queen and country and probably utter not even a sigh as he went down.

The only thing that could bring him to his knees like this was Sherlock.

So while she was waiting she took a quick look at the footage from Baker Street. Her eyebrows almost flew off.

What is the flaming archangels was that all about?!

She saw Sherlock strip his clothes off and then practically drag Greg into the bedroom, making those fluttery eyes at him the whole time.

Bloody hell!!! This needed an intervention! And quickly.

But first she needed to know that Mycroft was not in any real danger.

Sometimes she just wanted to shake him so badly.

Pretending to not have a heart and being so ruthless and all was fine professionally, but even a deaf and blind person could see how much he loved his brother. And if her suspicion was correct, how much he was ‘in love’ with his brother.

She sighed. She needed to send more positive energies out into the universe. She rapidly logged on to Ao3 from her Blackberry and posted the next chapter of short fic she had been working on.

The Jealous Detective: Mycroft is trying his best, but he gets caught up in his work once more. When Anthea goes on a longer holiday, Mycroft gets a new PA. Sherlock does not approve.

Chris smiled when he handed him the glass. He was the only bright spot right now, and Mycroft was very relieved that he hadn't gotten an idiot as Anthea's substitute. She should have been back a long time ago but then her mother had become seriously ill and she had asked for a longer holiday. Since Chris was a perfect PA, Mycroft didn't mind that. Chris had long stopped sending him texts after he had left the office; he'd learned his job within a very short time.

"I've prepared the agenda," the tall blond said now. "Three printouts are sufficient?"

"Yes, perfect, thank you."

"Oh, and did you see the email I've forwarded from the Foreign Minister?"

"No, actually I didn't."

Chris joined him behind the desk, looking at his screen. "I sent it an hour ago. There it is..."

A knock at the open door let them both startle. Mycroft looked over and opened his eyes widely. Sherlock was standing in the doorframe. And he didn't look happy at all.

"Brother," he rumbled, his eyes narrowed.

"Sherlock! What a pleasant surprise." Mycroft tried not to show how happy and at the same time strangely frightened he was to see his man. "Come in."

"Um, you'd better be leaving in about ten minutes, sir," Chris threw in.

"I'm sure my brother is able to use his watch," Sherlock said in a tone that was icy to say the least.

Chris cringed next to Mycroft. "Of course. Nice to meet you, sir. I've heard a lot about you."

"I'm sure you have," Sherlock retorted and crossed his arms.

Mycroft looked from one man to the other. "I'll be in time," he said to Chris and the large PA nodded with a shy smile and then left the office. As Sherlock didn't move, he had to uncomfortably squeeze his muscular frame past him, hitting him in the shoulder, and he even apologised for it, which Sherlock completely ignored. When Chris had managed to leave the room, Sherlock shut the door behind him roughly.

"Sorry to disturb you," he said and there was something in his eyes that Mycroft didn't like at all.

And finally he got something he should have realised months before – Sherlock was jealous of his time with Chris! Sometimes he was really slow... "Come here," he said, getting up from his chair.

"You're sure? I thought I'd drop by and say hi as Lestrade will need me later as I've told you but it doesn't seem to be convenient."

"Come here, Lock," Mycroft said as calmly as he could.

And a few seconds later, he met Sherlock halfway and pulled him in a tight embrace. "You're an idiot," he mumbled into his ear.

Sherlock stiffened and then slumped down in his hug. "Am I?" he whispered, sounding rather miserable. His strong arms were tightly wrapped around Mycroft's midst, certainly crumpling his suit, but the politician couldn't have cared less.

"Darling, Chris is my PA, and a very good one, but that's all. And it's all he'll ever be!"

The younger man pulled back and eyed him closely. "He looks like a fucking god! A gay god to be precise!"

"Well, he may or may not but I'm already sharing my life with the god of smartness and brattishness and he doesn't stand a chance against him."

Sherlock snorted, but his eyes had brightened up. "I'm not a brat."

"Yes you are. But that's one of the few million reasons I love you so much."

"I love you, too. And I bloody miss you..."

.

.

She really needed to sort these two idiots out before Mycroft killed himself with heartbreak.

She also needed to check on his real blood reports.

They never allowed any of his real samples to be sent to local labs. It was simply too dangerous. The last thing they needed was some crazed scientist doing some gene editing on the side and making clones or using it for humanoid robot overlords. Or worse.

So his samples were always sent out to different highly secret locations all over the world. This time it had gone to Dr. Strange’s lab on the Nepal-India border.

Anthea called his partner Dr. Chandu in India on her encrypted phone.

“All ok.” He told her. “A bit low on vit D3 because he probably never goes out in the sun. I will send a prescription to your phone.”

She gave a sigh of relief.

She looked at the other report from this hospital.

She would have to let this person whose random sample they had used, what was his name…. Mark Gatiss…. know that his annual check- up was fine too. What an odd coincidence that he was also low on Vit D3.

.

.

.

Finally Dr. Vaz came out from Mycroft’s room and told her what she had suspected.

“Stress induced anxiety attack. Cancel all meetings for a week. He needs rest.”

She almost snorted. If Mycroft had no work for a week he would certainly be dead by Sunday. But she nodded and agreed.

Then she went in to see her boss. He looked awful. His face was ashen and he looked tired.

She stood there silently till he looked up at her.

“Sorry to have given you a fright Anthea.” he said, ever the gentleman. “If you could bring in those files on the Ukraine…”

“You need to rest Sir.” She interrupted him firmly. “I will handle it. The doctor has asked me to cancel all meetings for a week.”

She smiled at the horrified expression on his face and the way he was struck speechless.

“Yes, I know. Don’t worry, I will not do that. But..” and she hesitated.

No matter how explicitly and passionately she shipped him with Sherlock she knew that he was a proud and sensitive man and she needed to tread carefully.

“But please take at least today off?” She asked.

He nodded slowly.

Anthea took a deep breath and fired her final salvo. “Who will keep an eye on Sherlock if you…..”

Mycroft paled even more if that was possible and for a minute she thought he was going to have another anxiety attack. Crap….

But then he sat up straighter and said. “You are right Anthea. Duty calls. I can never let him down. Please, you should also take the evening off. I will see you in office tomorrow.”

“And Anthea….” he said as she turned to go. “Thank you for everything.”


“Always.”Anthea replied softly and then left.

.

.

.

Just as Mycroft was about to doze off he sensed rather than saw Mummy sitting next to him on a chair, an annoyed expression on her face.

“Myke, what have I told you about working too hard?!”

“That it’s a good thing?” Mycroft tried to joke feebly.

“You silly boy. This world was on fire way before you were born and it will continue to be long after we are gone.” she sighed. “Of course, take care of it by all means. But take care of yourself also!”

“Yes Mummy.” Mycroft said obediently.

“Go to sleep now.” Mummy said and rested her hand on his forehead.

Mycroft felt all his stress leave him in an instant and he slumped down on his pillow and was fast asleep before she could even move her hand away.

Mummy sat there for a minute looking at her precious oldest son. She muttered something about dang Martha and smoke and mirrors before she left as quickly as she had come.

.

.

.

Anthea stood on the pavement outside the hospital, twirling her phone in her hands.

She had an evening free. An ENTIRE evening free!

What was she supposed to do with it?!! She had not had an evening free in ….five years?!

Ever since Mycroft had rescued her from a mission that had gone spectacularly wrong in Libya, she had not been able to return to Germany and had been his shadow and the most faithful, almost devoted assistant. There was literally nothing she did not know about him. Form his favourite aftershave to the size of his boxers. Hell, she even knew that he wore to the left.

She knew how he strategized, how he worked, who he trusted and how he obeyed his Mummy.

The only thing she had never known for sure was how much he truly loved his brother and how much of it was duty. Oh well, she had been doing all she could for him, but maybe today she could do something for herself for a change.

She had been wanting to catch the latest performance of Hamlet and with any luck she would be able to mobilize one ticket for herself and maybe one for Molly if she was interested.

She had heard great things about the lead performer Andrew Scott.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Text

Molly climbed up the stairs, quiet as a mouse and was about to knock on the door to the flat when she realized that it was open. She pushed it a bit and then just stood there, scarcely able to believe what she was seeing.


Sherlock and Greg had come out of his bedroom. Sherlock was not wearing his shirt. Or his pajamas. Or anything else really.
Greg was grinning like a cat that got the cream and he was wiping his hands on a towel as they came out, nudging Sherlock with his elbow.
“So how was it for you darlin’?” he was saying, in that honey caramel voice with a laugh in it.
Greg turned to go to the bathroom. “Just a quick shower and then I will be off. Go back to sleep if you want. I will see myself out.”
He grabbed Sherlock’s bum and squeezed it, making Sherlock yelp, and then he went off laughing, towards the bathroom.


Sherlock came to the sofa and picked up his T- shirt and wore it. He wrapped his dressing gown and tied it and suddenly looked up to see Molly.
“Molly!” He called out.
“Umm….. Uh….I ….” Molly stammered, wishing she had run away. Wishing she had never come here. Rupert. Greg. The bastard!! Not to mention which how the hell had he reached here before her and managed to apparently have sex with Sherlock?!
Greg HAD SEX with Sherlock!!! Her entire life was a lie.


Why…. why did she always fall for unavailable assholes who broke her heart?!!

She was so busy with her ranting and self- loathing that she did not notice Sherlock till he was looming right in front of her.
“Molly! Come in. Perfect timing! I have been wanting to …to talk to you.”


And he practically dragged her into his bedroom and told her to sit there, on his bed.
.
.
.
Martin stared at his phone, his heart still thudding against his ribs. He had an appointment for 2 pm. He could do this. He could find a way to talk about what had just happened to him. He would not have a breakdown.


Should he call Amanda and tell her?


He was about to when he remembered that she had a scene to film with Benedict and would be busy all day anyway.
He would tell her after he got back. If he went. If it helped.
What if it didn’t?! What if…..and now that he thought of it, he hadn’t even seen what that crazy man looked like! He had suddenly come so close to his face, kissed him so passionately and then buggered off so quickly that he had barely got a glimpse of his face. Just those flashing eyes and floating hair.
God.
And those lips….
He shuddered again. Stop thinking about him!! Think of other things. Think of hideously un- sexy things.
Hobbits. Hairy feet. Dragons.
No not dragons. Smaug’s voice gave him a hard- on every time.


Bloody cocks. Why could they not obey his commands??! Like light camera action. Why were they always ready for action?!!


He changed his clothes, ate a sandwich quickly and took the tube to the East Wind Clinic.


He filled out endless forms since he was a new patient and as he was waiting his turn he suddenly did a double take.


What the fuck?!! What was Amanda doing here??
And WHAT THE FUCK?!! Why was she kissing someone in the corridor?!!
.
.
He saw her giggle before she and the other man ducked into another room.
He was trembling with rage when he walked up to the reception and asked how long he would have to wait. He could not go in because that was inside the consulting area but he wanted to go in RIGHT NOW and find out what the hell was going on!!


Well, he may have been kissed by that mad man…and he MAY have kissed him back a little…and he MAY have enjoyed it a bit too much…but what the hell…..


“Oh our chief had to go on AirLift to the Sherringford Camp. Some local trouble. There was an outbreak.” The receptionist was saying as she peered at her notes. “Or a break out….. Anyway.” She smiled cheerfully. “We have a locum here today…” She looked at the sheet in front of her. “A Dr. Watson will be looking after her cases.”


“Dr Watson?!” Martin asked, his eyes almost bugging out. “Dr JOHN Watson??!”

“Yes, yes.” The receptionist smiled at him. “Have you seen him before?”
“No.” Martin mumbled. “But I just remembered that I have to be somewhere else.”


Bugger if he was going to face Dr John Watson of all people after having been snogged silly by someone in his flat. Perhaps that Detective he shared the flat with but it could have been simply anyone really….No way was he going to come face to face with his hero when his mind was like a scrambled egg.


He turned around and went home, seething at everything. He would sit and wait till Amanda got home and then ask her what is what.
.
.
.
Benedict and Amanda were waiting for the set to be readied.


“Seriously!” Amanda was saying, her eyes twinkling with laughter. “I mean LOOK at the ambience here. I don’t think it is even sub-text anymore.”
“Come on!” Benedict said with his most sincere public school boy expression. “You are his best friend’s wife!”


“Mmmhmm.” Amanda said with a cheeky grin. “And he knows her ex –boyfriend and threatens him before the wedding? He chooses the colour for her bridesmaids dresses and tastes the wine and cake? He knows she is pregnant before even she does? Come on Ben!! There is something very fishy about all this!!”


Benedict bit his lower lip thoughtfully. Maybe. Maybe not.
He had seen the final rushes of the scenes with him and Amanda and there was no denying that they had way more on screen chemistry than him and Martin. Hell, it was more than even with her and Martin. He had read fanfiction—only the meta ones though, not the slash fic. That made him squirm.


He had read ‘There is something about Mary.’


In his now famous Best Man speech he had said ““I know I speak for Mary. We will never let you down.”
Who does that?!
At the stag night when Sherlock and John are playing the guessing game, Sherlock is himself. He is Sherlock Holmes. But John has a post- it on his own forehead saying ‘Madonna’ and asks Sherlock if he is a ‘pretty lady’ and says ‘I don’t mind.’
Madonna is also another name for Mary. Just saying. They could have gone for literally any other name but they chose this one…
Why was Mary’s perfume bottle in 221B when John lived somewhere else? When everyone is searching for him she is the only one who finds him at Lenister Gardens.
And now they had planned to meet here in this very romantic looking hideout inside a deconsecrated church?
What were Steven and Mark playing at?!
After shooting Magnussen why does he have to tell John: “Give Mary my love. Tell her she is safe now.”


Fans thought it was sign of Sherlock’s love for John. But…sometimes he did wonder….


“Ready?” The director asked. “Lights, camera…and action.”


Benedict and Amanda got up and took their spots on the set.
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“Molly Hooper.” Sherlock said, in that husky baritone of his which made shivers go down her spine.


What the hell was she doing here? She asked herself as she looked around.


She was sitting on the edge of the bed where Sherlock and Greg had clearly been having sex, probably just minutes ago.
Sherlock locked the bedroom door behind him and Molly’s eyes widened.
“What……what are you doing Sherlock?” She stammered, blushing furiously.
“It is just an experiment Molly.” Sherlock said soothingly. “You know I always need you for my experiments don’t you? I don’t feel safe with anyone else.”
“Um…uh…ok…” Molly said. “But what kind of experiment is this?”


In response Sherlock went down on his knees in front of her and held her face in his elegant hands.
“This kind.” he said as he bent his head closer and kissed her on her lips.
Her lips parted instantly and Sherlock licked inside her mouth.
Molly moaned as she gave in to this kiss that she had been dreaming of for years! She swirled her tongue around his, feeling breathless with desire and lust. She barely noticed when he slid his hand inside her blouse and unhooked her bra.


“Sherlock!” she whispered when he broke the kiss and reached out to pull her top off.


No, he craved exactly what other men did. But the focus of his cravings had narrowed over the years to just one point.
Molly.
Her beautiful breasts, her doleful eyes, her long hair, her harsh slaps to his face, are the stuff of almost nightly discomfort.
It started years ago, when he returned to London. Sleeping over in Molly’s spare room eventually became sleeping over in Molly’s bedroom. They’ve kissed, sometimes. Comfort turns to closeness and closeness turns to intimacy, and the kissing has been..sensual at times. He’s always managed to stop things before they go too far, no matter how frustrating it’s been, but picturing Molly in these gauzy, lacy knickers, he’s not sure that he wants to fight it anymore.
He’s an easy switch, and he suspects she is too: If she would indulge him, the permutations and combinations of their couplings would be the stuff dreams are made of. Sherlock can’t help but wonder what it would be like to give in, indulge himself just once, so he lets the scenes play out in his mind: He could take her from behind, Molly on her knees. He could sit back as she takes him down her throat her arms tied behind her back, while he slowly fucks her mouth. Maybe he could tie her to the bed and spank her arse until she’s pink and glowing, then fuck her tender hole. Or he could kneel before her, and lap at her cunt as she pulls on his hair.
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“Molly.” he breathed out in her ear, licking her earlobe as his fingers freed her of all her clothes. He hooked his fingers into her adorably mismatched panties and pulled them off.
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The first taste of her cunt is heaven. Molly is wet and ready for him, and there’s a beautifully wanton intake of breath when he flattens his tongue to lick. She arches into his mouth and her fingers find their way into his hair, her legs resting on his shoulders, ankles locked around his neck.
It occurs to Sherlock that he has two free hands: with his right, he pushes two fingers inside her, and with his left he reaches for her bared nipple and pinches hard, causing her to buck and bear down on his hand and mouth.
Sucking her clit between his lips, he circles it with his tongue, flicking and licking, quickening the pace in time with his pumping fingers as her moans become more and more lurid. Sherlock snakes his hand between his legs and squeezes his prick in time with the tongue that fucks her.
He both hears and feels her come. She screams his name, her cunt clenching on his fingers, pulling on the fistful of hair that’s in her hand.
Sherlock gives her just a moment to recover before he pulls her to the floor and rips the already frayed thong from around his waist. Kneeling behind her, with one hand he fondles her breast, twists her nipple, and with the other he gropes her arse, slaps it once, and Molly’s responding moan is lewd and desperate.
His thumb presses firmly against the cleft of her backside until it finds the slick wetness of her cunt and sinks in, while her thighs tremble with arousal.
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“Wait wait Sherlock!” Molly said, breathless and barely able to think but HELLO?!! Unprotected sex??? She does not want Greg’s cooties nor any babies at this point in her life.
“Condoms!” She gasped. “My purse.”


Sherlock dragged himself off her reluctantly and rummaged inside her purse. He found the eyeballs and was so thrilled that he started looking at them.
Molly smacked his hand and said “Sherlock?! Timing and priority??!”


She took the purse from him and pulled out a bunch of condoms.
Sherlock took them from her and asked. “Molly…why are you carrying 6 condoms? Good that you are of course cos neither of us wants vaginababies or even assbabies.”
“Huh?! “ Molly said and then shook her head. Sherlock. He did not make sense most of the time. “Well they have non contraceptive uses you know.” She told him.
“Really?” He asked her, genuinely curious. “I should put that on my blog.”
“Yes.” Molly confirmed. “Condoms can be used for treatment of post- partum haemorrhage, to cover the transvaginal USG probe, as a tourniquet , as a cover for a wet umbrella…and of course for….umm for…..”
“If you can’t say it you shouldn’t do it.” Sherlock said in all seriousness and Molly panicked.


Yes, he is right. OMGOMGOMG what had she been about to do?!!

And then all arguments went out of the window because he opened a condom and started wearing it and yeah, she can go to hell tomorrow. Today she is totally going to have sex with Sherlock.
“For sex.” She said loudly and Sherlock smiled.


On the rug, in front of the fireplace Sherlock gently pushes her shoulders to the floor, and grips her hip - her translucent black silk covered arse is in the air, ready for him to take. The fingers that had toyed with her tits graze down her belly, lower and lower until they find her clit through the open crotch of her soaking knickers. The sigh that Molly exhales is soft and satisfied.
Flushed pink, she looks almost edible. Molly moans pliantly beneath him, like the sweet little plaything that he knew she would be, begging to be defiled and debased, “Please Sherlock, I need it.”
He eases the silk that frames her pussy aside, pushing the fat head of his swollen cock in to her body, beginning to thrust, pistoning in and out.
Slow at first, it becomes frantic, fuelled as it is by his lust for her willing body and Molly’s obvious enjoyment of being fucked hard. When he’s as deep as he can go, Sherlock leans over her and kisses her back. He’s rewarded with a moaned ‘yes,’ as she pushes back onto his shaft.
His breathing is harsh and erratic, he feels dizzy so he focuses his whole mind on his cock and the woman wrapped around it.
He is close: what he wants is to paint her skin with his cum, but he’s so far gone that he couldn’t pull now out even if there was a gun pointed at his head.
Sherlock does his best to make it good for her. His fingers work her clit and his thumb teases her hole as he rocks into her, but it’s only when her hand joins his between her legs does she come, pulsing convulsively around him. He fucks her through it but it’s too much after wanting this for so long, that his orgasm overtakes him too. Sherlock comes with such force that he collapses onto her and they both fall to the floor.
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Mrs Hudson peeped out as she heard Molly going up the stairs, even though she was so quiet.
She stood at her door hand on hips wondering what was going on upstairs?!!
It was like a revolving door today!! Everyone but Mycroft seemed to be dropping by.


Oh well, at least the poor boy had company. Good she made him sleep for some hours in the morning.

All that internet and social media wasn’t good for people, she thought as she scrolled through her Instagram account.


A notification chimed on her Whatsapp group-Coven.


W1. High tea is on for tomorrow?
W3. Yes. The usual place?
Martha smiled and replied. I will bring cookies! :)

Chapter Text

Rupert found himself humming as he walked onto the set. It was not his day for a shoot and in any case he had hardly any scenes with Louise.
It was so odd to chance upon her in the Wellcome collection café the other day. He thought it was really endearing that she had looked at him as though she recognized him but then gotten all shy and introduced herself as Molly.
Bloody hell!! That had utterly charmed him. Live action role play was totally his jam!!
Maybe at their next date he would pretend to be ‘Greg’ and then he could do what he had wanted to since that Christmas party scene shoot when Louise had turned up looking so pretty.
He would ask her out on a proper date. His mum had raised him to be a proper gentleman and he would treat her like a lady.
It was with these romantic notions that he sauntered into the shoot, smiling warmly at all the crew members, always astonished at how people (men and women) looked at him so coyly and ….almost lustily. Ah well, he shrugged his shoulders. They all probably loved Greg. He was such a solid character, always on the side of justice. And on Sherlock’s side. Despite the Consulting Detective being so nasty to him all the time.
He had timed his arrival towards the end of the shoot so he could ask Louise out without any worry of disturbing the schedule. But he was a bit too late.
As he turned the corner to the set where she was shooting, he heard them announce pack up and she smiled at the tall man waiting in the corner and went off hand- in- hand with him.

Rupert stood there watching them leave and took a deep breath.
Okaaayyyy…… Maybe it was not meant to be….but he was puzzled because he could have sworn that he had felt a spark, a connection, when they chatted that day. It was not like meeting a new person. It was like re-discovering someone he had always known.
He sighed. Live and learn old man he told himself wryly. Don’t let all this new age crap of The One and Forever Love get to you.
Rupert knew that Martin was super busy with The Hobbit but he was in London for a couple of months now only for the Sherlock shoot. Martin also didn’t have a scene to shoot today.
So, he texted him. “Up for some drinks?”
He got a reply almost instantly. ‘Absolutely! Where and when?’
Rupert grinned. Boy, he sounded desperate! “The usual? Queen’s Head? In half an hour?”
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Molly finally woke up half an hour later, having been blissed out by all that ridiculously good sex. Sherlock was sitting up, already wearing a T- shirt and pajamas, sadly enough.
What did this mean for them now? Molly thought to herself.
It was literally her lifetime dream and it had come true!! And unlike some dreams which are awful when translated to reality this one had been all kinds of spectacular!! Even better than her fantasies truth be told.
She would love to have more of this….but Sherlock did not really do relationships. She was not sure if he even had any feelings for her, besides seeing her as a helper in his experiments and cases.
But he had said he thought she was ‘safe’’ to do the experiments with.
What did that mean? What should she do now? Could she kiss him? What if that was not part of the experiment protocol? Did it matter? If she was part of the experiment surely she also had some rights! The Nuremberg trials had specifically forbidden trials in humans without their express consent. That was the birth of medical ethics. She should…………..


“Molly!” Sherlock barked. “Stop thinking so loudly!!! I can’t figure out what I am writing!!”
“Sorry Sherlock.” She said softly.


Sherlock scowled and carried on writing on that sheet of paper. He seemed to have drawn out a grid of some kind and was scribbling all over it with arrows and things.
“Um…uh…What are you doing Sherlock?” Molly asked finally. “Anything I can help with?”
Sherlock replied without looking. “I am making a sex chart.”
And he went back to his scribbling.


Molly sighed. She wore her clothes, used the bathroom, put the kettle on for tea and came back.
Sherlock had finished his chart and he looked up when she came back in. He gave her one of those blinding smiles that meant he either wanted a favour or he had deduced something.


He pushed the paper at her and said “So her is the Kinsey line on the X axis. Here are the ones I need to have sex with on the Y axis.
“Um…need to have sex with?”
“Yes!” Sherlock nodded. “They told me to.”
“They?” Molly asked, baffled. “Who is they?”
“The people on Ao3.”
Molly almost choked. “What?!! Who?? When??”
Sherlock looked at her like he would at a slow moving insect. “Archives of our own. A fan-created, fan-run, nonprofit, noncommercial archive for transformative fanworks.”
Oh god oh god oh god. Isn’t that the site where Anthea said she shared her stories? Had he read what Anthea wrote?


She looked at the chart.
Sherlock had had sex with John?? AND Greg?? AND her??
“Umm…..you had sex with John?”
“No, I just kissed him. See –this is why I made the third axis. It is difficult to show in two dimensions. I think I will have to build a 3D model for it. Like the DNA helix. See here--- With Greg we attained orgasms through masturbation. With you it was peno-vaginal penetration.”
Uh ok. That is one way of taking away any romantic expectations for the future. Peno-vaginal penetration my ass. Molly thought to herself.
“You also did a pretty good job of clitoral stimulation.” She reminded him.
“You think so?” Sherlock asked, looking extremely pleased. “It was my first time with lady parts.”
“Uh yeah. It was rather good.” Molly said, blushing as she remembered her reactions to him last night.
“Yes, your pulse rate had gone up to 180 and your skin was flushed. Excitement, plateau, orgasm and resolution.” Sherlock was nodding and humming as he looked at his chart and made some markings. He had had had six orgasms.
“Molly? How many orgasms did you have?” He asked her, with his pen poised over the chart. “I had six. Is that a good average or could we have managed more?”


Molly was torn between laughing at this madness her life had spiralled into, pinching herself to see if this was all a crazy dream, and crying because she didn’t want to wake up if it was!
“Um…well…”Molly managed to say. “ Women do have multiple orgasms if the foreplay has been good you know. So…”
Sherlock looked at her and frowned. “So how many did you have?”
“Difficult to do maths when someone has their tongue on your fortune cookie.“ Molly said with a giggle.
“Fortune cookie?! We didn’t eat Chinese. Did we?” Sherlock asked her looking very puzzled. “I should order something. I am feeling rather hungry.”
He picked up his phone and started dialling while still talking to her. “There is this man. I helped him out up shelves. He will send something over quickly.”


Molly snorted with laughter. When she saw his annoyed expression she controlled herself and asked him. “What about you? Did you um…..enjoy ….last night?”
“I did actually. Surprisingly enough. I would give it a 7. Same as with Greg. Although he also gave me a back massage so that added one point. But you have breasts so that gives you one point.” Sherlock said looking down at his chart. “Maybe I need one more axis for the method of sexual stimulation. Oh and perhaps one more for the route. And then….Oh yes! Fun!” He exclaimed. “I can’t wait to have sex with you using toys."


“What?!” Molly said.
“Sex toys!” Sherlock replied. “I need to invent one. There was an awesome story about that. I should have something ready by this weekend.”
“Uh..what?!!” Molly asked again.
Sherlock looked at her, suddenly worried. Was there some goldfish protocol for agreeing to use sex toys? How was he supposed to know? What if she said no?? If they were lady part sex toys then who else could he possibly ask? He wondered fleetingly if Mrs. Hudson….NO his brain shouted at him. Behave yourself! So he put on the most puppy-dog face he could manage and looked at Molly.
Molly wondered if he was having a seizure. What was this face he was making?!

"Molly?" He said in his most wheedling tone. "Will you please play with me and the sex toys? Pretty please?"


Molly wondered if there had been something in the tea at the café. Greg had flirted with her and then come here and apparently had wanton sex with Sherlock. Now she was here having had some mind-blowing copulatory experience herself. And Sherlock was begging her to use sex toys together?!! As if she was going to say no! Duh.


“Sure Sherlock.” she said with a smile. “Let me know when and give me a few days’ notice to change my shift rota.”
“Thank you!” Sherlock said, almost bouncing with excitement. He scribbled something on hi chart and then he looked right into her eyes and dropped his voice one octave. She could feel the rumble as he spoke. “Molly… I am planning to make a yellow vibrator with a remote control. Would you like to try that one?”


Molly never knew that she was capable of getting an orgasm just from his voice. Oh well…
“Yes!!”She managed to say in a strangled voice. “Oh yes…yes yes yes!”
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A few miles away sitting inside the theatre, Anthea was mesmerized. What an incredible performance! Hamlet was her favourite because something about his troubled soul and simmering existentialist angst really made her feel for him.
(Maybe reminded her of Mycroft …but she was not going to over analyse what that meant.)


And then…and then Andrew had looked right into her eyes when he said “To be or not to be” and she had almost melted and left only her shoes behind.
But then the play had carried on and she felt as though he was performing only for her. It was a strange and heady feeling.
When the play was over Anthea was not sure what to do but she could not get herself to leave and go home. So she waited outside the exit door from the backstage, discreetly, typing on her blackberry.


Half an hour later Andrew came out, looking harried.
“Oh thank goodness!!” Andrew said as soon as he saw her. “I was hoping that you would ….um…find me?!”
Anthea grinned. Direct approach. Her favourite kind. “Dinner?” She asked him.
Andrew gave her a crooked grin and held out his hand. She slipped her hand in his and they got into a cab.


“The Shard please.” Both of them spoke at the same time. And then looked at each other and laughed.


This was going to be one fun ride!

Chapter Text

Sherlock was very pleased with himself. He was wondering if he could write up all this for the Royal College of Sex.

Was there such an Institute? Mycroft would know. Bloody elitist. Forever wanting to endorse and be a Patron of such idiotic things.

Anyway…he waved his hands in the air as if to swat away any thoughts of Mycroft….but then he stopped. Hmm. Sex. Mycroft.

His chart was looking impressively complex now.

He had the Kinsey line on the X axis. The ones he needed to have sex with on the Y axis. He had built in an extra O axis for orgasms. More the merrier obviously. He was now wondering if he needed a K axis. For kinks.

Who knew he would enjoy getting down on Molly’s Fortune Cookie? Or that he liked some Holy Oil massage from deep voiced muscular older men before he could get it up and hard? Or maybe the massage thing was just foreplay?

Damn. He needed an F axis for foreplay.

He wonders briefly if considering sex with Mycroft as an incestuous gay thing would come under Kinks or just simply under illegal stuff? Hmmm. He would have to make a footnote to figure that out.

And oh yes, what about sex toys? Did they need their own axis or could he just insert them somewhere else?

Speaking of inserting things….he had a fleeting sense of wistful sadness that he didn’t actually have a knot nor would he ever get one inside of him …because ABO was imaginary.

Thank goodness for the wild and outrageous imagination these fic writers had that they had even created something like this, imaginary or not….but hell, he was literally ACHING to read something where he was an Alpha. Maybe he would get himself a lovely hot cup of tea now that Molly had left, and he would find himself some Alpha!Sherlock.

He loved those exclamation marks the writers put into the tags. Made him feel like something really exciting!!! was about to happen!!!!

And it was. It almost always was. Sherlock almost cuddled his laptop to his chest as he allowed himself to imagine the thrill of finding himself as an Alpha. He wondered who would be his Omega in those fics.

Five minutes and one steeped cup of tea sitting at his elbow, he was about to find out.

He opened Ao3 and searched for Alpha!Sherlock and was astonished to find that there were far fewer fic than when he was an Omega. Damn these writers.

Why did everyone make him an Omega all the time??!

He was FED UP of being the Omega. He felt like an Alpha. Greg would be an Alpha. Stupid Mycroft would be an Omega. Always babysitting him and buying poncy paintings and matching curtains and talking about ‘making a house a home’ and whatnot. Molly would be an Omega. As would Mrs. Hudson.

Why him??! He had NO desire to be nurturing and nesting or anything. 

Well, anyway, here was someone called SlytherinsDragon who had written 'An arrangement of Convenience.'

Theoretically, he knows his brother is an omega, but he has never considered the impact of the secondary gender on Mycroft’s life. In adulthood, his big brother has always been in control, whether if it was pulling the strings of the latest international intrigue, bending other alphas, betas and other omegas into his will, or micromanaging to death the aspects of Sherlock’s life. Usually his brother wears a spray to cover up his scent, masquerading as a beta, but today the smells in Sherlock’s nose inform that his brother has been in heat recently – maybe a day or two ago – and whatever had happened, was not satisfactory.

It is the unmistakable scent of a distressed omega.  

Mycroft is starting to look alarmed, presumably at the trail of thoughts he was reading from the barely perceptible changes on Sherlock’s face.

“Is there some alpha I need to beat some sense into, brother?” The question escapes from Sherlock’s mouth before he could think.

His brother’s pupils rise up in a mixture of horror and panic. “No.” Mycroft shakes his head firmly. “There wasn’t an alpha – I… I couldn’t bear it. Not after last time...”

Before Sherlock could reply, his brother flees from the flat.

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Hmm…Sherlock took a sip of his tea and mulled over this first chapter. Was this author pairing him up in gay incestuous ABO sex with Mycroft??! He wondered if there was an Oscar or Nobel or some such category for such writers. Maybe a Victoria Cross equivalent. For valour and courage in the face of hellfires or whatever it was that they were headed towards. Surely they were headed towards some kind of Armageddon? Apocalypse? Dystopia?

How could these writers carry on with ‘normal’ life as students, hell-- even teachers, doctors, lawyers, all kinds of relatives to all kinds of people, while their insides seethed with this crazy mass of ideas that would shame the Devil?!

When Lewis Carroll had said 'Twas brilling and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe', Sherlock wonders if he was foreshadowing fanfiction.

He finishes his tea and now feels fortified enough to read chapter 2.

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Sherlock has never been interested in sex. It was too messy – too complicated. He had seen enough of the consequences doing casework for Scotland Yard. Aside from the few ruts that he had gone through during puberty – he was completely inexperienced. Was he really willing to sacrifice his need for clarity of mind for the sake of his brother’s health?

“You know, there could be a solution to your problem.” Sherlock starts cautiously.

Mycroft stops scenting his wrist and looks up. “What is it?”

“You will have to keep an open mind about it.” Sherlock adds, keeping his nervousness out of his tone.

“I am desperate.” Mycroft admits, while almost nuzzling against Sherlock’s wrist.

It is a surprisingly pleasant sensation, feeling his brother’s skin brush lightly against the abundant density of nerve endings in his scent gland. Sherlock permits himself to enjoy the touch before asking. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

“This is not a laughing matter, brother.” Mycroft replies. He says more seriously, “I promise I will not.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath. He takes the plunge. “Why don’t you use my knot?”

There is a silence.

A long one.

“Mycroft?”

“Are you joking?” Mycroft is shocked. His brother quickly glances up at Sherlock’s face again and deduces, “No, you are not.” He then adds curiously, “But you’ve never even had sex?”

“If the billions of dullards around the world can do it, I am sure I can figure it out.” Sherlock says dismissively.

“I am your brother, you do realize.” Mycroft makes an objection, but Sherlock can tell that it was only a token one.

“We are not bonding. You need a knot, I have a knot and that’s that.” Sherlock states firmly. “And I would never dream of asking you to submit to me.”

“An arrangement.” His brother says.

“Of convenience.” Sherlock appends, “Besides, I might as well see what this sex stuff is all about.”

.

.

 

Wow. Sherlock stops reading and realizes that he has not been breathing the entire minute it took him to read this. He takes a deep breath. Wow. He wonders what real life Mycroft would say if Sherlock were to propose something like this.

Not knotting of course because ABO wasn’t real. Duh. But regular sex. Whatever ‘regular’ meant any more.

He wondered whether Mycroft had ever had sex. And with whom. He simply could not imagine Mycroft tolerating anyone enough to let them close enough to touch, let alone enter into body cavities. Or maybe he did the entering. Huh.

No. he could not imagine Mycroft allowing himself to be that vulnerable around anyone. And rightly so, he decided. He remembered how he had felt after sex with Greg and even with Molly. The way his entire Mind Palace had felt all floaty and lost. No wonder the French word for orgasm was La Petit Mort. The little death.

He was quite sure he would not be able to recite the Periodic Table soon after sex. At least not for three minutes. And that was a long time for someone as powerful as Mycroft to not want to risk it.

Would he trust his own younger brother? Hmm…maybe not, given his history with drugs and a determination to constantly be chasing danger…..but perhaps he could persuade him somehow. For an experiment.

He knew that although they never spoke about it openly since that would appear too much like sentiment, but they both knew that Mycroft could rarely say no to Sherlock.

As the germ of an idea was formulating, Sherlock clicked on the next fic that showed up.

Woah woah woah. What was with this title?!!

"Damnation: The One Where Sherlock Shags the Fuck Out of Mycroft, and We’re All Happily Going to Hell", by phipiohsum475?

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Mycroft sat in his room the evening after his submission in his finest silk pyjamas, the smooth fabric helping ease his mild discomfort. He treated the remaining anxiety with an exquisite brandy and a book of Persian poetry he’d set aside as a treat after his thesis was done. He’d found a fan to blow a cool breeze over him; the warmth of the brandy causing a blush to rise over his skin. There was an itch on his nerves, something leaving him unsettled. He heard the bold, arrogant stomping of his little brother, and all slotted into place. Mycroft rolled his eyes, mentally marked his location, and was thusly prepared when his bedroom door burst open, slamming it into the stopper on the wall and bouncing back onto his newly defined form.

“What is that scent?!” he demanded angrily, and Mycroft shrugged, prepared for the slightly obtrusive methods of his younger brother in his own search for answers. Sherlock turned on him, with a growl, and came up to Mycroft from behind, hands on his shoulders to keep Mycroft from standing. Sherlock buried his nose in Mycroft’s neck and moaned, “Fuck, it’s you! It’s bloody obscene, you smelling like that. How do they allow you out in public?!”

Mycroft tried to stand, to push back against Sherlock he sat in the chair, but Sherlock licked a wide stripe up Mycroft’s neck with his warm, wet tongue. Mycroft stuttered, the heat and moisture sending static down his spine and through his nerves. Sherlock took his moment of weakness to press his tongue deep into Mycroft’s neck, seeking for something Mycroft knew he wouldn’t find. And yet, he knew the moment that Sherlock’s tongue felt the deeply buried gland. Mycroft gasped and Sherlock chuckled.  Mycroft tried once again to stand, to escape, to flee from the slowly dawning realisation, but Sherlock, and his newfound strength, refused to allow it.

Mycroft slapped both hands down on the desk in front of him, as Sherlock dragged his front teeth over the gland he’d sought and successfully found. The alpha pulled back, “You- you’re an omega. I knew it. You couldn’t have smelled so delectable otherwise.”

“I’m a-“ Mycroft focussed hard to spit out, “-A beta. You know this. Beta.”

“No,” Sherlock growled. “Omega. My omega.”

“Sher-“ Mycroft began to protest, but Sherlock spun the chair around, pulled Mycroft from his seat, and backed him into his own bed. “Sherlock! This is- You can’t-“ Mycroft tried to stop him, but even he could tell that his own words were weak and superfluous. Sherlock would take what he wanted, and Mycroft would ultimately give it to him, as he always did.

 

 

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Dr Vaz raced down the corridor to reach Mycroft’s room. The erratic rapid heart rate had set off all the bells and whistles and the entire team was running down from the other side.

They reached to find Mycroft pale and frantically breathing in shallow rapid gasps. They quickly held him down, placed the oxygen mask on his face and gave him a short acting sedative.

As soon as he was settled and stable Dr Vaz messaged Anthea.

Anthea was almost done with dinner when the phone buzzed.

'Sorry!"  she said to Andrew as she checked the message. Her eyes widened and she got up right away.

'I am afraid I need to get back. I was hoping to …….but maybe next time?' She asked Andrew as he smiled and raised his glass in a toast.

He also got up from his chair and came closer to her. He moved in and gave her a quick soft kiss at the corner of her mouth.

Oh that was way sexier than the full mouth, which of course would have been too forward for a first date. But it was way more intimate than a peck on the cheek.

Anthea gave him a full gorgeous smile and thought to herself that he may actually be The One.

But right now she needed to get to the hospital and find out why her favourite boss was trying to check out of his earthly existence.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16

Anthea was watching him with narrowed eyes as he started perspiring.  The last time she had seen him do that was when Lady Smallwood had casually put a hand on his thigh and then turned and smiled at him.

Hmm. This was an interesting development. She suspected that he was looking at the updates from Sherlock’s laptop surveillance. He kept that phone too closely guarded for her to have ever confirmed her suspicions. But she hadn’t reached where she was by missing clues and losing the forest for the trees.

She tucked away this piece of information to tell Molly when she got home later. Molly Hooper had not quite gotten over her crush on Sherlock and that exasperated Anthea sometimes.

She had watched Molly set up an account on Ao3 in order to find an outlet for her unrequited love. She herself was convinced that there was more to her boss and his brother than met the eye. She had said so to Molly who had angrily churned out some fic where she killed Mycroft off.

.Anthea had read it and rolled her eyes.

Then she had secretly set up her own account. She had wondered what name to go by.

Something which would suit her personality. All- knowing. Rather powerful. Almost magical in her capacities. After all Mycroft was The Most Dangerous Man in Britain, but she was the one who managed his life. That kind of made her way more dangerous, although she wasn’t the kind to flaunt it.

She could unleash flying monkeys when she wanted to and she could do good as well as bad, depending on her mood that day. When she thought about it, Mycroft really was a bit like the Wizard of Oz. The man behind the curtain whose myth was much larger than his reality, not that he would ever admit to it.

Hmm. That kind of settled it. LadyGlinda was a good name to go by. 

And she would make it her mission to spread the word about her boss and his baby brother. She would ship them and ship them hard and make it all as explicit and sexy and adorable as she wished. And who knows?! Maybe if she sent it out into the universe it might even come true?

She allowed herself a tiny daydream where Mycroft had Sherlock bent over this very table, brown mahogany and red velvet contrasting against both their pale and lean bodies.

Mmmm….yummy. Maybe she should adjust the CCTV cameras a tiny bit so that in case it ever did happen she would have a ringside seat.

She smiled smugly and texted Molly.

{Someone is making my boss sweat. Wonder who…} A*

Anthea grinned when Molly replied with a scowling emoji.

****************************************************************************

 NOW

Anthea sat at Mycroft’s bedside and waited. Patiently.

Her boss was the most patient man she had ever known. He survived ponderous Cabinet Meetings, ridiculous conversations and petty games being played by people with less brain cells than his little toe. And of course he dealt with Sherlock. His younger brother whom he loved beyond all sane limits and who seemed determined to drive him to the edge of madness on a regular basis.

Anthea would rather deal with China and the Saudis fighting over African oilfields and Russian government hackers than deal with Sherlock. Not because she couldn’t but because she knew it would hurt Mycroft if she tortured him into submission.

She wondered idly if Mycroft had this renewed panic attack today because of Sherlock again. She had made sure to wipe out the CCTV footage of Sherlock having sex with Greg and then Molly. Well, she didn’t have eyes inside his bedroom but from what she had seen happening outside the bedroom door, it was a pretty accurate guess that he must have had sex with them.

She rolled her eyes at the way Sherlock seemed to have gone from fasting to feasting and turned 221B into an orgy zone worthy of the most decadent Roman Emperors and wondered when her boss would have his turn.

She was almost slipping into sleep, contemplating the delicious scenarios of the Holmes brothers in close encounters of the fourth kind….….imagining Mycroft kissing Sherlock and then arching backwards as Sherlock entered him……of course Sherlock would top. Duh.

But maybe not all the time. Sherlock did have a surprisingly submissive streak and she was sure he would enjoy being dominated once in a while. Yeah….or maybe Sherlock tying up Mycroft’s hands behind his back as he was kneeling at Sherlock’s feet, those soft pink lips open.

She sighed. She had tried everything she could. She had sent out the positive wishes into the Universe and hoped that it would work. She knew these things took times. The Fates were not always cooperative. But eventually? Soulmates would have to be united. She could wait. She knew Mycroft was not only in love with Sherlock but he genuinely believed that they were soulmates.

She had enjoyed the fic he had co-written. Hell Bent Heaven Sent. She had been fascinated at the way he had described their Mind Palaces. And then the eventual Mind Palace fusion, worthy of Spock’s Mind Meld. But of course what shone through the story in every chapter was the love. Eternal. Unconditional. Forever.

"I don't know how you've done it, brother mine, but it seems as though you're going to get your way after all.  Our crossing on the Adriatic has been cancelled, and her passengers transferred to the Titanic." With a resigned expression, and a huff that was just a bit too tight to be laughter, Mycroft held up the note with their change of itinerary, the White Star Line insignia bold on the front of the envelope.

With a squeak of abused violin strings, Sherlock looked up in surprise.  His expression was alight and excited, sharing none of his brother's trepidation.  In less than three weeks, they would be leaving the London gossip behind, and starting their new lives in New York.  

No more speculation and sideways glances from the nosy hoi polloi, or hastily silenced whispers from their own elevated rank-- wondering if the Holmes boys were just a little too close.

Too devoted to one another.

As if their crude, simian brains could ever comprehend them.

Hanging his hat on the hook by the door, Mycroft toyed with the edge of the envelope, tapping it against his knuckles restlessly.  For all his brother's curiosity about the freshly minted marvel of the engineering world, Mycroft was wary. Could something so new and untested be as safe as they claimed?  

Well , he reminded himself, it's far too late to have doubts now.  Most of their worldly goods had been sold to finance their new life, to see them established in America.  And on April 10th, they would leave London for Southampton. It would be fine.

“It is going to be amazing Mycroft!” Sherlock exclaimed, unable to suppress his excitement.  He played a quick foxtrot on the violin, fingers sliding on the strings, before he went over and caught hold of his brother… his lover… And twirled with him round and round the room till they finally had to stop, laughing and panting, Mycroft shaking his head at him in despair.

“Imagine Mycie!” Sherlock was saying, arms flung out in abandon. "Once we get to the other shore, we can be together and we can dance every day, and we can be together every night… And no one will know any better.”

Mycroft had to bite his tongue to stop himself from reminding Sherlock that even if people didn’t think they were brothers, it still wasn’t safe to be two men to be in a relationship. He had said this to Sherlock earlier, often enough, but eventually the situation here in England had become untenable. And this move seemed as good a chance as any other.  

A fresh start, a whole new life.

Sherlock sank to the floor with a flourish and rested his head in Mycroft's lap, watching his rueful smile from this new angle.  "It will be wonderful, a proper adventure. And then a new life in America-- together. After a few days of seasickness for you!"

He looked up and grinned. “Poor Mycie!”

Mycroft stopped running his fingers through his wild curls just to give him a playful box around the ears. “And more so, since our accommodations will be in Second Class, instead of First.  Of course, Second Class on the Titanic is probably still more comfortable than the First on any other ship. Not that I think you'll mind escaping all the social drudgery. You won't miss being stuffed into a starched collar, and expected to behave?"

“Oh good heavens, no! I would suffocate in the first class with all the manners and obligations and unbearable things. I am happier with the working classes. They will have more things to share about what is going on in America. I may make some contacts who can help us settle in.” Sherlock said, with all the confidence of youth. “Do you know that 20 horses were needed to transport the main anchor? And there will be 1000 bottles of wine on board?  Maybe I will sneak some into our cabin, and we can have a celebration of our own!” Sherlock laughed, and winked.

Mycroft shook his head, and leaned over to brush a kiss across his brother's forehead, chuckling under his breath, "You'll be in your element, I'm certain.  And our whole future ahead of us.”

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.

 

What really shook her when she read it was that it had all been true! She had read it in the oracles’ notes. All those lifetimes when these two had found each other…again and again…sometimes with happy endings…sometimes not.

She not really surprised that Mycroft had memories of this. It was very unusual for ordinary humans to recall memories from past births. But of course, Mycroft wasn’t really ordinary now was he….

She could feel his pain and his struggle with all the guilt, etched in every word of his fics.

 

Mycie was right. He would always be there for him. Always.

Even from one lifetime to another, because somehow their souls or identities were so tethered to one another with an indissoluble bond that even death and rebirth had not managed to keep them apart. They had found each other once again in England … And a thought slowly emerged.

Had there been other lifetimes? Other occasions? Other ways in which their stories had ended?

Dare he hope that one of them had had a happily ever after?

Sherlock’s heart leaped up as he wondered   …..  It was possible, perhaps even probable, if the number of new doors were any indication!

 

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We’ve been brothers before.

With a faint tremor in his hands, Mycroft smoothed the pad of his thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles, half aware of the way they fit seamlessly.  Fingers slotted together and hooked to make sure the other couldn’t vanish.

“If that’s true… It would explain the new rooms. New hallways.  They are ours-- but not the us we can consciously remember. And I don’t know what we’ll find behind the others.”

“Mycie   ? You do remember what happened on the Titanic, don’t you?” Sherlock asked him, hesitantly. “Not what happened when it sank. Before. The three nights that we spent on the ship.”

He paused. Then he whispered. “Together. You… you do remember those?”

Please please Mycie say you remember them. Tell me they were real! Tell me that you loved me. You still do. Not just as a brother. Please say it Mycie! Say it!

Mycroft’s jaw was clenched so tight that the tiny muscles at the corners twitched under pressure.  As if he could have forgotten!

He wanted to tell Sherlock to leave it alone.  Some things-- those things -- were probably best buried. Deep. Where neither of them could ever find them again.  They were sinful things; not that Mycroft had ever cared about the moral distinction!

Sherlock’s voice was so soft, so unsure, seeping through the cracks in Mycroft’s armor.

“I remember.”  He said tightly, his tongue curling around the words uncomfortably, “I’m certain you’re… Disgusted.  By those memories.” As he should be.  As they both should be!

And as Mycroft wasn’t.  Not when his hands itched to pull Sherlock closer.  To close the space between them and-- Enough!  

Sherlock looked at him in despair. Even though he was actually inside Mycroft’s Mind Palace, how could his older brother manage to keep secrets from him?

Mycroft please don’t say that! I was not disgusted! Not at all… .I felt completed. Loved. So loved. Fulfilled. Were you disgusted by them? By me? By being with me? As a lover? I was going to propose to you Mycie. My love. Please don't tell me it was a lie!

And then Sherlock took his courage in his hands, and decided to do what he had always done. If Mycroft would always be a diplomat, even in the afterlife, then he would always be the pirate.

“What if I wasn’t disgusted?” He asked Mycroft, his voice remarkably steady given that his very soul was shivering in fear and anticipation.

Mycroft's breath felt expelled from his lungs in a burning rush, hard and fast like Sherlock had landed a physical blow.  If he wasn't disgusted? What did that say about them .

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Just then Mycroft woke up with a cough and struggled to sit up.

Anthea was by his side at once and helped him remove the oxygen mask and gave him a glass of water. He took it and drank it up and lay back down. All without making any eye contact with her.

She had known him for too long to not be able to interpret every single tic and twitch and grimace. She knew what this was. She knew he would avoid her till the end of days if he could. And she knew that she would not let him. Because she was just that good. And because she cared for him too much.

“So.” She said, without any preamble. “What did Sherlock do now?”

Mycroft resolutely kept his head turned to the other side.

“Did he take drugs again?”

Mycroft shook his head to say no.

“Did he argue with Mummy?”

“God no!” Mycroft said feebly.

“Did he fall into the Thames? Again?”

“Nope.”

“Oh, did he go naked into the Palace and try to seduce the Queen?”

“Stop it.” Mycroft groaned. “It’s not funny!”

“Yes it is. A bit funny.” Anthea said with a wicked grin. “A lot funny actually. Maybe he tried to seduce Prince Philip instead. That would be really VERY funny. Unless….” She asked slowly with one arched eyebrow. “You don’t find the idea of him seducing anyone funny??”

Mycroft was frozen still and almost not breathing. The heart monitor started beeping a bit faster and before he could set off another full blown panic attack, she put her hand on his wrist. He almost jumped off the bed because he was so skittish.

“Shh…. Mr. Holmes. Please. Your secret is safe with me.” Anthea said.

“What…how…”Mycroft tried to say, not even able to deny it.

“I have always known.” Anthea said. “Do you know that my mother and her mother and her mother were witches? Oracles? All of them. All the way back to Zeus. Why do you think I am named after a Greek Goddess? Anthea is another name of Hera. The Queen of the Gods. She is known for being the Goddess of Marriage & Birth. I am a born matchmaker.” She shrugged. “I have always known. I can help you. The real question is –do you want to be helped?”

“Sherlockfoundomegaverseslashfictionpairedwithme.” Mycroft blurted out. “I saw it on my phone which is linked to his search engine.”

“Ah ok.” Anthea said nodding.

“What?” Mycroft looked at her astounded. “All those words made sense to you??! How did you….do you???”

Anthea wondered if she should reveal her pseud as LadyGlinda. She knew that Mycroft had read all the fics she had written. Many times. He had bookmarked as well as downloaded pdfs and also commented.

But maybe Dr Vaz needed her night’s sleep and not having to come rushing pell-mell and worried about Mycroft having a heart attack. Easy does it. She would reveal it when the time was right….(or maybe never.)

“I read fanfics.” She said. “It’s part of my job description. Everything with your name and his name shows up on my surveillance feed. So yes. I know all about Omegaverse. And Holmescest. Also Sherstrade, JohnLock, Sherlolly, Mystrade. Umm there is even Mythea….…..should I go on?”

“No no! For god’s sake stop!” Mycroft groaned. “Stop! Anthea….”

“Do you really want me to? To stop? ” Anthea asked gently. “Or do you want me to start? Helping you? Get what you really want?”

 

Chapter Text

W 1: It has been a while.

W 2: (cheerfully) But it was time now!

W 3: (soberly) It is always and never a good time.

All 3: Double double toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble.

 

W 1: ( picks up teapot) Shall I be mother?

W 2: That’s what he said (giggles)

W 3: (sternly) What was all that kerfuffle with the bedsheet?

W2: Oh you know you these boys and their hijinks. (laughs behind her hand)

W3: Trouble. That is what it is. You are too lenient with the one in your care.

W2: Oh come on now. You know he has a heart of gold that one. May not be into world domination like your favourite. But if the homeless ruled the world, he would be King.

W1: There, there, my dears, no squabbles today. Here. (hands over their tea cups) Spot of milk for you…..and here is black with two sugars for you.

W2: Here have some cookies to go with it.

A minute of silence as all drink tea and enjoy the cookies.

 

 

W1: (clears throat) and speaks to W3: Have you seen what he has been reading and writing?! This is not how we raised him.

W3: Well….I warned you that the Internet was the Devil’s work!

W2: Yes and I did add the love potion. I know. But I thought it would spread peace!

W3: (snorts) More like the lust potion. Do you know that porn is the most searched for thing on the internet?!

W2: Well maybe…..but so is erotica! And so many women finally have access to it. After being called hysterical for centuries and being treated as abnormal when they had unfulfilled sexual desires. Now everyone knows that everyone enjoys sex.

All shrug and sip their brew.

 

W1: But seriously ladies, is this how we raised them?

W3: Well you know what Kahlil used to say, bless him. Your children are not your own and all that….

W1: Yes. True. But still. I know I should hardly be one to talk. All of mine have been a disappointment. The next generation is where I have pinned my hopes.

All hum in sympathy and sip their brew.

 

W1: I find it fascinating that they all write so much about the younger one growing up. A lot. No one writes about the older one being born. It is almost as if they know he was magicked into being using a spell from the Ancient Goddess. Perfect. Brilliant. Powerful.

W2: And no one has realized that he has a Reflection. A twin! People see but they do not observe. (chuckles)

They all sigh and look dreamily into the distance.

 

W1: They have not all crossed paths yet have they?

W2: Not that I know of. Too much going up and down at my age dear. Not all of us have the luxury of footmen and butlers you know!

W3: You know you prefer it that way!

W2: Yes, yes I do! (chuckles) Wouldn’t give up my privacy for any number of butlers. Speaking of which…the one who took my hat and coat today..…rather a charmer …..

W3: Stop it! Don’t make eyes at her staff for heaven’s sake! Isn’t it enough that you get that handsome silver fox coming over every few days and you flirt with him outrageously?!

W1 and W3 roll their eyes as W2 pretends to not have heard any of this.

 

W3: (asks W1 softly): What about the cursed child?

W2: (shakes her head) She is going to cause trouble.

All together murmur: Double double toil and trouble.

 

W1: Can’t magic her away now my dear. She is here to stay.

W3: Your sister couldn’t resist could she?

W1: Well she said the truth shall set you free.

W2: What she said was -- the truth shall set you free but first it shall piss you off.

W1: Oh that’s right. My sister said “The truth is a beautiful and terrible thing, and must therefore be treated with great caution.”

They all sip the brew thoughtfully.

 

W2: And the One who shall Not be Named?

W3: (shakes her head in despair) He is wrecking such havoc across the pond my dear. Did you see that Death Eater signing the Abortion Bill in Alabama?

W1: (Nods) Yes. Reminded me of Dolores Umbridge.

W2: Exactly! Joanna really did have the vision then?

W3: We should think so.

W2: How is Harry?

W1: Fine. Just fine. But the Other Side are gathering forces.

W2: (pats her hand) So are we my dear. So are we.

W3: Is Elon ready with the Mars mission?

W1: Yes. It is all going as per plan.

They all sip the brew thoughtfully. A clock chimes in the distance.

 

W3: (breaks the silence): It was so good to catch up!! I feel a hundred and fifty years younger already.

They all giggle.

Chapter Text

From chapter 6  

Was there?! Was there a name for any of these relationships?! John was more than his flatmate or his blogger. Greg was more than his colleague. More than his caretaker. Molly was more than his pathologist. Mycroft was more than his brother. Far more.

These people….they were his everything.

He kept the laptop aside slowly and walked to the window. He looked outside at the usual crowds. Crossing, walking, holding hands, laughing, chatting.

All these goldfish. Ordinary. The walking pre-dead.

But perhaps….just perhaps…did they know more about living and life than he did?

Two women in their late forties passed by. They were walking hand in hand and as they came closer they looked up and saw him in the window and smiled.

Aha.

He gave them a withering look. He had his eyes on them. He just KNEW they were Ao3 writers. Spies. Looked so ordinary. Primark bags, Metro tucked under their arms. Pretending to be regular people.

He knew exactly the depth of depraved musings in their reptile brains.

He took a deep breath and was about to give them the full blast of his glare when a part of his brain shifted gears and it dawned on him that perhaps….just perhaps…he had made inaccurate deductions!

Perhaps…..they were in fact the exact opposite of evil…

Perhaps they were on the side of angels?!!

And for some obscure mysterious reason although he was not an angel, they all seemed to be on his side!

Oh my good heavens above!! He realized with a complete shock.

They were in fact subversive pirates sailing the online high seas! Pens as weapons. The true renegades! Not only is everything fair in love and war but this was a war for love!

But they looked so innocent and ordinary! No wicked looking eye patches, high boots, parrots on their shoulders or swaggering gait. He would now be forever suspicious of any woman in her 30s or 40s. Hmm…. Also some of the younger ones, and maybe even some of the men.

He wondered if in this situation he was the cat and they were Schrodinger? They would decide whether he was with someone or not and he never knew till he opened the fic……

But in his own life maybe he was Schrodinger and his relationships were the cat ! And he would never know what his relationship potential was with any one unless he opened up and figured it out……Woah!!

He got a massive head-rush from so much meta- level thinking.

Was that an intellectual orgasm?!

He wondered how many of these Mycroft felt every day…..

These writers were creating new synaptic connections in his brain!

His already genius brain was being challenged in ways he had never imagined possible. And not only that, but they were also nudging him to see for himself and to decide for himself. He had choice!! He had to give consent.

These were warriors but the outcome of this battle would have victors on both sides.

He wondered faintly why the word Victor seemed to rouse some memories but he was no longer sure which memories were real and which were created and layered over by all these fics. He had this sudden image of a small battleship, The HMS 221B, (led by Mycroft of course. Who else?), with him and John and Greg and Molly and maybe even Anthea and Mrs. Hudson on it.

The HMS 221B was surrounded by many, so many ships--all filled with cheering writers and readers wielding pens, so much mightier than swords!

But they were on his side!

That was such a staggering and staggeringly life-changing thought that he had to wait and breathe in and out and assimilate it. Maybe he should stop resisting them and accept what they were saying……?

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Chapter 8

He had a deep and overwhelming desire to share this with someone. He wanted to discuss it with someone else. Exchange ideas and theories and speculations. He wanted to analyse what it all meant. He wanted to analyse the patterns and deduce the trends. He wanted to have a serious meta- level conversation about all this.

Well..…….who could he possibly share all this with?! John was Not Gay and would probably go back to Afghanistan to avoid that and Greg would look at him even more sadly than he already did and wander off with his hands in his coat pockets, ripping his nicotine patches off in distress.

No, he needed someone who would not judge him and who would understand what he was thinking. Mycroft would have when they were younger and Sherlock always had a thousand questions to which Mycroft always had two thousand answers.   

But now?

He scowled. Now his brother was 'the British Government' and had no time to be with Sherlock unless it was for a case or one of those annoying Christmas dinners.

Of course Mycroft had turned up in many of the stories, umbrella and all , and some of the writers had his tone and attitude down so perfectly that he had snorted more than a couple of times.

Pitch perfect!

But they never paired him with Sherlock.

Oh well...... Sherlock thought, they were brothers….and even these writers (depraved and decadent as they were), probably had some kind of line in the sand.

Some kind of limits to their imagination…….

Or did they?!

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What had this Ao3 done to him?! Was he ever going to be able to have a non-sexual thought again in his entire life?!! Was he scarred forever now?!

Why couldn’t these writers run amok murdering people?! It would at least give him something useful to do! Instead of …ugh…and now he couldn’t even sleep without seeing Mycroft standing there looking in the mirror at those bite marks.

Not the way he usually looked at Sherlock. Always with that disapproving tragic air he had. Drama Queen. Bossing him around the whole time.

Oh goodness. He had forgotten his primary objective here!

Mycroft and Greg……. Bite marks on his chest like roses scattered on snow.

Mycroft’s chest. With bite marks. Left there by Greg.

Suddenly a fire roared in his chest.

His Mycie!! No one else was going to mark him! He had no idea if Mycroft even had sex but if he did, then by jove, it would be only with him! Keep your paws off him Lestrade!

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Chpater 11

He needed to solve this like any other case. Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains……..

But how could he POSSIBLY eliminate the impossible?!

Well, he thought with a shrug. There is only one way to de-bunk or prove a thought experiment isn’t it?!

It was going to involve the use of his real corporeal Transport and put at risk his hidden sociopathic heart. Of course, a true scientist would not hesitate to sacrifice himself on the altar of the Truth. Jonas Salk had tried vaccines on himself. Koffman had tried out LSD.

Experimenting with fanfics was probably somewhere in the middle of that spectrum…….

Ok.

So….. logically, given the sheer volume of data to disprove (or confirm…) he would have to start with John.

It was a testimony to how befuddled his Mind Palace was that he did not even notice that it was 2 am and John had not yet come home. He would find John after he had had his morning cup of tea.

Then he remembered his dream and was so frightened that Mrs. Hudson might actually come up with his tea and maybe….start removing her clothes or something, that he locked himself up in the bedroom and booted his laptop back on.

In the meanwhile, (and this case was genuinely a 10 if he had ever seen one that complicated and dangerous and downright compelling,) there was no sleep to be had.

He read a few more articles and came up with his own list of why fanfiction gets written:

  1. The story presented has gaps that are asking to be filled
  2. The writers are not representing real-life variations/ non mainstream realities.
  3. People want to explore what a new perspective could do for a fictional character, similar to the way people daydream about their own life choices and wonder…. What if…?
  4. People want to create positive stories because….life itself is difficult and challenging?

So this was part escapism, part subversion, full rebellion and here to stay. Hmm…now the next mystery to solve was---why him?! He was not fictional!!

Unless…….oh the thing that John was babbling about some months ago---no, no, no NO! He had dismissed it as something idiotic that people kept wanting from him.

‘Wear the HAT Sherlock!’ ‘Put the collar UP Sherlock!’ ‘Sign this BOOK Sherlock.’ ‘ Make a TV series on your cases Sherlock!’

Surely John had not sold the rights of his blog to BBC?!!!

He gripped his curls in frustration. Why had no one told him this?!! What was Mycroft doing , allowing these cases and his little brother’s LIFE to be sold like a tawdry rag for the voyeuristic pleasure and consumption of the teming unwashed millions and the shoals of goldfish swimming the murky seas of society?!!!

His life was being televised?! And fanfic writers were filling in the gaps and offering him alternatives. That was the only explanation.

He had been worried about them spying on him but instead his own life story was being beamed into their homes every week!!!

He sat there, simply paralyzed with inaction at the revelation of this impossible truth.

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Chapter 17

Sherlock’s mind was still reeling at the expansion in his vocabulary. He could literally feel his cranial sutures and fontanelles creaking apart to accommodate all that slick and those knots and the suppressants and scents and glands and heat.

And the assbabies. Was that even a word?!

Babies were just babies, right?! No one called them vaginababies.

He was so annoyed at this hegemonic labelling of everythinge.

Normative. Non- normative.

Do you have sex? No.  Weird.

Do you have sex? Yes. Cool. With whom? Someone of the same sex? Weird.

How do you have sex? Not vaginally?! Weird.

Why did anyone care?!? Would it not be better to ask -how many people were you kind to today? How many times did you smile? How many people care that you exist? 

He frowned at himself. He was sounding like a new- age touchy- feely person. Maybe he could become a guru. Like this Hot Yoga person. He could become a Hot Detective. Consultation by Meditation.

 He rubbed his eyes. What was happening to him?? Was he going mad? It was not un-heard of. He had read about people dying and killing others due to their internet addiction. But he was not an addict! He was just a user.

Even as he said that he could see Mycroft in his Mind Palace looking at him with that tragic air of despair and martyrdom in his eyes, as always.  

He tilted his head to one side and thought. Did Mycroft know about fanfiction? It seemed quite likely given that he had surveillance over the entire globe. Hmm…wonder if Mycroft was tracking his laptop….Sherlock thought in a moment of panic. 

Oh well, too bad if he was. He deserved to be shaken up a little Sherlock thought with a smirk. In fact, on the off- chance that Mycroft WAS checking, let him read some more Omegaverse. If anything was going to make Mycroft’s head explode, it would be this. 

So, with far more joy than was indicated, Sherlock plunged into a series of Omegaverse fics, with all the delight of a small child attacking a bowl of ice cream.

 

Chapter 28 coming right up

Chapter Text

Sherlock was sitting in stunned silence, sweat trickling down his neck and chest, faintly glad that the fic was written online because surely it would have set fire to paper if it was written on that because it was SO HOT.

He wasn’t sure he was thinking in words at this point. All he could see was flames, heat, slick, haze and orgasms. He wasn’t sure how he was visualizing orgasms and wondered if there was an emoji for those. Damn emoji creators. They can spend their energy creating smiling poop, but for something as spectacular as an orgasm? Nothing. Huh.

Never mind that he told his brain. Eyes on the prize.

It wasn’t just that he was an Alpha (!!) that had been so arousing. He knew that. He wasn’t ready to fully accept that despite realizing that he had been slowly moving towards this awareness from the time he had discovered fanfics.

It was not just his being an Alpha….but it was his being an Alpha with Mycroft as his Omega.

It had been THAT which had been more exciting than anything else.

He wondered if, despite his idiotic ramblings about penis envy and blaming your mother for everything , maybe Freud had been right after all? Freud may have been at least partially right when he said we were all repressing incestuous urges. Maybe the reason why beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models and it’s because people are truly just suppressing incestuous desires??

Maybe that is why even though he found Greg attractive and had had some really enjoyable sex with Molly, he found himself coming back to this again and again.

What would kissing Mycroft be like? What would he taste like? Would he like being tied up? Could he carve his initials on him and mark him? Would he ever actually have sex with him?

Should he just ask him?

He wondered.

At this point their relationship was at the usual bickering/ controlling/ rebelling state that it had been in for a decade or so.

What harm would it do to ask Mycroft? What was the worst he could do? He could say no.

Sherlock shrugged at that but it made him feel unhappy. The idea that Mycroft would say no. But unless he asked him how would he know….and so he went round and round inside his head till the loop was broken by a text message.

From Anthea.

Anthea?! Why the hell was she messaging him??


He opened the message and read.  {Mycroft admitted to hospital. Better today. Going home. FYI only. A}

What?!

His heart lurched.

He often (mostly?) (always?!) conveniently chose to forget that his big brother was only human. Mentally far beyond the rules of this world perhaps but his body lived by the rules of the real world. He had no recollection of Mycroft falling ill in all these years though he had many, many memories of Mycroft looking after him when he was ill or had been injured or of course was in a drug induced haze.

And now Mycroft was in hospital?!

He needed to go see him.

But would this be a good time to ask for sex?! Hmm. Probably not.

Then what else would he talk to him about?!

No. Maybe he should just wait till Mycroft came to him. Yes. He had the advantage here at 221B. And anyway he was sure that as soon as Mycroft was well enough to move around he would come to him. He quickly texted back a reply.

{Message received. Will see him when he comes to 221B. SH}

 

Anthea showed Mycroft the message. He frowned.

“It isn’t exactly a sentimental response is it?”

She smiled. “It is. In his own way. He is basically asking you to come over to meet him as soon as you are well enough! Remember that he has always looked up to you. You are his perfect, controlling, rock of an older brother. He will not want to see you vulnerable or ill.”

Mycroft still didn’t look so convinced. 

“Trust me.” Anthea said. “Just turn up there and see how things progress.”

And she winked.

 

Chapter Text

While Sherlock was waiting for Mycroft to turn up after he got better he figured he might as well read more fanfics. Greg had not called with any case. Heaven knows what John was up to, and Molly would wait till he called her with the sex toy experiment.

Mrs. Hudson had gone out somewhere…maybe with that Chatterjee or somewhere else.

What else did he have to do anyway? So he ran down the list of AU fic recs.

 

Dance Fic—Not going there

Drunk Fic--nah

DragonLock--done

FemLock--done

KidLock—mmm…meh

MerLock---what?! No way.

ParentLock---seriously?!

PirateLock—done and yum!

PotterLock--nope

SickFics-no!

Soulmate AU—oh for god’s sake

Stripper Lock—honestly?!

TeenLock—never again

Vampire Lock--weird

Victorian AU—borrrinng.

Then his eyes lit upon an unusual title.  Panthera Pardus by Ismira_Daugene. He read the summary with increasing interest.

Summary: Sherlock and John have met before... long before John was sent home from the war. Little did John know that the black panther he was attacked by under the hot Afghani sun was going to be his future flatmate. AU where Sherlock is a shapeshifting black panther and John tries to come to terms with a flatmate who wants to mate with him.

 

Umm. What in the frazzled flying squirrels was this?!

Just when he thought he could not be shocked by any fic any more, something like this turns up and he is staggered all over again.

If he was to be honest with himself, they all sound fascinating actually …….and on any other day he would have loved to reads them. But now? All he could think of was Mycroft. And Omegaverse.

And Mycroft being in hospital. And Mycroft coming to meet him. And more Mycroft.

Damn it. His laptop needed to be charged. He picked up his phone and googled ‘Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes.’

He found 331 works on Ao3.

He scowled. Only 331?!

Well. Obviously, he thought with a sneer. Not everyone would understand the powerful forbidden attraction of this ship. Only a few discerning and brave writers would be able to manage.

So he started reading them from the very beginning—the earliest such fic that he could find.

‘Consent’ by unsettled.

It left him feeling very unsettled indeed. Yuck. That’s what dubcon meant. Dubious Consent. Mycroft would never do something like to him….would he?!

He shook his head. There had to be something more positive out there, which did not involve John or dubious consent because Mycroft would never do that to him. In fact he was likely to do that to Mycroft, he realized with a flare in his belly. He was likely to tie up Mycroft and have him on his knees and Mycroft would never say no. He would never deny him anything he asked for.

Would he?!!

He was wracked by doubt and paced up and down the living room agitatedly for a good five minutes before he decided that the only solution for his doubts was to read some more of the fics.

He read one called Armistice.

What in the dribbling dinosaurs was this?!

They were both fighting over John?! He snorted with laughter. He and Mycroft fight over John?! He could not imagine Mycroft doing that in a hundred lifetimes.

Fight him over John?!! Why?! Why in the hell??!

But well, he knew that JohnLock had a thousand times more fics and hence clearly more readers and well, to ship and let ship seemed to be everyone’s motto.

 He just needed to find something meatier to fulfill his craving.

So he read ‘The mind is its own place’ by auctorial

.

.

Sherlock finds himself drawn to men who looked like Mycroft: big, tall men with eagle-sharp eyes and a way of carrying themselves as if they were the highest power on earth. He is just as quickly turned off them when they reveal their minds, or rather, the lack of such, in a telling sentence or two. That's when he walks away, leaving them frustrated and confused, because he can never resist flirting at first, as if he doesn't know the odds of meeting his match are close to nil.

That's not what he wants, anyway. He wants someone more than that, and he wants it to be Mycroft. It has to be Mycroft, because who else can engage him on his own level and then outwit him and engulf him in his boundless intellect? Who else can deduce Sherlock's innermost thoughts with just a look? Who else can keep Sherlock grounded and sane with his sheer presence, the full weight of his scrutiny?

Other men look into Mycroft's eyes and think, he wants to eat me for breakfast.

Sherlock looks into Mycroft's eyes and sees love.

.

.

Sherlock heaved a deep sigh. That was so true wasn’t it? …..Was it?

His Mind Palace felt more like a kaleidoscope now. So many coloured bits of so many fics and AUs and ships all twisting in the shards of his brain and giving him a different and attractive (So very attractive!) image every time he turned his head. This way and that. He was dazzled and frazzled by all these sharp and colourful bits jostling for space inside his Mind Palace now. But he simply could not stop.

It reminded him of the dancing plague of 1518, when around 400 people took to dancing for days without rest and, over the period of about one month, some of those affected collapsed or even died of heart attacks and exhaustion. He wondered fleetingly if that could happen from reading too many fanfics without a pause.

He thought about that for a minute. The only response his brain gave him was –what a way to go!

So he continued to read.

.

.

Or maybe they will never talk after that, never see each other, never touch. Perhaps that is the punishment Mycroft metes out, for that one forbidden, dearly-won kiss. It is punishment for both of them. They will continue to orbit each other's lives but never again inhabit them, and everything they learn about each other over the passing years is second-hand, third-hand, until it is unclear whether the things they know about each other are indeed facts or merely conjecture.

Maybe Sherlock's last thought, as his life is choked out of him in those precious fatal seconds, is that Mycroft put claim to that part of him first. Maybe he doesn't die like that at all. Maybe he dies at gunpoint, or by drowning, or by any of the thousands of way an inventive, malicious person might devise for his death.

But he will not die of old age in bed, lying next to a person he loves, because men like him never do.

.

.

Ok that made him sad. Very very sad. And he didn’t do sad. He didn’t do emotions.

He didn’t….he found it difficult to swallow suddenly.

What if it really came to that?! What if he asked Mycroft and Mycroft said No!

Not just the first time….but every time?! (because Sherlock was certain he would not take no for an answer and just be done with it. He would ask again ….and again).

Would there be any answers for him in all these fics?! There were only 331 after all.

Bah.

He had already read 4 so that made it 327.

Five minutes for each fic made it 1635 minutes. 27 hours and 25 minutes.

Absolutely do-able.

Mycroft was unlikely to be up and about for another day anyway.

That still worried him.

Not just that Mycroft was in hospital but also that Anthea had sent him a message!

In all the years that they had ‘known’ each other, she had spoken to him directly only twice and this was only the third time she had texted him. He pondered over that. The very first he had met her she had reminded him too much of Mycroft by the way she looked at him. Piercingly and unwavering. She seemed to see too much of him that he never wanted to reveal. Just the way Mycroft seemed to.

He had blinked and looked away and he hated doing that.

The second time was when he had gone to meet Mycroft at his underground bunker office and she had been there. That’s it. That’s all. But it bothered him now to realize that she was constantly at Mycroft’s side. She knew exactly where he was was and what he was doing.

Every minute of the day. And night.

And she was the person they called when Mycroft was indisposed. She was basically his next of kin.

What she anything more?

Could she be?

He didn’t think so …..but who knew?!! Now that he had read fanfiction and glimpsed into the depravity and variety of human desire,…….who knew the answers to anything anymore?!!

He heaved a great deep sigh and settled down to read. The title sounded promising. And rather accurate!! he thought with a grin.

the most dangerous man in London by SarahT 

..

"It will be so much easier for you when you finally accept it," he said softly. Promised, really; Sherlock might not trust him, but he could rely on him. Always. Wasn't this proof enough?

It never, by the clock, took very long. Sherlock would never have come to him if he weren't already on hair-trigger. A soft, broken sound in the back of Sherlock's throat, and in the glass Mycroft saw his face open up, eyes and mouth expanding with astonishment at the mystery of it all. Like a supernova seen very far away, light from a dying star he would never reach.

.

.

.

If Sherlock should ever offer to reciprocate, Mycroft would probably go home and shoot himself.

"I have cases to attend to," he said finally, drawing up the collar of his greatcoat.

Mycroft nodded. "Of course. Give my regards to your flatmate."

Amazing, it was amazing to think that Sherlock would go home to him and the poor sod wouldn't be able to tell anything of it: neither the evening's events nor the reason behind them. But perhaps it was a blessing. He often thought it was, for the grey masses rushing past him in the street. If they could see, how could they bear it?

"Oh, if past history is any indication, you'll be giving them yourself, soon enough."

Mycroft smiled. "I do worry."

Sherlock rested his gloved hand on the doorknob. "You shouldn't."

"But I will."

They should never have asked him to look after Sherlock if they didn't want him to do everything in his power.

"I know." Sherlock looked at him, and, for just an instant, Mycroft saw a flash of that earnest, terrified eighteen-year-old, who'd huddled on the floor afterwards and wept from sheer relief. "You've always had the most absurd hobbies."

.

.

Sherlock finished reading and felt a lump in his throat. How did these writers know the depth to which Mycroft cared for him? And he did. He knew he did.

He had just…allowed himself to distance them

So…..would he say yes?!

Sherlock had this sudden urge to get hold of a daisy and pluck at its petals.

He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me….hey hey hey hold on there his brain said as he screeched to a halt.

Loves me?!! Yes he does. As a brother. He may say yes if I ask to have sex with him.

But let’s not get complicated emotions involved here.

Sherlock took a deep breath. Om Mani Padme Hum. He chanted ten times to clear his mind.

He felt mildly fleetingly uncomfortable about using the Buddha’s chant to calm himself down while considering how to proposition his older brother for some gay incestuous sex….but hey if anyone could help him it would be that wise man’s words wouldn’t they?!

Well here was one that one sounded like their relationship absolutely! Difficult by narsus

.

.

Lestrade laughs, a little falsely, a little self-consciously. “At least I’m not a replacement.” It doesn’t sound like a joke at all.
Sherlock laughs, a short, almost bitter bark of sound, at himself, at the both of them and their insecurities. “You were here first.”
“Was I?”
“Yes. Always.”
“Good.” Lestrade sounds gruff as he says it.

In the end that’s the truth of it. Lestrade was there first and John was, is, a companion along on an adventure. In another lifetime Sherlock supposes he might have wanted... whatever it is he has with Lestrade, with John instead. He closes his eyes and listens to Lestrade’s heartbeat before he can follow that thought further.

Eventually it will be enough to drown out the odd feeling of rejection he’d felt last night. It’s the same ache that he’d felt the first time he’d seen Mycroft leaning in close and talking quietly, confidentially, with another boy. He’d been all of fourteen at the time, and that feeling of loss, of pervading, constant, unquenchable sorrow had swallowed him whole.

.

.

Huh. Well. Now that was a twist in his gut.

Greg truly was the first. He had just had proper complete sex with Greg first. Molly too. That would make Mycroft third. Would that bother him?

Should he tell him?

Well if one were to be scientifically accurate and considering the positions from his sex-o-meter chart, really speaking Greg had sex with him. He hadn’t had sex with Greg.

If one were to argue about the semantics and dynamics of who gives and who receives, to put it politely.

What would Mycroft prefer?! He wondered.

Chapter Text

Now, Mycroft knew that he was a born genius and he loved and respected his Mummy and he often wondered how Father was so unlike any of them. He knew that Sherlock was also a genius but he wasn’t born so much as made. Between him and Mummy ( but mostly him) they had made sure that he was far far beyond the ordinary average goldfish.

He knew that Uncle Rudy had recognized his abilities and found him a position in the British Government that would one day make him all powerful, beyond the capacities of any world leader past or present.

He knew that he loved Sherlock the way he was quite sure no brother had loved his brother ever. He knew that when he didn’t have eyes on Sherlock he felt as though he couldn’t breathe. He knew that every time he had had to rescue Sherlock from the drug dens, or even those two terrible times when he had found him overdosed, he would have willingly sold his very soul to save his brother.

What he did not know was that he was no ordinary human. He had not been ‘born’ in the regular human way but had been brought into being by a trio of the most powerful witches in history. They had put together Old Magic and New Magic, Black Magic and White Magic and they had chanted spells in Latin and Greek and Sanskrit. This powerful magic had been percolated into one of them who was pregnant with her first born. They had kept the creation safe from natural disasters and ruthless emperors and floods and carnage and the plagues. They had hidden themselves during the witch hunts and they had survived. For thousands of years now.

They had protected their creation from time loops and multiverses and random acts of senseless violence that humans often erupted with. They had not planned on giving him a brother, a soulmate, but Sherlock somehow he ended up being paired with him life after life and they watched over them both.

One more thing Mycroft did not know was that although they had created him in this Universe, they had not been able to prevent the multiverse from taking up the reflections of this existence. There were now more than one ‘twin’ of his wandering the Earth. Perhaps they would meet. And he would find out. Perhaps they would never cross paths.

What he also did not know was that some magic remained with him and while he wasn’t exactly a Prophet, whatever he wrote down did come true. Not so much what he said or what he thought, but what he actually wrote down. Which is why so many of the treaties and negotiations that he drafted worked. Everyone thought he was just a super successful diplomat. Which he was, without a doubt. But there was some very powerful Real Magic at work too.

It worked with everything he wrote. Not only treaty documents.

Fanfiction was also a form of writing. Wasn’t it?!

But no one knew this. Not even Mycroft with his genius abilities had an inkling of the full extent of his powers. Not even Anthea had a clue!

The three women who knew kept a close eye on him and Sherlock. When the time was right, all would be revealed.

So, Mycroft was blissfully unware of any of this as he walked towards 221B the next day, after work. He was feeling well enough and he had not set eyes on Sherlock in five days. It was too long.

He needed to see him now.

According to Anthea he apparently had an invitation from Sherlock to do so, no matter how snarkily worded. He shrugged. He still wasn’t convinced about that…but he was used to being treated badly when he dropped in uninvited all the time anyway.

How could it be worse than usual?!

He patted his pocket to check if he had his teabag. If Dr. Watson wasn’t in, he would just make himself a cup of tea and sit for a while looking at Sherlock while Sherlock ignored him or insulted him or played his violin in a screechy way on purpose.

What he would have never ever, not in 700 lifetimes have imagined would happen was that as soon as he sat down, Sherlock would loom all over him and come way closer into his personal space than he ever did and say these words.

“I want to have sex Mycroft.”

Chapter Text

Before Mycroft could recover from his shock, Sherlock came even closer and said “I want to…no I need to have sex Mycroft. There is a restless itch under my skin. A constant noise in my head. A craving that isn’t just for drugs. As an experiment. I need more data.”

“Sure." Mycroft shrugged dispassionately, as though Sherlock had expressed a desire to play a different kind of instrument. “Go ahead. You are in the middle of London. Everything is available for a price. Just be safe and keep your phone with you in case you need to call me for………”

Sherlock interrupted him impatiently.

“Don’t be obtuse Mycroft. You know very well what I mean."

Mycroft raised both eyebrows and tapped his umbrella.  “I know you have a magnified sense of my omniscience Sherlock but your brain is going down un-anticipated pathways...."

Sherlock was feeling oddly annoyed and increasingly awkward. He could feel a faint flush rise up from his chest onto his cheeks. All those images from all those fics flashed in front of his eyes. Mycroft was sitting in front of him, prim and proper, not a hair out of place. Just mildly gaunt looking from the recent health scare. But he knew, in his mind's eye , he knew exactly how Mycroft would look all mussed up. Flushed. Naked. With bite marks all over his chest.

Like rose petals on snow....he recalled one author had described.

Mycroft was still looking at him calmly, twirling the handle of his umbrella.

 

Sherlock gritted his teeth. Damn Mycroft. He was going to make him say it explicitly wasn’t he?!

"You have always known my thoughts even before I knew them myself. Stop being so ANNOYING. Do you really not know what I want??”


“Perhaps I do….little brother.” Mycroft said in a voice that held a mild warning and the last two words held a particular emphasis. He tilted his head. “But if that is what you want then you will have to ask for it. Clearly and directly. It will simply not do to have misunderstandings in such matters.”

“Ok FINE!!!”Sherlock said as he let out a great sigh and flung himself down on his chair. “Your way. Always your way. I want to have sex with you.”

Mycroft hummed thoughtfully, fingers tapping on the umbrella handle. “And will this be a one- time experiment? Or would you be expecting some sets of data to be gathered for a scientific analysis?”

“Oh defnitely for an experiment! " Sherlock said, beaming with unholy joy now that the first hurdle had been crossed with unexpected ease." Lots of data sets needed Mycroft."

Mycroft wondered fleetingly if Anthea had something to do with this somehow. With a shake of his head he delicately pulled out his pocket watch and looked at the time. He looked back at Sherlock. “Tonight at my place. Come for dinner. Having a meal together could be part of the variables if one does need more data sets."

“Oh…good heavens!! Am I to be forced to watch YOU eat too?!!” Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes.

Mycroft merely sat there and gave him a thin smile. One….two…. three seconds later Sherlock groaned.

“Yes. OK!! 8 pm. Tonight. Now GO Away!! I have to prepare the chart for the data."

.

.

Mycroft left 221B swinging his umbrella as he went down the stairs. His Mind Palace was whirring like a helicopter about to take off.

Where the hell had this come from?! Was it because of the Omegaverse fics?!

Well…. Sherlock was going to be in for a disappointment wasn’t he?! He was well proportioned but nowhere like an Alpha from those fics …unless…good heavens. Did Sherlock imagine HE was an Alpha?! Well, Mycroft wasn’t about to suddenly produce slick either.

What he would do of course is stock up on lube and condoms. Keep the lights low. Cook something that Sherlock would like to eat.

Yes. Always be prepared. That was his motto.

And if Sherlock didn’t turn up at night? Well, he had some books he wanted to catch up on anyway. Sigh.

Chapter Text

Sherlock gave up in frustration after the fourth time he changed his shirt. He could not understand why he was fussing so much over his appearance today.

Mycroft had seen him in all kinds of states of dress in all kinds of conditions, including drug dens. Not Sherlock’s finest hour perhaps, but Mycroft had seen it all. So why was Sherlock feeling so restless?

Logically, as far as he knew, the goldfish indulged in fashion and all the accompanying complicated rituals because they wanted to attract someone they could have sex with. Well, since he was a genius and so was Mycroft, all they had needed to do was just ask and ye shall receive…..

They didn't need to do any of this dressing up and smelling good and .....Hmm....now that he thought back, Mycroft had smelt really good when he had leaned in and spoken to him. Some rich woodsy fragrance, a hint of smoke, a whisper of old papers  and newsprint ( perhaps some secret documents, maybe some treaty which would save the Free World), a hint of new wool and even a few molecules of perspiration.

It had almost made his head spin when he had breathed it in. It had made him want….want to touch and feel and ….and even taste. It had made him feel suddenly vulnerable and so he had covered it up with his usual snark. Made that jibe about having to watch Mycroft eat.

He felt a bit annoyed when he remembered that Mycroft had responded to him coolly, as usual. The IceMan.

Sherlock gave a half smile. Well…he sure wasn’t The Virgin anymore. Nope.

As he was musing he had been going through his closet and sock drawer. With an impatient sigh he stripped off his shirt for the fifth time and changed into the purple silk shirt that Mycroft had gifted him last Christmas. Something elegant to wear to our parents’ home for Christmas dinner Sherlock he had said when the shirt and a new suit had been delivered to him at 221B.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he remembered all the times that Mycroft had sent him these extremely expensive gifts. The violin. His suits, His living expenses. His coat. If he didn’t know any better, he would feel like he was being courted.....or that he was a kept man with a Sugar Daddy.

Sherlock grinned at himself in the mirror, liking what he saw, He wondered if he could tease Mycroft about being his sugar Daddy. Hmm. He wasn’t sure Mycroft had any sense of humour left anymore. Not since he had stopped being Mycie, his perfect and fun and brilliant big brother…and become Mycroft Holmes The British Government.

He may not only frown at his joke but may actually withdraw the offer of sex. Oh hell no. That would never do !

Sherlock swept out of his flat in a hurry, quite sure that being late might also forfeit him something he was now anticipating with far more excitement than he had expected. He could almost have thought his mouth was watering at the idea.

Mycroft. Sex. Now.

.

.

.

So it was that Sherlock reached Mycroft’s front door at 8 pm sharp and stood outside, unsure of whether he wanted to break in or ring the doorbell. But of course Mycroft must have seen him on the security camera and he opened the door, welcomed him in and helped him out of his coat.

Mycroft was barefoot, which made him look somehow…….vulnerable. Unguarded.

Sherlock wasn’t sure why that sight affected him so much. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Mycroft without shoes, let alone without socks……The Most Dangerous Man in Britain was standing in front of him, with his fragile toes unprotected and an oddly soft smile on his face. He was wearing a button down pale blue linen shirt, with the sleeves rolled up……..and his hair was less perfectly combed than usual, some curls escaping, making him look so much younger…..

The word delicious may have crossed Sherlock’s mind. He blinked.

Wait… what?!…….his brain stuttered….. as a wonderful smell wafted in from the kitchen.

 

Yeah, that must have been what triggered the word association, Sherlock thought, as he sniffed.

“Did you make Cook’s famous Sunday roast??” he asked in astonishment. He hadn’t eaten it since Cook had passed away seven years ago. It had been the only dish which would induce him to sit at the dining table and eat, as opposed to wandering through the house being followed either by Mycroft or Mummy, who would feed him spoons of whatever it was that had been cooked for the day.

Mycroft smiled. “It was always your favourite. And there is trifle pudding to follow. Not a very healthy menu I am afraid but I thought it may be better for……well for this evening for you to have what you enjoy rather than a plate full of sprouts and quinoa like me.”

They sat down for dinner and Mycroft ate his salad and a bit of the roast. But he served Sherlock generous helpings of everything, including the pudding and watched him eat it all up.

It made him feel what he would have cautiously labelled as happiness.But Mycroft  could never be sure really. It had been too long since he had felt it in its pure and un-adulterated form.

.

.

Sherlock sat and ate, feeling oddly comfortable and satisfied. The roast had brought back so many memories of childhood. Of home. Of safety and ………was that a sense of happiness?

It had been fleeting when he looked back on it. But it had been there. As long as Mycroft was there. He had left for college and Sherlock’s world had turned grey. Filled with a hissing white noise.

He had hated Mycroft for abandoning him, then he had wanted to punish him but couldn’t stay away from him. That had led to his moving to London and those traumatic four years with drugs and almost ceaseless hostility. He had just come out of rehab last week, for the second time around and today, for the first time, was wondering who had really been punished and whose fault it had been.

Mycroft hadn’t left willingly. He knew he had tried to reach out to him while away. Letters, phone calls. All of which Sherlock had rejected. Viciously and cruelly. And repeatedly.

Despite all that, here they were.

What had made him ask Mycroft for such an absurd thing today?! And what the hell had Mycroft been thinking??!!

 

Surely he had said yes only because he was worried Sherlock would turn to drugs again…..Why would Mycroft want to associate with him any more than was essential?

He probably represented everything that Mycroft hated.

No discipline. No planning. No politeness. No tact.

Just demands. Just chaos.

Anything to keep his brain from sinking into boredom. And only Mycroft was brilliant enough to keep him from the edge of that abyss.

It was either Mycroft or the 7% solution.

This evening he would probably find out which one worked better.

.

.

He looked up from his ruminations to find Mycroft smiling at him faintly.

“You haven’t heard a word I have been saying have you?!”

Sherlock just chewed furiously and scowled at him.

Yes. I am born to disappoint you Mycroft. Accept it.

.

.

As they cleared the table after dinner, Mycroft was attempting to engage Sherlock in a conversation about some book that he had been reading. When he opened the refrigerator to take out another bottle of wine he felt Sherlock come and stand behind him and put his hands on his waist. He stopped, frozen and almost dropped the bottle of wine.

“Are you going to keep us busy eating and drinking and talking so that you can get out of our agreement Mycroft?” Sherlock demanded impatiently, moving close to him.

Too close.

Mycroft shut his eyes for a second and swallowed and regained his balance.

“No Sherlock.” He said calmly, as he twisted around and out of his grip and shut the fridge door. “I am merely trying to give you more complete data sets. Unless you know what is possible, how can you know what is missing? What you really want? Maybe all you want is companionship. I just … I want to make sure you really, really want this. And that this is what you really want.”

 

“I want it Mycroft. I am sure. I really, really want it! And this is what I want and I want it NOW!” Sherlock said emphatically. 

“And you said  it is all for an experiment?” Mycroft inquired calmly.

 “Yes!” Sherlock replied impatiently. “It’s a global pansexual online social experiment.” 

“Who is running it?” Mycroft asked, still maddeningly calm. 

“Women.” Sherlock said promptly. “Mostly women. Don’t ask why. Too much time on their hands? Spirit of scientific enquiry? Intellectual quests? Philosophical deliberations? Whatever. That is irrelevant.” He brusquely waved Mycroft away.

“Ok. Ok!” Mycroft said, raising his hands in the universal gesture of surrender, as he guided him out of the kitchen and to the living room.

They sat on the sofa and Mycroft looked at him very seriously. “We will have sex, as you want it, but I have two conditions.”

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes. “Are you going to tell me now that this is illegal and immoral and all kinds of other tedious and pointless things?! Incest laws are meant to protect minors and rightly so. But I am already 25 and I asked you ---not the other way around and we are never going to have kids together and we are never going to tell anyone else what we did and morals are meant for the ordinary folk with their tiny pathetic brains and their irrational fear of invisible beings and the answer to anything you want to say right now is I DON’T CARE!!”

Mycroft just looked at him coolly after this outburst and drummed his fingers against the sofa.

“It isn’t about the law Sherlock.” He said, thoughtfully. “I dare say that between the two of us we have broken dozens of laws already and kept them off the books. In fact, I probably earn my rather generous paycheque by making sure I know exactly which laws can be broken, by whom and when.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at that.

“So Sherlock, these two conditions have nothing to do with the law or morals but they are important.” Mycroft said firmly. “And they are non –negotiable. If you break either of them……..our arrangement will be over. For good. So please listen and let me know that you agree.”

Sherlock gave him a piercing look that seemed to say go on then, tell me, do your worst.

So Mycroft took a deep breath and counted them off on his fingers.

“First. We will never kiss on the lips.

 Second. You will never let emotions come into the interactions.”

Sherlock snorted. “That’s it?!! These are you ‘conditions’?? Oh for god’s sake Mycroft!! It’s not like I am asking to marry you!! Yes. Yes. Whatever you say. So..…. can we just get on with it now??!”

Mycroft nodded. He got up from the sofa and helped Sherlock up and they went upstairs to his bedroom. He was surprised when Sherlock didn’t shrug his hand off right away but held it till they reached his bedroom.

He pushed open the door.

He had already prepared the room and kept only the night lamp on, casting everything with a soft warm glow.

Sherlock stepped in behind him and swallowed hard as he realized that this was really actually finally happening.

Chapter Text

Mycroft may have read hundreds of fics and even written dozens of them himself. He may have dreamt and fantasized and speculated and contemplated this very scene a million times. As RPF, as AU, as soulmate, as anything and everything, but to have it dropped into his lap as an actual reality??


He was mesmerized. Transfixed. Dazed.

Drunk on the sheer magnificent beauty that was Sherlock. 

He felt a low hot swoop in his stomach as he wondered how it would be if they really could take on Alpha or Omega identities. 

How would it feel to be claimed by Sherlock in every possible way? 

He stretched his neck to one side sub-consciously as he imagined the claiming bite and almost shuddered.


As a child Sherlock had been so ferociously possessive of him and as a teenager so jealous for his attention. And now? As an adult, things may be less than ideal between them but he knew that as soon as he entered a room, Sherlock’s mind promptly started orbiting around him. Whenever he paced the room it was with Mycroft as his inevitable Sun.

Mycroft had noticed this decades ago but had allowed this behaviour to go un- remarked. Simply because it felt so natural to him too, to centre himself in any physical space based on where Sherlock was.  It was inevitable. Like gravity. Like magnetism. 

Like a river flowing into the sea.

Of course the other truth was also that Sherlock had never, not once in 25 years shown any signs of such non-brotherly feelings. Not once. 

So Mycroft had stayed safe in his cocoon of unrequited desires. Hiding in plain sight. The snark and squabbles and quarrels making it even easier for him to seek Sherlock out and bicker and argue while drinking in the sight of this beautiful angel his boy had grown into. 

Once again he felt a sharp clutch in his abdomen as he imagined Sherlock pushing him against the wall and biting down on his neck, claiming him. He took a deep breath and steadied himself. Reminded himself that this was just an experiment to Sherlock. 

Just a whim. A passing fancy.

Sherlock would gather data for his experiment and then this would be shut down.

Mycroft needed to stay focussed so he could save and savour the memories from this encounter for the rest of his life.

His possibly long and certainly lonely life.

He was aware that such an experiment would surely include other people also as variables. This was not anything exclusive between them. Not at all. He should remind himself that sentiment is a chemical defect. All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage Mycroft. 

.

So Mycroft steadied himself, reminded himself that he was the big brother, the responsible one the grown up.  He needed to make sure that no matter what happened between them, Sherlock did not get hurt. That is all. 

As for himself? Well…he was used to walking around with his battered and yearning heart for so long he hardly noticed it anymore. He pain had become a part of him. He had buried it deep inside a core of ice and nothing could possibly thaw him out and hurt him now. 

Deep inside his Mind Palace a very serious meeting was being held between three members of the inner circle. The innermost circle.

Mycroft the Brain was standing there, alone, looking outside the largest window. He was wearing his three- piece suit and a long black coat over it. His hands were encased in the black leather gloves. He stood there, looking out at the entire world laid out in front of him and pensively held the cigarette to his lips and smoked.

Mycroft the Conscience sat in a corner and from his small window he could see Sherlock and his parents. Sherlock was in the forefront, a small 11 year old boy with wild curly hair and an impish grin. His parents stood in the back ground, old and worried.

Mycroft the Spirit hovered uncertainly over both of them, worried and consumed as always by the debate of weighing Sherlock against the rest of the world.

But today all three Mycrofts were in various stages of distress.

Because there was one more Mycroft who they were all terrified of. So terrified that in fact they had kept him locked up for over two decades. In isolation, shackled by his arms and legs. He had been imprisoned for life and the order had been signed and sealed.

There would be no pardon. No reprieve.

But today?

After Sherlock’s demand for sex, the prison walls suddenly felt too thin. The prison bars too feeble.

Mycroft the Heart was standing at the window of his prison cell looking out at the other three. He had a red beard, and wild curly hair, and a hesitant soft smile.

The other three refused to turn around and make eye contact because they feared the disappearance of the entire universe as they knew it, if they let him out.

He was the Most Dangerous Man in the Kingdom of Mycroft.

The emergency cabinet session had been called but not a word was being said. Mycroft the Brain usually dealt with everything. He had not spoken to Mycroft the Heart in so long that all the words he knew were rusty with misuse.

But today it seemed that they did not even need words.

What would happen if they opened that door? From there led the road to hell….Mycroft the Brain thought.

Or it could be heaven…. Mycroft the Spirit whispered.

Mycroft the Brain knew that like Schrodinger’s cat the only way to really know was to open and look………but if it led to hell he would not be able to turn back and close it again.

He wanted to scream and rage against the sky.

Was he going to be forced to oversee the destruction of his carefully constructed house of cards??

In deepening frustration, he allowed himself was a deeper drag of the cigarette.

When he was done, he came and stood in front of the prison door and spoke to the Heart, without making any eye contact. “Remember that this is JUST an experiment. About sex. This is not and will never be what you desire. Don’t make a fool of yourself. We have not kept you here for our safety, but for your own. Stay inside. Can’t stop you from watching. But DO NOT participate. And do not even TRY to come out.”

He didn’t need to look to hear the clanging of the shackles as the Heart backed off from the door and sat down on the prison floor, probably silent tears flowing down his cheeks.

Mycroft the Spirit looked like it had been crushed by a large boulder.

.

Mycroft had had decades of training in denial, with a layer of self- loathing and martyrdom, so he instantly made a switch from all these thoughts to his current reality. He had been thinking at the speed of light as usual so all that Sherlock had probably seen was a blink. That was all the time that had passed. A blink of an eye.

Mycroft looked at Sherlock now, standing there at the bedroom door. Underneath all that bravado and impatience, Mycroft could see that Sherlock was a bit awkward and maybe even a bit nervous. Not that he would ever confess to that.

Maybe he was reconsidering. Mycroft could understand that. Of course he had been carried away by all those fics he read on Ao3. They would drive anyone crazy, especially if binge –read the way Sherlock seemed to have. He was probably having difficulty separating reality from fiction at this point in time!

Also, Sherlock had always been the overly emotional and passionate one. That is why Mycroft had spent so many years reminding him that caring is not an advantage.

If only he had been able to learn that lesson for himself, Mycroft thought with a sharp pain. As reluctant as he was to warn Sherlock not to do this if he didn’t really want to, he knew he had to say it. Sherlock having sex with him without really wanting to was surely worse than Sherlock never having sex with him.

It was…wasn’t it?

.

.

Just then Sherlock turned and fled down the stairs and Mycroft wished that he had spoken out earlier. This was even more humiliating. For Sherlock. He wished he had offered Sherlock a more dignified way out and not become weak and hesitant because of his own desires.

Well. Good that Sherlock came to his senses finally.

Distantly he heard the front door being slammed shut as he looked around at the bedroom, the soft lighting, the new satin sheets, the lube and condoms on the bedside table, the water bottle and cookies kept discreetly on the dressing table in case Sherlock felt like eating. After. Instead of the smoke that he himself would have preferred.

And now?

He closed his eyes and wondered how long it would take him to recover from this near-miss encounter? He had opened himself up to this. He had no one else to blame. He knew how reckless and impatient Sherlock could be. He could not even blame Anthea for encouraging him. After all, she had only given voice to his own deepest and darkest desires and he could no more blame her than he could blame a mirror for his ordinary face.

It was what it was.

So he turned off the light and walked down to his study, his feet heavy on each step as he walked away from the debris of his desires.

Maybe he would write himself a little story to make up for this debacle?

Once that was done he needed to quickly review all the surveillance feeds for the last week. He knew Anthea would have told him if there was anything important but he never trusted anyone. He gave a bitter laugh. Hell. He shouldn’t even be trusting himself.

He sat at his desk holding a cigarette in his hands, only smelling it. Denying himself the pleasure of actually smoking it. He deserved to be punished. For allowing Sherlock to get into this ridiculous situation. He should have put a stop to it. Now Sherlock was probably miserable and confused and it was all Mycroft’s fault. Sigh.

He was going to change that new satin bedsheet on his bed which would now always remind of this horrible evening. Maybe he would write something about the bedsheet. To help his own mood to improve.

So he logged on to Ao3 and started typing. The Bedsheet Chronicles.

.

.

As John finally fell into a restless sleep on the sofa at 221B, a few miles away Mycroft lay tangled in bedsheets, and Sherlock’s limbs, as he lay on his older brother’s chest, eyes closed, breathing gently.

Mycroft languidly drew circles on his back, wondering for the thousandth time how he had gotten so lucky to have this brilliant, utterly incandescent, even if occasionally infuriating lover, who reciprocated his love in depth and passion.

This thought was shadowed as always by the undercurrent of distress and fear that this man happened to be his own brother and they could never be together openly. Ever.

Earlier that evening as soon as he had stepped into 221B he had noticed that John was reacting to his presence in an odd and slightly uncomfortable way. He had always suspected that the doctor was attracted to Sherlock besides of course being loyal and brave and genuinely interested in his flatmates health and wellbeing.

He is sure that John would come around to accepting his own sexuality and his feelings for Sherlock.

Perhaps he ought to find some way for them to get together so that at least Sherlock would have a genuine chance at real happiness . Happiness which came with the freedom to be together openly, without always being stalked by the fear of exposure, threats from criminal powers as well as legitimate ones.

There could be no one else for himself though. Ever.

Even the thought of Sherlock being within someone else physically and romantically caused him such a sharp pain and cold dread but if he needed to sacrifice his own happiness ( and even his life), for his brother’s sake, he would do it in a heartbeat.

Sherlock would resist and resent but he would eventually give in. Wouldn’t he?

If Mycroft made him hate him and pushed him away and made sure he stayed away….

He ought to do what is best for Sherlock no matter pain it caused him.

 

Just then Sherlock rumbled against his chest in a rough voice. “Mycroft. Stop thinking so loudly.”

Mycroft smiled at his crankiness, knowing fully well how blissed out he had been a few minutes ago.

He needed to say something even though this was not the best time.

There never was a best time. There never was enough time. Ever.

It was always like this. Hidden. Furtive. Secret. Clandestine. Forbidden.

Well, they needed to get up anyway because Sherlock needed to go back to 221B eventually. So he may as well broach this now. Dr Watson may well demand some explanation when he saw his flatmate next.

“Sherlock…” he said softly, hesitantly.

“No. Mycroft, stop it.” Sherlock said with uncharacteristic gentleness, while propping himself up on his elbow and looking deeply into Mycroft’s eyes. “How many times My? How many times will you say it? I know. I understand. I am fully aware of it. You don’t need to keep protecting me. I know you meant well to keep us apart till I was an adult. But now?” He paused. He leaned over and kissed Mycroft deeply and thoroughly. “I am in this forever My. No matter what happens. I will be with you, like this, always. Nothing can keep me away from you. Not even you.” He stopped again. Thinking.

Then he said, “Perhaps the only things that would keep me away is if your life is at risk because of me. But even then I will find a way out which still keeps us together. We are together My. You started wearing the ring for me remember? Till death do us part? So stop.”

Mycroft had thought he couldn’t possibly love Sherlock more but he just fell in love with him all over again. He vowed that he would never again doubt and raise this topic again. He would trust Sherlock and respect him as an equal partner in this relationships. Because that is what he was. He would always look out for him as his young brother. He would always protect him as the man he loved.

But he would give him equal status as his partner. Now and forever.

“Sherlock.” he started again, eyes so full of emotion. And as always Sherlock anticipated what he was about to say.

“Yes. I do too. More than anything.” Sherlock said, smiling. “And yes, we should talk about what to say to John because I may have been a bit naughty and hinted at something. He did ask me a direct question though. And anyway,” he gave a chuckle,” it is kind of your fault because of what you said to me at the Palace. Did you enjoy the view from the bedsheet?” He grinned at Mycroft with such a cheeky expression that his older brother couldn’t even get himself to be mad at him.

He just sighed dramatically and said “You started it, you figure it out. I can hardly kidnap him again. I do hope he accepts this well because if he doesn’t ….”

Sherlock was thoughtful for a moment and said “I think he will. But if he doesn’t …”he shrugged. “Do you really want me to say it again? I will always choose you. Over everyone else in this universe Mycroft. Now get off your fat lazy arse and give me something to eat before I go home. I will deal with John. Don’t worry.”

“You know I worry about you. Constantly.”

“Well stop worrying. Next time I am going to take care of you. Now go! Get me some food! After all that exercise this transport needs refuelling. “

.

.

Later as Sherlock was leaving he held Mycroft around the waist and gave him one last soft kiss and then touched his forehead to his own and said, “Together?”

They broke apart and Mycroft looked into his eyes and said, “Forever.”

 

Chapter Text

Just as Mycroft finished posting the fic he heard some odd sounds at the front door. He took his glove pistol out of the desk drawer and checked the security camera.

Sherlock?! What in heaven’s name was he doing back here?!

Mycroft groaned. This was going to be the most epically embarrassing evening of his life.

By the time he got his wits about him, Sherlock came in breathless as though he had been running.

“Mycroft?” He called out.

“Here.” Mycroft said from his study, forcing his voice to be neutral and firm, keeping the desk in front of him as a shield. You can do this you can do this he told himself. You have dealt with sharing a bath with the Emperor of Japan and you have rescued the High Priest from where he was shackled naked to a bed. This can’t be worse. This can’t be worse. He chanted under his breath.

But of course, when Sherlock found him and started talking , it was definitely worse.

“I forgot my laptop. Wanted to show you the sex-matrix I made. It will take five minutes. Then we can go back upstairs and have sex.” Sherlock is speaking rapid fire while placing the laptop on Mycroft’s desk and booting it up.

Mycroft just stared at the laptop without any comprehension of what just happened.

Did Sherlock just run away from the DOOR of the bedroom to go get a LAPTOP?! And he expects that they will go back up and HAVE SEX now?!!

The chime from the laptop startles him. While the screen is blinking on, Sherlock is quickly unbuttoning his shirt and unbuckling his belt.

“Umm. Sherlock….?” Mycroft started to say, but he realized that he had no idea how that sentence was supposed to end.

Just then Sherlock spoke up. “Got all sweaty from that running around. I will just take a shower and join you in the bedroom.” He flashed Mycroft that brilliant smile which he used when he was trying to charm a witness into revealing some vital clue. Mycroft had seen that smile often and did not have the heart to tell Sherlock that it looked more deranged than delicious but hey, missing the point here.

What?! He almost shouted but then stopped himself.

“Ok.” He said instead. He could do this. He could totally be calm and stay in charge of this insane and ridiculous situation. “Are you going upstairs now or after you show me your matrix?”

Of course Sherlock wanted to show him the matrix first. Duh.

Sherlock clicked on something and opened a very complicated looking program. He pushed the screen at Mycroft and said “So here is the Kinsey line on the X axis. Here are the ones I need to have sex with on the Y axis.

“Um…need to have sex with?”

“Yes!” Sherlock nodded.

“Umm.. Why?” Mycroft asked.

“It’s for a case.” Sherlock said glibly.

Mycroft was about to ask which case when he suddenly identified names on the chart.  

Sherlock had had sex with John?? AND Greg?? AND Molly??

If that was not bad enough, he saw Mrs. Hudson’s name on the chart. He gripped the desk and told himself not to hyperventilate.

“Sherlock…..you have had sex with all these ….?”

“Oh no, not really. See….” Sherlock started explaining. “I just kissed John. And Mrs. Hudson only appeared in a weird erotic dream. Look here-- –this is why I made the third axis. It is difficult to show it all in two dimensions. I think I will have to build a 3D model for it. Like the DNA helix. With Greg the orgasm was with a sort of masturbation. By him for me. With Molly it was peno-vaginal penetration. She said my clitoral stimulus was the best she had ever experienced.” Sherlock’s smile was smug. He was gloating. “It was my first time with lady parts.”

He looked up at Mycroft as he finished saying this, looking for all the world like a puppy who has brought a stick back from a game of ‘fetch’ and expects a pat on the head and a doggy treat. Or a small child with an utterly mis-shapen drawing that it expects to be praised for and then have that ugly thing displayed on the family fridge forever.

Mycroft had no idea whether he wanted to laugh, cry, scream, or tear his clothes off and run through the streets like a madman. While on fire. And then jump into the Thames. To be eaten by piranhas. If he was lucky.

Fortunately for him, Sherlock was still talking. “Her pulse rate had gone up to 180 and her skin was flushed. Excitement, plateau, orgasm and resolution.” Sherlock was nodding and humming as he looked back at his matrix. “I had six orgasms by the time we were done. She had many more than she could count.”

Again he looked at Mycroft with a wide grin, like he had done something amazing. “She has agreed to help with some sex toy protocols for the experiment.”

Mycroft pinched himself and then yelled because it hurt like all bloody hell!! Oh damn and blast it all. This was NOT a crazy dream and he was NOT going to wake up from it.

“Um……”Mycroft managed to say.

“Isn’t that awesome?!” Sherlock gushed. “I would give it a 7. For the sex I had with Molly. Same as with Greg. Although he also gave me a back massage so that added one point. But she has breasts so that gave her one point.” Sherlock said looking down at his chart again. “I have added an axis for the method of sexual stimulation. And one more for the route. I was wondering whether kinks should have a separate matrix altogether.”

Mycroft stood there like one of his disgusting gormless goldfishes and opened and shut his mouth. There were no words invented by the human race so far that could allow him to express exactly what he was feeling. Nope. Nothing. In any language. Or even signs.

Unless self-combustion was a method of communication, he thought faintly.

“What do you think?!”Sherlock asked, still beaming at him. “There is SO much I still have to try!! Oral sex, anal penetration, BDSM, water play, threesomes, orgies, polyamory, 69, spanking, rimming. It’s going to take AGES to complete and I am NEVER going to be bored again!! Just the types of kissing could take up a few weeks!” He stopped abruptly. “Not with you of course. I …I know we agreed to that………..Ok, I am going to take a shower now and meet you back in the bedroom.”

.

.

Mycroft just stood there dazed as he heard Sherlock run up the stairs and then the bathroom door shut.

He sat down at his desk and rubbed his face. He had been wrong. SO wrong. This was way worse than any diplomatic disaster. This was ….he could not even think of an apt analogy. This was…as bad as The Queen and the Pope finding him having sex with a corgi in the Buckingham Palace. In the balcony of the Palace. In a tub of custard.

With BBC doing a live stream video.

And then the other two corgis bite him in the ass.

That would trend on Twitter. #britishgovernmentassbite

And then the PM would repost and like. Yeah. Boris totally would do that. Maybe even Trump.

Yes. If that was a 10 on 10, then what he was about to get himself into now was a 110.

There is no way this could get worse.

Unless of course Mummy dropped in and found out.

Ok…woah woah woah. He took a deep breath and made a hand yoga posture. No matter what he was about to do and however bad it was, he DEFINITELY did not need to be thinking of Mummy right now.

After three minutes of pranayama he felt much better. Calmer. In control.

That lasted till he made his way to the bedroom upstairs just as Sherlock came out of the shower, with an open shirt shrugged on, a towel around his waist and droplets of water running down his bare chest, glowing like a Carrara marble statue.

Sherlock was standing there looking at him, more unsure than he had sounded downstairs with his experiment babble.

“Uh…Mycroft?” Sherlock said, sounding just a bit anxious.” You know that with Greg it was just a ….and I trust him. I do. But that was the first time anyone has touched me that way. It was good. Really good. But I didn’t want to……but with you I wanted….I don’t know how…..”

Mycroft’s heart melted.

This unique, brilliant, magnificent creature. Who could have anyone he wanted-----anyone at all. And for whom hundreds, if not thousands, would be willing to step up to offer him this. He wanted Mycroft. He may have been intimate with Greg and Molly already but he wanted something more from him. To take him through his first experience of penetration. He would be the first one to touch him there. To be inside him.

To be granted this privilege. For privilege it was.

 

He resolutely ignored the warning flares being sent out by Mycroft the Brain, shouting Incest! No emotions!! It’s JUST a physical activity!!

 

“Look at me Sherlock.” He said softly. “Do you trust me?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Good. Then let me decide what we should do and how. And if this doesn’t repel you entirely, there could be more occasions. With me. Or…….perhaps with someone else.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘I am no longer a virgin Mycroft. I have already had sex with others. Two others.”

Mycroft shook his head. To cover up the sudden sharp pain that statement had caused him. Like an ice dagger. His beautiful beloved brother. Now apparently a suffering from a raging case of Satyriasis.

“Just don’t think that we have to do everything at once. Ok?” Mycroft was gently pulling off Sherlock’s shirt as he spoke. His fingers brushed against Sherlock’s neck as he tried to take his shirt off and Sherlock almost jumped at the contact.

“Easy! Easy!” Mycroft murmured. “Come here.” He coaxed him back, getting his shirt off, feeling more like a horse whisperer than someone about to take a lover to bed. He smiled at the thought. Sherlock was like a Mustang in a way wasn’t he? Wild. Free-roaming. Graceful.

He looked at him now, the flat planes of his stomach and the firm muscles of his chest and arms glowing in the soft light. His cheekbones even more defined and his eyes even more mesmerizing.

Mycroft was so glad for the darkness, where the contrast between their bodies would not be so obvious.

Then he noticed the bruise near his nipples and reached out to touch it. These were bite marks. Sherlock hissed at the touch.

Mycroft felt something stir inside him that he had never ever allowed. He felt a surge of possessiveness. As long as he could not see any visible marks of anyone else on Sherlock it had been more of an intellectual exercise. To accept that he had and would have other sexual partners.

But this?!! Seeing this bruise?!

He could almost feel his reptile brain light up and oxytocin surge through his body. He could feel a growl building up inside him. He wanted to go feral and bite Sherlock everywhere. He wanted to pound his chest like King Kong and shout MINE!!! He wanted Sherlock to be owned by him.

Possessed. Bonded. Committed.

He did not want anyone else to EVER touch Sherlock intimately.

Or even at all….NEVER. EVER. EVER.

He could feel a storm being unleashed inside him. It shook the very foundations of the Mind Palace. The Brain looked out of the window as the panes rattled. He smoke more furiously and desperately. The Conscience was wringing his hands and panicking. The Spirit was floating near the ceiling and wailing.

There was a kind of soft glow coming from the prison and when Brain looked towards it he thought he was the Heart smiling. He did not have the courage to look him in the eye and turned away.

Mycroft blinked and he was back to where he had been. Helping Sherlock remove his shirt.

“Did you put any antibiotic cream?” He asked Sherlock, very matter of fact, as though discussing a scratch obtained during a chase at a crime scene.

Sherlock laughed. “It’s just a flesh wound.”

Mycroft gave a very small half smile at the Monty Python reference and then asked. “Seriously? It hurts?”

“Yes Mycroft but it’s fine. Greg has not given me rabies or any other disease. And I used condoms with Molly. In fact we used all six that she had.” He said and was about to grin when something in Mycroft’s expression made him falter.

He remembered that expression. From all those times when he got into trouble and Mycroft blamed himself for it. That weary, suffering expression that made his eyes look almost ancient in their anguish. His experiment was making Mycroft sad for some reason.

But they had discussed it had they not? They had agreed. No kissing. No emotions. So why was Mycroft looking so …so tormented? He was an expert in reading body language and faces and signals. It was critical to his crime detection work. But he had never been able to read Mycroft. There always seemed to be as many layers to his mind as on his body. His suits, garters, shirts, vests. It was like peeling an onion. You never really got to the heart of it and there were always tears involved.

Had Mycroft said yes only because Sherlock asked him and he did not know he had been with others? Had he said yes because he thought Sherlock was a virgin and did not want him to get the experience from someone who may not be understanding or thoughtful? Did Mycroft NOT want to do this now that he knew there had been others?

In a moment of sudden insight Sherlock wondered how  he himself would feel if he knew about Mycroft’s other sexual partners.

Had he had other sexual partners?! He must have had! He was brilliant and attractive and sophisticated and oh so powerful. With such excellent taste and refinement. Surely all those diplomatic tours included some frisky action behind closed doors of suites and private floors?

Maybe he shared a smoke or a glass of whiskey with them after they were done?

Suddenly Sherlock was filled with a deep and intense hatred for all those nameless and faceless hordes ( all those? How many he wondered.) who had shared Mycorft’s bed. Shared his body. Touched his body. Seen Mycroft have an orgasm. Lay with him afterwards.

He wanted to do that. ALL that. ALL the time. No one else was allowed to touch his Mycie!

Just then he felt a flare go up inside his very soul as he realized that this was just an experiment. And no matter what they did and how often, those other men had probably been allowed to kiss Mycroft which he had agreed not to.

He wanted to go back in time and change that discussion! He had been so taken by surprise when Mycroft agreed so readily that he had never had a chance to negotiate that. His defences had crumbled as soon as Mycroft had said yes. The feeling of elation that had surged through him had made him so eager to make it happen that he would have agreed to even meet Mummy if that was a condition.

Mummy.

His Mummy,

Also Mycroft’s Mummy.

Because they were brothers.

Sherlock thought about that for a second. Where would that come on the chart? Did incest count as a kink? Or a variation?  

He was pulled out of his thoughts when he saw that Mycroft had started to unbutton his own shirt. Was that a slight tremor he detected in his fingers?

Oh Mycroft Sherlock thought to himself. You idiot. You have no sense of self preservation when it comes to me. You said yes even when you didn’t want to simply because I asked. I am sorry. But I am selfish and greedy and I am not going to let you off this time. I want you. I want you so badly. And not just for the experiment either.

His mind stilled when that thought crossed it.

Not just for the experiment. I actually do want you. I want to touch you and taste you and oh he almost groaned. I want to kiss you Mycroft ! So badly.

.

.

Mycroft was watching all these thoughts flitting across Sherlock’s face. He wasn’t sure what they were but they did not look very happy. He looked away and started to unbutton his shirt. If Sherlock wanted to stop he would. This was not for him. This was for Sherlock.

Once more unto the breach dear friends. Once more. He reminded himself. This was what Sherlock wanted. This was to make Sherlock happy. He could do this.

Sherlock did not owe him fidelity. Or monogamy. Or commitment. Or vows. Or bonding. He had asked to have sex and Mycroft had agreed. This was all on Mycroft. And he would deal with it.

He opened the third button and his heart almost stopped when Sherlock moved forward and gently pushed his hands away, and slipped the buttons out one by one and peeled the shirt off of him.

.

.

Sherlock looked at him in the glow of the night lamp and remembered other times when he had met him in the dark.

When he had been at doss houses and under abandoned bridges and on street corners, drugged out and in pain. Out of the miserable stinking darkness Mycroft would always turn up, like a knight in shining armour. He would sit with him and hold his hand or he would pick him up and take him to the hospital.

Sherlock realized with a start that the first time Mycroft had rescued him, he had been 18 which meant that his big brother had been the age he himself was right now. He had seemed so old to him then…..and so mature and wise…..but he had only been the age he was now!

He had been forced to look after Sherlock and be responsible and be there for him …….instead of being free to make his own mistakes and enjoy his own life.

And now here he was again, looking after him, agreeing to this crazy wish, being there for him. Sherlock had asked him, his own brother, to have sex with him and despite all the possible moral and legal taboos, he had agreed.

 

He always wanted to protect Sherlock. Keep him safe. Whatever it takes he had said.

And what did Sherlock do for him in return? Mock his weight. Speak scathingly of his diet. Take him for granted. Push his limits. Make insane demands.

Sherlock ran a fingertip slowly down from Mycroft’s neck over his chest, down his stomach, stopping at his waistband and hooked his finger in.

He wondered if Mycroft could interpret that as a ‘sorry for all the troubles, brother mine.’

.

.

Mycroft was watching Sherlock as he ran his finger down his body and could see that some internal conversation seemed to be taking place inside Sherlock’s brain.

His expression seemed regretful.

Perhaps he was realizing that he didn’t want to do this after all. Perhaps, not surprisingly, he found Mycroft’s body repulsive. Maybe he wanted to leave.

Mycroft was prepared for that outcome of course and wondered if he should ask Sherlock directly, in case he was feeling awkward about saying it.

Just then, to his immense surprise, Sherlock bent down at the waist, and kissed him on his stomach.

.

.

Mycroft was stunned. Had he known that of all the parts of his body this was the one that made him the most self-conscious??

In fact he had been steeling himself to expect some mocking comment from Sherlock when he saw him without his shirt. It was why he had asked him to come over that same day itself, before he could over- think and worry and refuse him.

But this gesture was so unexpected and so ………just so very tender and intimate that Mycroft felt tears threatening behind his eyelids. He shut his eyes.

.

.

Sherlock stood up straight again, his lips electrified with the feel of Mycroft’s skin under them and his senses swimming in his smell…….and for a fleeting second, just before Mycroft shut his eyes, he saw him.

Really saw him. As a person.

As another person.

 

Someone who cared for him. Always. Who had rescued him and looked after him and had been there for him. Always. Who worked a hard and sometimes dangerous and difficult job. But who always made time for him. Always. Who had made the effort today to cook his most favourite dish in the world.  

 

Who had given in to this absurd and obviously insane wish of his to have sex with him. His own brother?!

Was here anything Mycroft would not do for him?

He had a feeling that he would even die for him. Without a moment’s hesitation.

And he looked at this man standing in front of him, giving of himself, endlessly, forever……..this man who was his brother and his best friend……. his guiding light and his refuge and his sanctuary ……..and………his everything really ……..and in that instant Sherlock did something utterly unexpected.

Completely unanticipated.

Amazingly unpredictable.

Incredibly and breathtakingly impossible.

.

.

He fell in love.

Chapter Text

Time seemed to slow down and everything went quiet around him as Sherlock felt himself fall.

He saw the meaning of life in the blink of an eye and discovered the purpose of his existence. He understood why people wrote poetry and sang songs and painted magnificent murals.

This was love. This was worship of the highest kind.

Sherlock wondered if this could be considered love at first sight.

He was seeing Mycroft, really seeing Mycroft today for the first time.

He thought of the line he had traced down Mycroft’s chest with his finger and wondered if he could open him up there and enter him and live inside him forever.

With a wry smile he thought that if he asked Mycroft he may even say yes.

This idiot brother of his with no sense of self- preservation and no boundaries when it came to Sherlock, would probably say yes.

Sherlock closed his eyes at the thought-----the beautiful and sublime thought of living inside Mycroft. Next to his heart.

Or even better-- Inside his heart. Woven into his every heartbeat.

For eternity.

Surely they had been born in the same family so they could find each other easily. Surely they were always meant to be together. In every iteration of every known Universe.

Soulmates.

.

.

Mycroft had shut his eyes when Sherlock bent down towards his tummy. He had been shaken by the tenderness and the intimacy of the gesture. But when he finally opened his eyes he made sure that none of that was reflected in them. The vulnerability inside them had gone. He had willed it away. It had been difficult but he had done it. It would never do to let Sherlock know he was in love with him. It would probably scare him away instantly.

He needed to keep this as scientific as possible. For both of them.

He needed to remember that all Sherlock had wanted was to gather data. And remember that Sherlock was probably going to spend the next few years of his life gathering more and more ‘data’ with more and more sexual partners. He had already gone from zero to three in as many days and now it seemed as though the sky was the limit. After all incest wasn’t usually very high up or at all on people’s lists of sexual encounter experiment variable.

Ok, so he had cheated a little by cooking Sherlock’s favourite dish. But there had been a logical reason.

It was so that even if Sherlock was repelled by the sight of Mycroft’s body (and surely he would be!) and even if the entire physical experience was un-satisfactory (and who could predict that it would be otherwise?!) he would take away at least some pleasant memory of that evening.

If this first time was also to be the last time, maybe many years later Sherlock would at least remember that the dinner had not been bad.

Honestly, how could he not be disgusted by Mycroft’s body?!!

Surely Sherlock must have seen himself in the mirror at least once?! He must have seen those flat planes and toned limbs and his face. That face which the Renaissance painters would have fought to immortalize in their paintings.

Of course he would look upon Mycroft and see only acres of insipid pale skin. Yes, he did have well defined muscles from all the legwork he was still obliged to do, but the increasing hours at his desk had given him a soft belly.

And his face? Surely Sherlock, with his refined sense of aesthetics would find it far from pleasing. 

No wonder he had closed his eyes. It was fine. They could do this.

.

.

What did Mycroft really think of him… Sherlock wondered, as he opened his eyes and saw Mycroft look at him. 

Would he always see him as the immature little brother whose whims he had to entertain? Did he look after him only because he had promised Mummy? What if Mummy died? Would he still do anything for him? Or would he be happy to be freed from this troublesome burden?

‘Containment’ he had called this agreement. No kissing on the lips. No emotional complications.

Sherlock’s expression turned a little hard at the thought.

No. It would never do to let him know that he had fallen in love with him.

It was against the rules.

Not just the Rules of Society. He cared two hoots for that.

 

It was against the Rules of Mycroft.

And suddenly, that meant all the world to him.

.

.

So they stood there, looking at each other, hands around each other’s waists now.

Facing each other’s Transport.

Both of them lifelong experts at hiding from emotions, shunning sentiment and finding it so much easier to work at the highest intellectual planes than the basest physical ones.

There was a fragile silence in the bedroom, broken only by the sound of their breathing……. and for a fleeting second Mycroft regretted intensely his condition of no kissing on the lips.

But in the very next second he was just as intensely grateful that he had done so.

There is no way that his heart would have survived rejection after this if he had also kissed him. This way he could still remind himself that it was just an experiment.

It was sex. Just sex. Not love.

It was merely a physical act. Like a handshake. Not a communion.

Just bodies rubbing against each other so as to trigger the release of certain chemicals which satisfied the pleasure centres of the brain.

No emotions involved. No sentiment. No attachment.

Let the games begin.

Chapter Text

Mycroft helped Sherlock out of his clothes and resisted rolling his eyes when Sherlock impatiently flung them to a distant corner of the room.

Choose your battles wisely he told himself. We are already dancing in the ring of fire.

Sherlock stood before him now, already aroused, naked as the day he was born, more beautiful than the Garden of Eden and more tempting than an entire orchard of apple trees.

“Exquisite!” Mycroft thought and realized that he should have probably added one more condition. It wasn’t just kissing him on the lips but even taking him in his mouth that he was going to have to deny himself. If he tasted him……there would be no second time for them because he would never be able to hide his love and desire and Sherlock would be disgusted by him.

He was grateful once again for the near darkness in the room as he felt his cheeks burn with shame and longing. His head was spinning with lust and when Sherlock reached out for him, he barely managed to deflect his hands.

“Today is about you Sherlock. Your experiment. Your data. Don’t worry about me.” Mycroft was surprised that he managed to say it all n an even tone, given the raging storm brewing inside him.

Sherlock looked like he was about to argue but he simply nodded and let his hands fall back.

Thank goodness for small mercies Mycroft thought to himself. 

WORRY about you?! Sherlock was thinking bitterly. Oh Mycroft!! I am too selfish for that. I WANT you. I want to see you. Every inch of you. I want to touch you and taste you and memorize you and fill myself up with you.

But he did not dare say any of it and just bit his tongue and nodded in agreement. He needed to make sure that this first time would not be the last time. He needed to learn control.

Control.

After all that was the way to Mycroft’s heart, wasn’t it?

.

.

Mycroft had not dared to let Sherlock touch him. He would not have lasted even a minute. He needed to make sure that Sherlock experienced the pleasure for himself and not be repulsed by the sight of someone else in the throes of a climax. He could not lose control in front of him.

He had known that Sherlock had had no sexual partner so far and now apparently had suddenly acquired two new ones! Mycroft was still not sure how he felt about that. He knew that Sherlock even hated eating when he was busy solving those murder cases he had taken to working on. How was he going to prevent sex from being a distraction?!

And given the long list of sex variables he seemed determined to experiment with, Mycroft wondered if he would give up being the Consulting Detective and instead become the Consulting Sexpert.

Then he would not need to meet either Gregory or Molly Hooper that often, Mycroft thought, with a flare of annoyed jealousy flaring in his belly.

The disdain Sherlock always showed towards his ‘Transport’ made Mycroft wonder if how he did not see an orgasm as the ultimate betrayal or was it now finally something he could enjoy about his body.

Who knew what Sherlock would think… he mused, as he ran his fingers lightly down that beautiful neck and over his chest, teasing his nipples, watching the skin over his abdomen flutter as he scratched it lightly, moving down slowly. He held him closer and caressed his back, moving down till he reached his hip bone and then circled back to the front.

Easy does it. Slow and easy.

He traced his biceps and ran his finger down his forearm and tangled their fingers together.

“Let’s have you lying down for this.” he murmured as he saw Sherlock’s pupils dilate and eyes start to glaze over. He helped him onto the bed and adjusted the pillows so he was comfortable.

Mycroft lay down next to him, and shifted his left arm under his head, half cuddling him. (Though that is NOT a word he wanted to use. No. This was just an experiment in sex. Not intimacy. It was a hold. That is all.)

Then he dipped the fingers of his right hand in the lubricant jar and used them to show Sherlock exactly how enjoyable it could be to have an orgasm with someone else involved. He got Sherlock close, very close……..so close…..almost there…..and then he stopped.

Mycroft was quite sure that his own brain was going to melt just listening to the sounds Sherlock was making. Those moans should be illegal he thought. How in heaven’s name was he going to survive??!

By the time he had teased him to the edge a third time Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore.

“Please…….. Mycroft” he whispered, neck thrown back and eyes closed. “Please!”

And Mycroft could never deny him anything, ever, could he?

.

.

Sherlock seemed to have passed out from the experience and Mycroft cleaned him up and draped the sheet over him and sat there next to him, pensively smoking………… one cigarette, then a second and then a third.

Was this better than what Gregory had done for him? How would Sherlock rate it? Should he have gone ahead with anal penetration right away? At least that was still something he could be first at for Sherlock. Had he gone and lost that chance in his desire to make sure it was slow and comfortable for Sherock?

Would Sherlock want to do this again or would he find it hateful to relinquish so much control to Mycroft? He hated him for his surveillance for the drugs already. Would he want to find someone else who could do this for him?

Someone he didn’t resent and feel angry with all the time?

He wanted to reach out and touch him as he lay there, blissed out, mouth fallen open, eyelids heavy and closed. He wanted to run his fingers through his hair and kiss him and hold him close, so close. And never let go…..

If this time was also to be the last time, he wanted to memorize every single detail. From the delicate shell of his ears to the agonizingly lyrical curve of his back, ending in the pert, utterly edible arse.

Ugh what a common way to describe this Mycroft thought to himself. Surely it needed a better word. Maybe if he looked at it carefully, from all angles, some better word would present itself. After all he knew 26 languages……

He ran through the list in his head, in alphabetical order, of course, as he gazed upon the to- be- named part, which lay there on his bed, just a few inches away, the sheet having slipped off, tempting him in ways he had never been tempted before.

Kissing it wasn’t against the rules he realized…….……but as he bent down to touch it with his lips he became aware that this was dangerous territory and he might lose control so he withdrew himself. In fact he decided to move off the bed altogether and sit far away as he attempted to find the right word.

Mukhara in Arabic…nah…not quite the right feel

Boude in Afrikaans….hmm…not so bad…Boude. That could work.

Hintern in German…..no definitely not…..he wanted to squeeze it, not salute it.

Rumpe in Norwegian…not really. Too much of a dairy farm vibe to it.

Culito in Spanish…. .It could be considered vulgar under certain conditions but honestly, who was ever going to hear him say it?! He liked the sound of the word. He rolled it around on his tongue. Culito. A pert cute little arse. Yes that was it! This was a culito.

It had a name.

He wanted to bite it.

.

.

Luckily (or tragically?! He could never decide….) Sherlock stirred just then and seemed to be finally emerging from his hibernation.

Mycroft was tremendously relieved when, ten minutes later, leaning back against the pillows on the large and comfortable bed, still slightly dazed but coherent, Sherlock had declared that this had been a ‘rather interesting experience, all told’, but he needed more data sets.

Just for evidence. Of course.

And he reminded Mycroft that he had said they couldn’t possibly do everything the first time around and of course he needed to know what else was there to do. Surely there was much more.

Data sets. Nothing else.

Mycroft had hummed and nodded in agreement and after a short pause had indicated that Sherlock could stay the night if he wanted to. It probably wasn’t safe to go home right away given that one’s reaction time tended to slow down a little after sex, he suggested.

Again, just scientific evidence.

So Sherlock had stayed and Mycroft had gone off to take a shower and then gone down to his office room to work.

By the time he came back up, Sherlock was fast asleep again.

.

.

He must have woken up at some odd hour before dawn and left because when Mycroft woke up in the morning and remembered, he turned to the other side of the bed. He saw that it was empty and felt more bereft than he could have imagined.

Then he consoled himself. It was better this way.

No awkward morning- after conversations. No meaningless good- byes.

Yes, Sherlock had said last night that he may want more, but who knew what Sherlock ever really wanted? Surely something else would distract him before the week was out.

Mycroft held the pillow Sherlock had slept on and inhaled deeply.

Would it have been better to have never had this encounter or was it better to have had at least this much?

He shook his head in despair.

He could take precise and calculated decisions on war and peace and concerns of global and deadly importance…… but when it came to Sherlock he could really never decide what to wish for….

Never had been able to.

Chapter Text

Sherlock let himself into 221B at 4 am.

He went into the flat and looked around. Everything seemed different. Brighter and richer and more real somehow. It was as though a veil had been lifted, a mist had melted away and he was the seeing the world in its true light for the first time in his life.

He was in love!! He felt like twirling. He felt like jumping on the sofa. He could understand what a firecracker felt like as it exploded and sparkled in many many colours in the sky.

This was love!!! This was LOVE!

He didn’t know what to do with himself. In a frenzy of activity he took out the yellow paint canister and sprayed a smiley on the wallpaper. He climbed on the chair and put his headphones on the bison skull.

He may have hugged the cushions and he may have looked at himself in the mirror and grinned at his reflection.

He was in LOVE!!! And he wanted the world to know it…….and at that thought he sobered down rapidly.

He could never tell anyone. He could not even tell the man he loved.

Never.

Mycroft must NEVER find out.

He slumped down on the floor and sat in a deep funk for a very long time. Dark morbid thoughts swirled around his brain like a toxic fog.

Then he got up, picked up his violin and played the saddest and most melancholy tunes for so long that he finally stopped when he realized that his fingertips had started to bleed.

Someone was entering the flat.

“Hoohoo!!”

Oh it was Mrs. Hudson. He hoped she was wearing all her clothes.  

“Shoo!!” he said. “Go away.”

“Now dear, really! Where are your manners!” She said, mock offended. “Sounded like you could do with a cup of tea. What was that music you were playing? Almost made me cry!”

Tea! He perked up. And cookies! Hmmm…he thought as he wolfed down four of them.  

Just then his phone rang and it was someone who had been held for a murder charge. Which he claimed he was innocent of. 

Wonderful!! Could this day get any better?! He kissed an astonished Mrs. Hudson on her cheek, wore his coat and ran down the stairs.

“Laterzzz!” He yelled out to her as he ran out of the building.

.

.

He came back late in the evening, having solved the case and managed to get the man out of jail. Gregory had been away for some conference but the Deputy Sargent at the Yard had been less of an idiot than the other usual ones. She seemed to have understood at least 40% of Sherlock’s deductions after he had explained them. Which was a lot more than most people seemed capable of.

Mycroft was right to call them all goldfish.

Mycroft.

He felt a helpless smile light up his face as he said that name.

Mycroft. His Mycroft.

The man he was in love with.

Beautiful Mycroft. Brilliant Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft.

He closed his eyes and lay down on the sofa. He had had no time to organize his Mind Palace since last evening so now he concentrated on sorting it all out. The smell, the words, the way he had looked, in his pale blue shirt which brought out the colour of his eyes….how had he never noticed how divine his eyes were?? He could swim in those eyes. He could drown in those eyes.

And his muscular arms and that lovely freckled skin.

Oh and his soft belly. He was never going to tease him about his diet now. He LOVED that soft belly. He wanted to kiss it and hold it and sleep with his head pillowed on it and he wanted to bite it …...and he spent a wonderful fifteen minutes imagining all the delicious things he could do with that soft belly.

Then with a sigh he turned to other matters.

The way Mycroft had touched him and how he had held him. And then those fingers and the thrill it had given him. He had been shocked to hear his own voice moaning like that. So wanton. So depraved. And then the climax had made him see stars.

Of course he had done it for himself on a few occasions in the past. During those horrid puberty years when he couldn’t make it go away without touching it and in recent years maybe once or twice when he had been bored out of his skull. And of course Greg had been wonderful too, with his large warm hands and the Holy Oil massage. And so had Molly been with her lovely lady parts.

But nothing, absolutely nothing had ever given him the height of pleasure he had experienced last evening. He had been unable to think or stay conscious after that.

He had been blissed out and the most perfect silence had swept over his brain. It was not the silence of absence that the 7% solution gave him. This was a warm feeling. It was more like …….like a cat sleeping curled up in the sun? Yes, he thought with a silly smile.

His brain felt like a cat sleeping curled up in the sun. Purring contentedly. 

His brain had been washed over with a tsunami of hormones.

Oxtytocin. Dopamine.

He wondered why these two chemicals weren’t mass manufactured and then sprayed on everyone from the air. Then they could all dance in the streets in wild abandon.

He opened his eyes at the thought. Dance. Maybe he could persuade Mycroft to dance with him. He could hold him close and breathe him in and oh he loved to dance. In fact it was Mycroft who had taught him the waltz.

Oh he had an idea!

He would compose a waltz and THEN they could dance to it. It would be a love letter in music. And Mycroft may suspect, because he was the smart one, but it wasn’t really breaking any of his rules was it??

Stupid rules he thought and frowned at the wallpaper.

He was going to shoot some holes into that wall one day. Stupid wall.

.

.

He spent the next couple of hours in a daydream haze but late at night he got a call from Greg. A very odd murder case. Would he come?

Yes of course he would! And so he went and then spent the next 48 hours looking for clues, putting together the pattern and finally leading them to the killer. 

Greg had given him a warm smile later and even a wink that had made him blush. 

He suddenly wondered if it was ok to have sex with the other people on his list now that he knew he was in love with Mycroft. But he could never tell Mycroft. Because if he did then he could never have sex with him again. But he had already told him about the experiment and Mycroft would ask him how it was going….and if he told him he was not having sex with anyone else he would want to know why….and the desire for monogamy or fidelity spoke of a possessiveness and a sense of commitment that came from…feelings. 

Which were also forbidden. 

He stood there frozen as this storm was brewing inside his Mind Palace. Lightning bolts were shooting all over the place and thunder was rumbling. 

“Hey you alright sunshine?” He heard Greg speak softly, very close to his ear, as he slipped a warm hand on the small of his back. “Is your back ok now?” 

“Yes. It’s fine Lestrade. Don’t you have any paperwork to complete?” Sherlock snapped at him, not used to having to deal with feelings. Never had to repress them because he never felt them. Now he was suddenly feeling the feelings as well as having to repress them. 

It was like trying to control a pet octopus that was trying to eat you. While you were feeding it. Or a Kraken. Or something. 

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see.

 

He fainted away.

Chapter Text

 

 

When Sherlock came to after a minute he was lying on the floor and his head was on Greg’s lap. He struggled to sit up.

 

“It’s ok Sherlock. You fainted. Probably haven’t eaten anything in days have you?” Greg was smiling at him indulgently. “I already called John. He will be here to take you back home.”

 

Just as he finished talking John came in, breathless like he had been running.

 

“Hi.” Greg said cautiously, not sure why John had been avoiding his calls for the past few days.

 

Sherlock took one look at John’s face and made his deductions. “You had sex with Greg. Now you are angry because he also had sex with me.”

 

Greg and John just looked at him with their jaws dropped.

 

“You feel betrayed.” Sherlock continued. “You shouldn’t. Sex is too much fun to bring emotions into it. Orgasms should be made mandatory by the NHS in fact. Given out like prescriptions for vitamins. The more the merrier.” And he concluded with a slightly manic grin. He could do this. This was the solution!!

 

He could deal with his feelings for Mycroft by drowning them in sex with everyone else.

 

This was a truly brilliant solution and in fact Mycroft would be so proud of him….damn Mycroft. Could he not have a single thought without him butting in?!

 

Meanwhile Greg and John were still staring at him dumb struck.

 

John recovered finally and said gruffly. “Come on Sherlock. Let’s get you something to eat. You are talking even more nonsense than usual now.”

 

“Is he really?” Greg asked slowly. “Did you expect us to be exclusive, John?”

 

John shrugged. “Not really. I mean, I understand that we never had any such conversation. But …well five times in 24 hours should count for something?!”

 

Sherlock gaped at him. “Five times? In 24 hours?! That is possible? Without any man parts falling off or getting injured?!!”

 

Greg snorted. John also started laughing. This was an utterly insane conversation to be having while they were inside Scotland Yard. With the flatmate he had had a crush on forever and the policeman he had had ridiculously good sex with.

 

Greg winked at John. “None of your man-parts fallen off yet have they?”

 

John grinned. “No Detective Inspector. But do you want to come over later and check for yourself?”

 

Sherlock looked at John with narrowed eyes. “Is that a code for sex? Can I also check? Oh hey wait, can we all have sex together? It’s on my list. A threesome. With all three men.” Then he started muttering to himself…..” Hmmm I suppose I could call Molly for one later with one of you and then Molly and some other woman for threesome with three women…..maybe Anthea. Maybe I could watch while three women have sex. That would be interesting I am sure……” He trailed off as John looked like he was about to faint himself.

 

“Sherlock! What the fuck?!” John hissed.

 

Sherlock looked at him and said. “Yes exactly. The threesome kind.”

Chapter Text

When Mrs. Hudson came up with tea the next morning and discovered an industrial size giant pot (almost a barrel) of lube, she tutted and fussed and wondered if an intervention was needed. 

The idiot boy had gone from fasting to feasting and honestly, what was wrong with Mycroft? She waved her hands at the skull on the mantelpiece, knowing that the surveillance camera (one of them at least) was in it. She pointed to the giant container of lube and rolled her eyes. 

Well. You can take the horse to bed but you can’t make it have sex. Or whatever the saying was. She sighed and went downstairs. She was going to have her herbal soothers right away, sunset be damned. 

As soon as she went down and the door to the flat was shut, the door to Sherlock’s bedroom opened slowly and stealthily. 

Greg peeped out and gave the all clear. The other two had been too terrified to even peep out in case they were seen by Mrs. Hudson. Greg had been nominated by them to attempt it. 

“Well I need a shower now and then I must get home. It’s good thing I have the day off today. I am bloody exhausted!” Greg said, stretching out and yawning. 

Sherlock poked him in the ribs. “John did most of the work you old man.” 

Greg snorted. “I am not sure how you define ‘work’ lad. He may have worked on you but that’s because I was working him.” And he gave a lazy wink and licked his lips. 

John slapped his butt and then pulled him into the shower. 

Sherlock had opened his laptop and was busy filling out a chart. 

Simultaneous anal and oral penetration. It had been interesting. He thought a bit. Maybe an 8 but it was over stimulation for him. He didn’t really want to try it again. At least not with two men. After all they had already done it five times since last night and tried out pretty much all the combinations they could. Oh! He suddenly realized. He should refer to the Kama Sutra. They were sure to have more combinations.


“Wear some clothes Sherlock! Don’t sit buck naked on the sofa for god’s sake!!” John yelled when he came out of the bathroom. 

Sherlock ignored him and kept typing. John brought his dressing gown out and dumped it on his head. “Wear this before Mrs. Hudson comes up again!” 

“You tasted different last night.” Sherlock said suddenly. 

“What?!” John asked him utterly confused. “Different from what? Sushi?! Fish and chips?” 

"No John. Different from that day." 

"Which day?!" 

"That day when I kissed you and you ran away?" 

“Sherlock I think you really need more sleep. You are confusing dreams with reality. Or nursery rhymes. Georgie Porgie pudding and pie, kissed the girls and made then cry, When the boys came out to  play, Georgie Porgie ran away.” John recited in a high childlike voice and snorted, turning away to make some tea. 

Sherlock scowled at his retreating back. 

Could it be? Oh good heavens, was the entire encounter with Mycroft also a dream?! 

What if it had not been real…??!! and he felt a sudden clenching in his stomach. 

How could he find out?!

 

It had been three days and Mycroft had not contacted him. 

Why would he?! Maybe nothing had happened after all!!

So he pulled out his phone and texted him. He wrote and deleted three messages before he decided on one which sounded as though that evening had actually happened but if it had not then he could always pretend he meant something else. So he typed out one word and pressed 'send'.

 

Just then there was a knock at the door. 

The man he had helped get off the murder charge had send some food as 'thankyou'. 

Sherlock was disinclined to eat but the food smelt amazing so he opened the bag distractedly. There was pasta and….oh was that Tiramisu? It was Mycroft’s favourite! 

It had been three entire days since that evening. Surely he could ask Mycroft for another data set, couldn’t he? But….what if Mycroft wasn’t replying because nothing had happened? Sherlock had hallucinated all that because of too many fanfic fumes in his brain?!!  

Just then his phone buzzed with an incoming message.

Chapter Text

Three days had passed since That Evening.

Mycroft was still undecided what else to label it. Earth –shattering? Dream-fulfilment? Terrifying? Tantalizing? Ridiculously insane? Fantastic? Incredible? Magical? Preposterous?

The entire couple of hours were running inside his head on a loop. Like a ticker tape on cable TV.

He was trying very hard to concentrate on the emergency meeting about the burning Amazon forests and what the British Government could do to put a stop to it.

Just then his phone vibrated with a message.

{Tonight? SH}

Mycroft looked at the message for a very long time, a riot of thoughts making it difficult to breathe.

Sherlock really wanted to do this again?

He squashed the feeling of delight bubbling up inside his chest. No. Stop it. It was only an experiment. Gathering data. Measuring. Sherlock already had so many people to do this with.

This was not going to last. It never lasted.  

He laughed to himself bitterly. Poor Sherlock

He had thought that those two conditions were meant to discipline him when the truth was that they were meant to protect Mycroft.

Sherlock had simply no idea of the depth of feelings Mycroft had for him. In fact he had been in love with his younger brother for so long and so hopelessly that when Sherlock raised the topic of incest Mycroft had been alarmed to realize that he hadn’t even thought of the legal implications of what they were about to do. Just the idea that he was going to have sex with Sherlock and that too with his whole-hearted consent, and even desire, had been too much for him to cope with.

Fate had never given him something he wished for without taking away something he hadn’t even known he would have to sacrifice. Which is why he had never allowed himself to wish for this. He had no idea what price he may be called upon to pay and he wasn’t sure he had the courage to do so.

This dream had thus remained buried on the dark side of the Moon in his Mind Galaxy, never to be seen and certainly never to be visited.

Until that day. When Sherlock himself had plucked it out of orbit and dropped it in his lap.

It was as though his Mind Galaxy had come alive for the first time in its existence. It hummed and pulsated and throbbed and supernovas were exploding. Many Suns were born and died and in the instant, even before Sherlock asked, Mycroft knew his answer would be Yes.

Always YES.

No matter what the consequences.

Despite the agony of knowing that he was basically just one of the lab rats in Sherlock’s experiment.

It was better this way actually, he theorized. He would never want Sherlock to feel trapped and wonder if they were in a relationship as a result of the sex.

He had often fantasized about this and written so many fanfics about this. He had written poignant, sad, crack, fluff, angst. Everything.

But in real life what he would have wanted was for Sherlock to know that he was free.

To stop any time he wanted.

To leave.

To find someone else.

Every one of those thoughts tore at his heart, the one he kept hidden so well from the entire world but which beat only for Sherlock.

Always had.

For his beautiful, incandescent, beloved Sherlock.

Who was perfection itself…..from the top of his curly head all the way down to his delicate toes. Whose razor sharp mind was a mirror to his own genius abilities. Whose sparkling brilliance made him feel just a little less lonely in this world full of goldfish.

Who could be in his bed tonight……..

As Mycroft looked at the message and the avalanche of desires it unleashed, he wished for the millionth time that he had never agreed to this absurd ‘experiment’. 

Because someday it was going to come to an end…it must……and then how was he expected to carry on?!!

But he was swept over with a tide of gratitude at whatever forces governed the Universe and had granted him at least that one time.

That one hour when he had had permission to touch that beloved body, to hold it, to give it pleasure. To worship it. To watch it arch in ecstasy. To see those eyes cloud over with desire and lust. To see the flush creep up to those smooth cheeks and to see those lips tremble with want.

Please…. those lips had said. Please. Mycroft!

If his life had ended that very instant he would have gone happily, because this was heaven, here, already in his arms.

Could it possibly be true that he was going to be granted one more such chance?  

.

.

He sent a text.

{Meeting going on till late but can manage for 9 pm? MH}

The reply came 3 seconds later.

{Yes. Don’t bother with dinner for me.SH}

Mycroft felt his heart trip. Of course.

Sherlock was coming only for sex. For the experiment.

He didn’t really want to linger and chat and have any interest in Mycroft’s company.

But it was ok. It could be worse.

It could be so much worse.

Chapter Text

After the meeting was over, Mycroft went to his own office and as part of his tea-time ritual, went over the earlier day’s surveillance tapes.

He saw Greg and John go into Sherlock’s bedroom with him and he had to fight very VERY hard to not scream and cry.

He forced himself to watch the tapes because this was his penance. For all those dirtybadwrong feelings he had harboured for his brother. He needed to see this so that he would kill and bury any hope he may have had that this would end in a happy place.

Just then he saw Mrs. Hudson come into the flat, look at something in disapproval and then come straight to the skull and made some weird flapping hands. Mycroft looked at her curiously. He had known that she knew about the surveillance. She was one smart lady. He had realized that as soon as he saw her for the very first time.

When he had realized the low rent at which she had been willing to offer the flat to Sherlock he had been rather suspicious and had vetted her thoroughly as well as paid her a visit in person. She had behaved very feather-brained but he could see something different in her eyes. And when he left she had told him she considered Sherlock not just a tenant but more like her son. 

Why was she doing this pantomime in front of his surveillance camera right now? What did she want him to do?!!

Sherlock was a grown man. Maybe not quite an adult in the same ‘normal’ way that others are but still….he made his own decisions. About his life, his body. Who to share it with. How. When. How often…

STOP. Stop it!! He told himself. He needed to finish this review quickly and go back to work. So he switched that tape off and went through random staff surveillance tapes just as a sampling and saw something which made him choke on his tea!

What in the anarchist abominations from HELL was Anthea doing cavorting with Jim Moriarty?!!

.

.

Rupert Graves was on his way to a rehearsal for The Importance of Being Ernest at the Barbican Theatre when he saw someone familiar step out of the station and walk towards St. Bart’s.

He checked his watch. He still had half an hour.

Maybe he had mis-read ‘Molly’ when they met in that café but no harm confirming right? After all a no is a no but he hadn’t asked anything and she hadn’t said anything yet.

So …here goes nothing he thought, as he bought a small bouquet from the gift shop on the ground floor of the hospital and walked in to find her. She would be in the morgue he figured if the show script was anything to go by.

.

.

Gregory Lestrade had left Baker Street humming to himself. This was it! 3 out of 4 wasn’t bad at all. Now if only he could get Mycroft to join them.

He whistled under his breath as he typed out the next chapter of his series on Ao3. 

Awakenings III: (in which Greg Lestrade and John Watson show Sherlock Holmes what he's  been missing out on...)

.

"So what do you propose we do? If you'll pardon me saying so, you're not the sort to forgive intruders into what you may determine as your territory. No other boys allowed in your sandbox, eh?"

No eye roll, this time, just the frown. "I...don't know. This is all rather new to me."

John cleared his throat. "I don't suppose I get a say, do I?" His breath caught at the looks that were thrown in his direction and his mouth snapped shut. "Right."

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his nose, doing his best to ignore John's fingers in his hair and Greg's hand on his chest, rubbing absently. A broad swipe tickled at the edge of one of his nipples under his taut shirt. An involuntary spasm made his toes curl, and he stared up at Greg, startled. Greg grinned, teeth impossibly white in the dim light. Sherlock felt John shift uncomfortably under his head and shot a glance up at him. He was staring at Greg's hand, moving in slow circles against Sherlock's chest, pupils dilated and heartbeat increasing.

"Oh for God's sake John! Control yourself."

John grinned brightly. "Make me."

"We're only trying to decide on your future here, you know. And any distractions will not...um, distract me from that purpose. Um. Righttt..." Sherlock's eyes crossed briefly as John's hand joined in the fun, teasing the buttons on his shirt open one by one before he could slip a hand in and tweak the nipples that had visibly hardened against the fabric. 

 

"Oh."   Sherlock tried to swat John's hand away, and failed utterly. "Stop that. You're making my brain short out."

Greg chuckled low in his throat. "I rather think that's the idea, mate."

Sherlock attempted his best haughty stare, but it dissolved when Greg's hand started moving down, circling a bony hip and trailing down a long expanse of well-trousered thigh.

.

Greg fanned himself with the folded newspaper. Oof. Was it hot in the tube today or was it just him?

He looked around. No one else seemed more uncomfortable than usual. He shook his head and went back to writing.

.

"Brain still not working properly, dammit." A deep breath. "Relationships. Popular opinion seems to be that one person is meant to be with one other. But with what Greg is suggesting, it doesn't seem to work that way with you. Explain." Sherlock could practically feel John's eyebrow raising. "Please."

"It isn't a one size fits all world, Sherlock. Greg and I enjoy each other very much. Sometimes, when the mood strikes, we also enjoy others. But always together."

"But you don't love these others?"

"Love isn't always a factor, Sherlock. Sometimes, sex is just sex."

"Really  hot , mind-blowing sex."

"Greg, hush." John stifled his giggle, noticing that Sherlock's brain seemed to have gone on standby again. "Dear Lord, I think you've broken him this time." He squeezed Sherlock's hand and leaned in to give him a quick peck on the cheek. "Sherlock?"

.

.

Just then the train came to a halt and an announcement droned through the carriage.

“Due to maintenance works at Westminster Station this service will terminate here. Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.”

Greg cursed and stepped out, along with a thousand other morning commuters. He stepped out on the street and called Sally to check if she had got in to work on time. She had and she updated him on the findings. Unfortunately it seemed that Anderson had probably come to the wrong conclusions in the latest murder case and he really needed Molly’s inputs on the post mortem.

There was also a key witness interview he needed to conduct so he figured that he might as well drop in at St. Bart’s and check with Molly directly and then find his way to New Scotland Yard later.

As he put his phone away, he found a bar of some exotic chocolate in his coat pocket. There was always some intern, young man or woman who ended up having a crush on him and leaving chocolates on his desk. He never let it get any further with them since he was a tough professional after all.

But he didn’t see the point of letting the choccies go to waste and always took them home. So he slipped it back into his pocket. Molly might like it.

.

John went down the stairs at Baker Street and left for the clinic still unable to believe what had happened last night. It was way better than anything he had imagined in all those fanfics he had written. He grinned at himself.

.

"Human relationships tend to work on a much slower time scale than my mind; I find I get impatient rather easily. This was clearly where we were going to end up, so I thought I'd just fast-forward a little bit."

John is stunned. Well, he sort of sees what Sherlock means but - somehow still stunned.

"'Fast-forward a little bit'?" He repeats, satisfied with the amount of incredulity in his tone. He feels Sherlock shift against him again and realises that every time it happens his body - completely instinctively - turns a little bit into the warmth pressed against it. So that now their legs appear to be intertwined.

He suspects that if this goes on much longer, he won't be able to muster much of an argument.

"A simple process, John," Sherlock says, and his voice is wonderfully close, wonderfully intimate, John realises. He attempts to stop another shiver. "We've been getting closer for a number of weeks now, though the process appears to be progressing at an unusually dull speed so this evening whilst pondering the matter on the sofa I decided to excelerate things somewhat."

Slightly unable to believe what he is hearing, John twists the top half of his body slightly so that in the darkness he is - as far as he can tell - facing Sherlock, sharing the same pillow. He takes care not to untangle their legs, realises he hopes Sherlock won't either.

"Are you - are you treating us like a chemical reaction?"

Despite the darkness, John can practically feel the eyeroll. "Unless biology lessons completely passed you by, I'm sure you'll realise that human interactions are actually just a sequence of chemical reactions, John. Attraction, connection, sex - "

"Don't," John says suddenly. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Say 'sex' after crawling into bed with me."

.

.

John was grinning away to himself and also whistling under his breath when he turned the corner a block away from his clinic, very close to Euston Road when he saw something which made him duck behind a tree and watch.

That nurse who had kissed him yesterday! Mary Morstan. She was walking hand in hand with some man. Very much hand in hand. They were bumping into each other as they walked. He dropped her to a cab and bent down to kiss her goodbye.

What?!

John couldn’t see his face but he felt an irrational anger and jealousy. Then he stopped. Well. He had just had threesome last night. He could hardly have a moral high ground to stand on.

He sighed. He had liked Mary. She seemed feisty. Like someone who might actually enjoy being part of a threesome. Or even a more some. She might be someone he could have married and still continued to have a relationships with Sherlock. If he did indeed have any relationship with Sherlock. Beyond being his blogger of course.

So he had fantasized and written about their threesomes. Sherlock would probably like Mary. He was quite sure.

In fact he had written one fic he thought was really hot where Sherlock and Mary were making love on camera and the video was found by D.I. Gregory Lestrade. Damn. Just remembering that fic made him walk funny.

Now, he wasn’t so sure. Now that he had actually been with Sherlock and Greg, he wasn’t sure how someone else could come in. He grinned to himself again and licked his lips. He had definitely enjoyed Greg and then Greg and Sherlock.

It was not such a difficult choice to make. Although he had always imagined himself as a straight man who would eventually marry a straight woman and have children. A house. Maybe even a dog.

Whereas now he was looking at a future where he had mind- blowing sex off- and- on with Greg and Sherlock sometimes joined in.

Hmm. Not quite as mainstream but maybe he could live with it. Maybe even enjoy it.

He was so pre- occupied in these thoughts and recalling the almost contortionist shenanigans the three of them had got up to last night at Baker Street that he never saw it coming.

The fist which landed a right hook and knocked him clean out, just as he was about to enter the East Wind Clinic.

.

.

Molly looked up as someone cleared their throat and saw Greg standing there smiling bashfully and holding out quite a pretty bouquet of flowers. She ignored him and went back to what she was doing.

Some cheek he had turning up here!!! Flirting with her in the café that day, calling himself ‘Rupert’ and then having a romp with Sherlock in his bedroom right after!!

Well…her brain reminded her…she herself had fallen into bed (rather eagerly!) with Sherlock right after that had she not?! And she may even have agreed to some future experiments with sex toys.

But hey, a girl had some pride didn’t she?! She needed to play at least a little hard to get?!

So she ignored him completely and carried on with her work.

Rupert stood there very confused because he simply couldn’t understand what had happened since they last spoke at the café to inspire such a frosty cold shoulder.

Well. Perhaps this was as good as a no he thought and was turning away when someone came in from the other door and spoke as he came in.

“Hey Molls, I really need that post mortem report from……”and he stopped.

Molly looked up scowling. “I will send the report when I am done Greg.”

Then she looked at Greg standing on the other side of the room and turned sharply to look at the double door on the opposite side where Rupert stood, half turned, flowers still in his hand, mouth fallen open.

Greg stood there blinking, with the chocolates in his hand, staring at the man on the other side of the room.

.

.

A few miles away inside a small classroom at the University College of London English Literature Department, a handful of students were eating lunch and discussing the talks they had heard that morning on ‘Counter Culture and Fanfiction as a tool of Subversion’ and the one on the sexualisation of Benedict Cumberbatch in the latest great hit TV series ‘Sherlock’.

“So, Sandy, what do you think of the homo –erotic sub-text in the first episode?” Jake asked.

“I think John totally has the hots for Sherlock.” Raj spoke up instead. “At least that is what the creators of the show want us to believe. I mean, the mood lighting, the whipping scene, the unbuttoned tight shirts, the constant allusion to John’s repressed sexuality from having been away at war and all that, even that scene at the restaurant…….Unless …”and he winked at them” Unless it is Martin crushing on Benedict that is showing up as on screen chemistry!”

“Shut up Raj. That’s just you projecting.” Sandy said, snorting with laughter. “It’s all about the hots you have for dear Benedict.”

Cassie grinned and elbowed Sandy. “You know what I think?! I think he isn’t being sexualized enough! I want to see him staring at John’s lips. I want some BDSM scenes, more nudity. I want see him cross and uncross his slender legs in those fitting trousers of his. Forget his tight shirts and that barely there dressing-gown. I say wrap him in a bedsheet!”

Everyone in the room sighed and looked a bit dreamy at that suggestion. The next episode was an entire week away. They had no choice but to read or even write some fanfiction while they waited.

As they all scrolled through their smartphones, searching for something, Leila piped up.

“You know all of you seem to think there is sub-text, subtle or not, between Sherlock and John. But that older brother of his? The way he turned up there at the crime scene and the kind of looks he was giving Sherlock? I would bet good money on some incest sub-text coming from there.”

Sandy nodded vigorously. “Yess! Now that you mention it, I totally got those vibes too! I guess now that Game of Thrones has blown open that door, sibling incest seems almost mainstream……”

Raj interrupted in an excited voice. “Hey guys, check this out! The first fanfiction I could find. Written just 24 hours after the first episode aired! It’s called The Perils of Urban Warfare by phantomjam. Listen to this!”

Th e day that Harry came out to the family, John was actually relieved. He’d spent years worrying about her lack of boyfriends and fearing that she was lonely, boozing it up by herself and getting melancholic and spiteful. The thought that she was fucking women instead and hiding it was cause for celebration by comparison.
 

That was years ago when he was still in med school, of course, and so when his parents threw a fit he took her in. They lived together in a cramped student flat for two months and four days without quite managing to kill each other before Mum and Dad started speaking to them again, and two days after that Harry fell madly in love with Olivia. That lasted for a span of exactly three weeks, four days and nine hours, at which point Harry decided that she was in love with someone else and sparked another family argument, this time about her disgraceful, flighty ways. Thus commenced another spat lasting for another month and another day, and so it went, on and on. The tangled web of the Watson family’s strained relationships is mapped out in small parcels of time spinning from one drama to the next while John does his best to keep everyone from being taken out in the crossfire.
 

John’s always been the stable one in his family.
 

Then he ended up in Afghanistan, discovered what it was like to live your life on the front lines, and lost the ability to relate to ninety percent of people on the planet, including his family.
 

Stable.


The irony is bitter.

.

.

He sent the link to all of them on their Whatsapp group. There was silence for fifteen minutes as all of them read it.

Then Cassie spoke up. “Oh man, Raj you are going to love this! I found a Jeeves, Wooster and Sherlock crossover! Something of Vengeance by Blackletter. Listen to this.”

.

Sherlock Holmes is retired but not gone. When an old enemy seeks vengeance, Holmes and Watson must travel back to London to stop the villain before their lives are destroyed. (Holmes/Watson).

Bertie Wooster loves detective stories, but he never imagined that he'd be in one, and if he had, he would not have imagined that he would be the bait in a villainous plot. (Jooster).

.

.

But before they could discuss it any further the lunch break was up and they needed to pull up the next assignments they had to submit. The topic was  ‘The women of Sherlock. Gender, sex and feminism in popular culture.’

Sandy read her introduction aloud as the others listened.

.

Reading (or viewing) is a transaction between audience and text, a negotiation with the text that cannot happen without a reader or viewer to react to it. One way to view fanwork is as a transaction between a text and its audience. Consuming or creating fan fiction or art is an interchange between the show and its viewers, allowing us to become part of the process--a process that certainly continues beyond when the credits roll on the screen. In choosing what to read or write about, fans pick out which aspects of canon engage them, which facets need more exploration.

In  Sherlock  , like so many versions of the Holmes and Watson stories, we have two male main characters who control the narrative. We see events mainly through John or Sherlock’s eyes; we focus on their choices, their actions and reactions. And that’s the focus the storytellers have chosen for us. For better or worse, once again, the story is all about two white men.

And I love these two white men. I’ve obsessed over them, written dozens of fics about them, read hundreds more. I want to know all about their stories.

But I also want to know the stories of the female characters that surround them.

I’m greedy like that. When I get attached to a series or a film, I want to consume every bit of it, down to the most minor character, the smallest scrap of dialogue. Unfortunately, for many of the female characters on Sherlock, scraps are sometimes all we get.

.

.

Everyone in the class nodded thoughtfully and wondered what they would see in the next episode to be aired in a week. The first episode had received a wildly enthusiastic opening , (with 8.8 million viewers apparently) and expectations were running really high!

Chapter Text

Damn and blast the Party Whip who had insinuated himself into the conversation he was having with the Prime Minister and had delayed him by an entire 45 minutes. Forty-five minutes!! Surely Sherlock wasn’t going to wait that long……he never had the patience.

Oh well…..it had been too good to be true. Mycroft thought with a sigh. He didn’t deserve such happiness anyway.

It was in this gloomy mood that he unlocked his front door, entered his house and closed the door behind him.  As he shrugged his coat off he suddenly realized he wasn’t alone. He gripped his umbrella again and was about to press the security alarm when Sherlock padded out of the kitchen, holding a bowl and a spoon.

“Hello Mycroft.” He said. “I was wondering if you had changed your mind.”

Mycroft almost cried in relief, his pulse rate having shot up to alarming levels.

He had come!! Sherlock had come. AND he had waited.

“Sorry Sherlock. I got delayed by ….an idiot. A nincompoop who loves the sound of his own voice.” Mycroft shook his head. “But never mind all that. I have had a long day. Sorry—but would you mind waiting another ten minutes? I have to take a quick shower.”

Sherlock blinked, not trusting himself to speak as the image of Mycroft taking a shower made him feel very wobbly all of a sudden. He wanted to be in the shower with him. He wanted to soap him and wash him and take care of him….he must be so tired…..

“Huh, what?” he said. Mycroft was saying something to him.

“Sherlock?! Are you ok? What is that in your hand? You said no dinner so I didn’t….but if you are hungry I can make you a sandwich……”

“No Mycroft. I said no dinner because I already ate something today. A man I helped get off a murder charge sent me ridiculous amounts of pasta. Too much food makes me slow. And here.” He said, offering Mycroft the bowl. “I got this for you.”

Mycroft looked at it in wonder.

Sherlock had got food for him! He hadn’t rejected dinner because he didn’t want to spend time with him outside of sex. 

He had got food for him  .

He looked at the bowl. It was Tiramisu. Not store bought. He felt his mouth water at the thought. He looked up at Sherlock.

Was he teasing him? Was he going to laugh at him for wanting to eat this?

Sherlock looked at him, deducing what he was thinking and praying to the universe that Mycroft could not deduce what was going on inside his own mind.

“You always liked Tiramisu didn’t you? I thought….” And he was suddenly awkward.

(Was this against the rules?? Surely not…?! This was not emotions was it??)

“Since you made me my favourite dish the last time I thought that I would….”and he trailed off.

“Thank you.” Mycroft said simply. “I am …touched by your thoughtfulness Sherlock. But would you mind if I ate it later?”

Sherlock nodded and went back to the kitchen to keep it in the fridge.

.

.

As Mycroft went upstairs to shower Sherlock sat down on the sofa with his head in his hands.

How was he going to manage this?!!

As soon as Mycroft had come home all he wanted to do was hold him and kiss him. Push him against the wall and just kiss him breathless. And the Tiramisu……….he wanted to feed him and then taste it on him. On his lips, inside his mouth……….maybe even smear it on his chest and lick it off.

He wanted to mark him. Bite him. Mess him up.

He wanted to tell the whole world Stay away! He is MINE! Only mine…

What the hell was happening to him?!!

He HAD to control himself or Mycroft would end this even before they had a second time together.

.

.

Meanwhile, upstairs, Mycroft was taking a shower and pretending that the wetness on his face was entirely from the hot water.

Sherlock had got him food.

Sherlock had got him food.

Did Sherlock even know what he was doing??!

One got food for one’s lover. Not for a scientific- sexual- encounter- experiment.

Thank goodness he had eaten a sandwich on the way home and would be able to resist that Tiramisu …….at least until Sherlock left.

And Sherlock had waited for him! The most impatient man he knew…. had waited for him.

It was for sex though. Don’t forget. He reminded himself.

Not for love.

And he finally allowed himself to sob and he leaned against the shower stall and cried till he couldn’t cry any more.

Then he wiped himself dry, including every tear. He wore his Ice Man mask and stepped out of the bedroom to call out to Sherlock. 

.

.

That night Sherlock didn’t stay. He said he needed to get back and enter the data as quickly as possible.

Mycroft was glad in a way because their second time together had made him realize how ridiculous he had been to imagine that this would not be the most addictive and desperation inducing situation for him. The last thing he needed was to reveal his feelings to Sherlock in a moment of weakness and have him laugh in his face.

Since Mycroft had just stepped out of the shower he had worn only his bathrobe. Didn’t seem much point in wearing clothes. Sherlock had come into the bedroom and looked at him with a smile that seemed partly shy, partly hopeful.

Mycroft had barely managed to keep his Ice Man mask from melting as his heart did flip-flops on seeing that smile.

Then Sherlock had come closer and opened his bathrobe and ……he had bent down to kiss him on the stomach….again……….and then moved up, kissing him all the way till he reached his jaw. He had taken a deep breath at the curve of his neck and Mycroft felt as though every molecule of air had been sucked away from the room.

He wanted to kiss Sherlock so badly in that moment that he thought he would pass out from the sheer effort of stopping himself. He had a sudden vision of the two of them , lips locked to each other’s, spiralling through inky black space……….into eternity.

Stop it! He told himself. This is a sexual encounter. We will be having sex. Not making love. Focus.

And so he did. Focus.

Once again Sherlock reached out to touch him and he stopped him.

“Not today.” he said and he led Sherlock to the bed. " What do we need to do according to your matrix?"

Sherlock felt as though someone had poured a bucket of ice on him. He felt chilled ot the very bone. 

Of course. Mycroft was doing this only to help his experiment. What else ?!

" Well..." he said, when he could speak. " I need more data on foreplay. "

Mycroft nodded.

"Followed by the afterplay too of course!" Sherlock added quickly, in case Mycroft thought he didn't actually want more.

Mycroft smiled. "Many people don't like the idea that foreplay is not considered 'proper' sex you know. Makes it seem as though penetration is the only 'real' sex." But sure, if that is what you need."

So Mycroft helped him undress and held him again and caressed him. This time he tasted those nipples and teased them with his tongue till he couldn’t bear to listen to the moans. He himself had become so hard he thought he was going to explode. But he couldn’t do anything about it. Not now.

This time he allowed himself to lick that culito and maybe nibble on it gently, not leaving any marks.

This time he prepared Sherlock for his fingers. With lots of lube.

First one finger. Then two.

For a minute Mycroft wasn’t sure if he was going to die from the euphoria of knowing that he was going to do this or burn with despair that he was not the first to do this for Sherlock. Damn his experiments and damn the threesome.

But then he reminded himself that if it wasn't for the experiment, Sherlock would not have been here at all ....so he stopped worrying about the others and let himself into the delight of seeing the blissed out expression on Sherlock’s face as he moved his fingers gently, in and out and then bent them at the right angle and watched Sherlock go breathless and then ecstatic and fall apart under him, moaning his name.

Please Mycroft….Please.

Not even a chorus of angels could have brought Mycroft more joy than these words.

Afterwards, Mycroft wiped him down tenderly, not looking at his face, never at his face, because if he did then there was no force on this planet that would keep him from kissing him. Consuming him. Merging with him till no one could tell them apart.

He wiped Sherlock down with his eyes averted the whole time and wrapped him in the blanket instead of his own arms.

He wanted so badly to hold him and never let him go. He went to the shower to take care of his own needs.

 It disgusted him. This carnal desire. These lustful ….these overwhelmingly lustful thoughts that swept over him.

He had agreed to this ‘experiment’ more in the way of a ‘sexual assistant’ if you will. The way trained assistants helped out people with disabilities, since many of them were unlikely to have intimate relationships or needed help with them anyway. Not that he thought of Sherlock as having any disability. Any more than he had any.

Unless one counted the crippling inability to show vulnerability and the blind need for protecting his younger brother at all costs. Or maybe the fact that he was deaf to his own heart, beating in his chest, shouting out his love.

No. He had never wanted to, never planned to, never even expected to get anything out of this for himself, besides the absolutely divine privilege of just having Sherlock in his arms, of being the one to give him the pleasure he sought.

Now his own useless body was betraying him.

He had had sex before of course. Often enough. With women and men. Most of these were encounters within professional requirements. There was a reason the French called an orgasm ‘the little death’. More secrets were lost and found in the bedroom than anywhere else.

Some of his encounters had also been personally sought. Sometimes by him, sometimes by the other person. They had been tolerable. They had been sufficient for the need of that hour so to speak. But it had been just a physical release with a chemical aftermath.

Not this tide of emotional and even, dare he say, almost spiritual rapture that threatened to drown him every time he touched Sherlock. Now all he had to do was think of him and he would be aroused. He managed to suppress such thoughts at work, but now, with him lying down in his bedroom, on his bed……he couldn’t.

He would die if he didn’t give in.

So he made his way to the shower to find his own release and then he came back and he sat, far away, at his desk in the bedroom and smoked a cigarette to give his hands and mouth something else to do as he fought a battle inside himself.

How long could he resist?? And what was he going to do once this experiment came to an end? When there would no longer be any text from Sherlock, asking ‘tonight?’……..what would he do then?!!

He felt himself shudder at the thought. 

Fifteen long minutes later Sherlock got up, he smiled even before he opened his eyes and then turned to the other side of the bed. It was empty. He rubbed his eyes and propped himself up on his elbow to see Mycroft sitting far away at his desk, smoking and reading some document.

The way his stomach dropped at the sight of Mycroft having retreated to possibly the furthest corner of the bedroom almost made him slightly nauseous.

So he got off the bed, washed his face and said that he was going back to Baker Street. He had an experiment to complete.

"How is your data collection going?" Mycroft asked.

"Good. Great." Sherlock said, managing to pretend to grin. "Next up is BDSM."

Then he cleared his throat and asked Mycroft. "Would you tie me up the next time? I don’t think I would enjoy pain. But bondage sounds interesting. And the safe word could be Queen.’ And Sherlock snorted at his own joke.

Mycroft had to bring to the fore all the decades of control and willpower and take a deep breath. ‘Sherlock I think you have had enough data sets from me. It sounds like you have others who are helping you with…umm..data so perhaps it is better that I step back……”

No ! Sherlock wanted to yell. No Mycie. I want only you. Always you. But he couldn’t . Not if he wanted to negotiate for more.

So he kept a face as still as a marble statue and said, “Well if that is what you want Mycroft. I understand that cooperating with my experiments would be beneath your interests. Go on. Read Plato while listening to Bach or whatever it is that you do with your free time. Go on a date with Lady Smallwood. Terrorize a few oil sheikhs.”

Sherlock got up as he was speaking. He was screaming inside his head--Stop me Mycroft! Say something.

But there was no sound from Mycroft, so when he reached the door, he turned around partially, not enough to make eye contact and said quickly “Oh and don’t forget to eat the Tiramisu.”

And then he was gone.

.

.

As much as Mycroft hated seeing him leave, he was also relieved to see him go because he was so close to breaking his own rules. 

He wanted to kiss Sherlock so badly……….he wanted to kiss him on those lips……on those soft, plump juicy lips……..for hours and hours and never let go ……………and he wanted to tell him he loved him ……………he loved him so much that his heart was going to burst…………and he couldn’t do either of those things …….and it was killing him to resist.

So, as soon as the front door closed, Mycroft went down to the kitchen and sat there and held the bowl of Tiramisu in both hands and cried his heart out.

.

.

Sherlock stood outside the closed front door, not sure if his knees would hold up even till he found a taxi. Praying that he would find a taxi fast enough to prevent him from picking the lock and going back in and ………he didn’t even know what exactly he wanted at this point because his brain seemed to be made of mush.

Images, sounds, smells all mixed up.

He wanted to inject Mycroft inside his veins. He wanted to scoop the Tiramisu with his bare hands and feed Mycroft and watch him lick every finger. He wanted to push Mycroft against the wall of his shower stall and kiss him as the hot water cascaded over both of them. Kiss him and kiss him until they both melted and flowed away somewhere, just fused molecules……..inseparable.

Into the Thames……..into the North Sea…….into the Arctic Circle.

“Taxi!!” He yelled. He had never been so grateful for his ability to find a taxi, as he shivered with desire and desperation the entire (seemingly endless) ride and finally reached 221B.

He wondered what his landlady would say if he asked her to lock him in so he couldn’t leave. Not today. Not ever. Because he wasn’t sure how long he could control himself and then Mycroft was going to end this and he wasn’t sure he could live with that either.

But Mycroft was helping him only because he had asked. He didn’t want to participate actively. Even today he had pushed his hand away.

He curled up on his sofa and did something he hadn’t done in over a decade. In fact probably not since the night Mycroft had left for college.

He cried himself to sleep.

Chapter Text

That night Mycroft slept fitfully. Restless and disturbed by strange dreams.

He dreamt that he was in the Palace but he was stark naked for some reason and everyone was staring at him. The Queen adjusted her glasses and looking him up and down and laughed. The corgis tried to attack his sausage.

When dream Mycroft blinked and looked up suddenly it was a Roman arena and everyone he knew was sitting around and looking at him. He saw Greg and John whispering to each other and laughing. He saw Lady Smallwood throwing daggers at him as he tried to run around and avoid being eaten by the lion. The lion kept chasing him but never actually catching him, so at one point he turned around to look at him and his face transformed into Sherlock’s and the lion sat down at his feet and nuzzled him.

“Stop that!!” He heard the crowd roar. “ If the lion won’t kill him, then kill the lion!”

Mycroft shouted “No!! Run Lock. Run for your life! RUN!!!” and he stood there, naked and sweating and trying to keep the bloodthirsty crowd away from the lion.

“Go away!!!” He shouted to the lion. “Leave or they will destroy you!”

Just then the arena disappeared and he was on the lawns of his childhood home, at a tea party. Mummy was looking at him with strong disapproval and asking him why he was not wearing any clothes. “Honestly Myke. First your brother and now you! He has always been wild but I never expected this from you. I thought you are the grown up one. Your father and I are very disappointed.”

As he looked at her walk away, Mrs. Hudson came carrying a tray with tea and cookies.

“Here take these for Sherlock.” she said, pointing to the tree down the garden where his brother was perched.

As he neared the tree he could see that Sherlock was not alone. There was someone on every branch. They were all naked and they were all touching Sherlock. Kissing him, groping him, riding him. He could make out some faces but not all. He stood there watching and the tray fell from his hands and startled him.

He bent down to pick up the broken pieces but they didn’t look like the cup and saucer.

They were red and heart shaped. And broken.

Just then something fell on his head.

He looked up to see lots of condoms falling from the sky. And dildos. And tubes of lube. Soon the lawn was full of them and all of Mummy’s guests were sitting there under the umbrella tut-tutting.

Then the Queen came out from the Palace, holding hands with Sigmund Freud and announced to everyone “Keep Calm and Have Sex. By Royal decree.” Then she waved her right hand in that patented royal wave and disappeared inside with Freud.

In an instant the lawns were full of people having sex. In pairs, in threes and fours and in very large groups. They were bending over into all kinds of shapes. Oral, anal, rimming, 69, threesomes, more- somes.

It was like the Kama Sutra had come alive in the Palace garden.

Mycroft saw Sherlock climb down the tree and pull out something from his trouser. It was an enormous……pencil. He started to take notes as he watched everyone carefully.

A white rabbit hopped past. It had a face that looked exactly like Anthea hopped past him and told him very seriously “Alone protects us Mr. Holmes. Never forget.”

And then Greg leaned out from the tree and winked at Mycroft.  “Sherlock and I are going to have sex now. Lots of sex. Do you want to watch?”

Mycroft woke up in complete panic, almost unable to breathe.

Chapter Text

Mycroft sat up for a long minute, his heart thudding away and his breath coming in gasps.

How the hell was he expected to survive this ordeal? Damned if you do and damned if you don’t. He could sense a migraine creeping along.

He thought back to the earlier day.

He still needed to figure out what Anthea was doing with that most despicable man Jim Moriarty on her evening off while also having to cope with the fact that he had finally had sex with Sherlock and wanted nothing more than to keep doing it.

But Sherlock apparently wanted to have sex with most of London instead.

In different permutations and combinations and orifices.

Mycroft pressed his fingers to his throbbing head.

How was he going to manage this? Was it worth living if life meant having to deal with all this? To be or not to be….it really was the only true question….

Just then his phone buzzed with a message.

{Moved to London last week as you may already know! It’s been a while. L.}

Leo. The one man he had allowed himself to get close during those terrible years in the Middle East. Not close enough to do anything with, because, well, they didn’t want to be flogged or stoned to death. But close enough to feel a small spark of something positive when he saw that message.

Leo had always been interested in him and had been rather direct about it. However, he had backed off as soon as Mycroft had made it clear he was not quite interested in going there.

But now…….maybe this would be the best option. It would keep him occupied and not constantly yearning after Sherlock. It would also let Sherlock know that he wasn’t exactly hanging around waiting for him to be done with his sexual adventures with half of London.

Not that Sherlock would even notice, Mycroft thought to himself morosely. He was probably busy being spit-roasted between Greg and John even now. Or hanging from the ceiling at Baker Street and doing god alone knows what to god alone knows whom. God alone knows how often.

UGH!!

His temple throbbed with fresh pain and he groaned and went down to make himself a cup of tea. It was 5 am. After he had a strong cup of tea, one toast and one painkiller, he replied to Leo.

[I did indeed. Welcome back! It really has been too long. Myc.]

He had barely kept the phone back on the table when it buzzed.

{Dinner tomorrow? You can choose the place. L}

Mycroft smiled despite his headache. Some things never changed.

[8 pm. The Ritz. M]

{Classy as ever Mr. Holmes :) Can’t wait! L}

.

.

.

Greg stood at the door of the morgue at Bart’s and stared at his look-alike, who was carrying flowers. Obviously for Molly, who looked like she wanted to slap him and kiss him at the same time.

Okaaay. This just got very interesting. Greg grinned. He was no narcissist but he knew he looked good. Now, looking at himself across the room, he winked. Damn. He did look hot! Wonder if the other guy was also bisexual. That might lead to some fun times ahead.

Molly looked at Greg and then at ‘Greg’ and went red and then pale and then red again. She gripped her laboratory table and stood up and asked furiously. “Is this some kind of a joke?!”

“No!” Both men exclaimed and pointed to each other. “I have never seen him before.”

Then Greg laughed and shook his head. He gave Molly the chocolate he was carrying.

“I am going to give both of you a minute and then I want a report from you Molls. On that case that came in yesterday. But for now…..” and he tipped his imaginary hat at them both and walked out with both hands in his pockets and whistling under his breath.

If things played out well, they could be on their way to a very interesting threesome indeed. Maybe even foursome if John was feeling adventurous. And then why not include Sherlock? The lad was nothing but enthusiastic now that the ‘sexperimentation’ bug had bitten him. Molly had always had a crush on the genius anyway so she may not be too reluctant to have a …was there such a thing as a five- some? Or was it now a full blown orgy? Hmm…interesting times indeed!

Could the Baker Street walls and floor cope with that? Would Mrs. Hudson? Maybe they needed to find some other location. If only Mycroft would agree. Greg had heard that he had a large house, no neighbours too close by to complain of the sounds. Probably lots of satin sheets. Maybe some cuffs and whips too. Who knew with that man?! He was quite the enigma!

Greg almost licked his lips at the thought that Mycroft may join in these orgies. He would have much preferred a beer to cool himself down but since it was a hospital canteen, coffee would have to do.

When Greg returned ten minutes later with three cups of coffee from the Bart’s canteen, he was greeted by Molly and Not Greg wrapped up in each other and kissing.

He cleared his throat a couple of times but they were too far gone to hear him, so he left two cups of coffee on the table and went back to the Yard. He would message Molly for the report later.

.

.

Just inside the entrance to the East Wind Clinic John sat on the floor, rubbing his aching jaw.

What the fuck had that been about?! Who was that blithering idiot who had punched him for no reason?!

Meanwhile someone was helping him up and taking him in and putting an ice pack to his face and making soothing sounds. He finally focussed on her and gave her a wobbly grin. Mary!

Amanda was standing on the pavement outside the clinic looking at Martin with fury and fire in her eyes. She was really getting sick and tired of his behaviour. Constantly being such a diva. Benedict was a bigger star than him and behaved so much better. She said “Martin, I am going to report you for assault if you don’t come in here right now and book a session of counselling with the doctor here. What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“I kissed a man.” he blurted out.

“What?!” Amanda almost screeched. The she took a deep breath. “Martin…”

“I kissed Sherlock.”

Amanda went pale. “You kissed Ben?”

“No no. The real Sherlock. Actually he kissed me. Then he said something ……but I couldn’t think. I didn’t stop him and I may have kissed him back. And I also felt….I wanted him to not stop …”Martin was babbling away without a pause. “But then I saw you…I saw you kissing the doctor here and that is why I punched him.”

“Are you out of your mind Martin?! Have you been watching the Hobbit again?? We don’t behave like this here. This isn’t middle earth.” Amanda said, sounding very much like a parent talking to a delinquent and potentially violent teenager. “And besides, I have never been to this clinic before, let alone kiss anyone here. You really MUST take an appointment here, right now.”

So then she spoke to the receptionist and they told her he could have an appointment in half an hour. The doctor was just dealing with some personal injury.

Amanda wondered for a second if her idiot partner had just decked the doctor himself. Oh well, if he had then he would suffer the consequences wouldn’t he?!

“I‘ve got to go Martin.” she said. “I am needed on the set. Please go home when the consultation is done. And please. Do NOT attack anyone else.”

.

.

Back at Baker Street Sherlock had woken up with his face streaked with dried tears, and a gnawing empty feeling in his stomach. It wasn’t just hunger. It was an ache. A yearning that he was afraid would never be filled.

“Woohoo.” Mrs Hudson said, coming in with a tray.

Tea. Cookies. He wolfed them down without a word and then flopped back on the sofa with his back to her.

“I really must talk to your mother.” Martha said and then muttered to herself. “Really this boy has no manners! But he seems so stressed today. More than usual. I wonder what it is. I think I must finally have a little chat with Mycroft. These boys are worse than TS Eliot. I had managed to get him to write down most of the poem and the idiot boy went to open the door and forgot everything. Humans had to wait for so long till they found the right vessel for the next message. Bless Steve Jobs. Anyway, I needed to focus…she thought. Mycroft Holmes. I need to find you. The time has come. “

Chapter Text

Mark Gatiss had been mighty pleased with the extremely positive response that the TV series was getting. Way better than even The League of Gentlemen, which had become a cult classic. That meant a second season for ‘Sherlock’ would almost certainly be confirmed.

That would mean more time with his team of actors on the set. That could only be a good thing he thought to himself. It was amazing how talented and sharp they all were, especially Benedict, and how it all felt like they had known each other forever, given the kind of chemistry they could see on and off screen.

He smiled as he dug his hands into his coat pocket and tucked his chin into his scarf, protecting himself from the biting wind that whistled down the street.

He had decided that it was finally time to meet the real life protagonists of his inspired screenplay and maybe hear from them what they thought of it! Maybe invite them to the upcoming BAFTA awards as his plus 2. The Detective and the Doctor.

He was so engrossed in daydreams of the thank you speech he would give for winning the award that he barely noticed when he reached 221B. On finding the door open he let himself in and went up the stairs.

He stood in the living room and took a deep breath as he turned around slowly, absorbing the atmosphere and savouring the sense of rightness he felt in here. They had managed to recreate all these details so perfectly on the set, he thought with a thrill of delight.

Just then someone flung a door open inside the flat and it banged on the wall. Mark almost leaped out of his skin at the sound and turned around wild eyed to see that someone had stepped out of the bedroom.

It was dusk and the lights had not yet been switched on but he would recognize the silhouette of Sherlock Holmes anywhere. They had worked so hard to make Benedict look like him that the joke on the set was that getting Benedict’s hair ready for the shoot cost as much as they paid any of the character actors in the series!

But what was Sherlock doing?!

He was coming closer and closer to him and his eyes were half lidded as though disturbed in his sleep.

Mark stood still, suddenly unsure what to say now that he had been discovered, uninvited, inside the living room of the world’s most brilliant detective!

He just hoped that he would not be punched or thrown out.

As he stood there trying to unscramble his thoughts, Sherlock came close, very close and put his arms around his waist and kissed him softly on the lips.

He hummed happily and murmured. “I guess it’s ok to kiss you in my dreams isn’t it Mycie?”

Then he kissed him softly again and then turned and went back into his bedroom and closed the door.

.

.

Mark stood frozen, his brain going into overdrive.

Seriously?!! Seriously?!! All that sub text he had felt in Dr Watson’s writings was actually true?!!

He wanted to roll on the floor with laughter!! He wanted to jump up and down and swirl his umbrella in the air like a swashbuckling pirate.

He KNEW it!! It wasn’t just what he felt for Benedict. There was DEFINITELY something fishy going on with the Holmes brothers themselves. HA.

With a triumphant grin he let himself out, closing the door carefully behind him and tiptoed down the stairs only to find himself leaping in the air again as someone suddenly opened the door on the ground floor and hauled him inside the flat.

“Now you listen here young man!!” This lady said with hands on hips. “I may be old and half blind and partially deaf but WHAT is wrong with YOU?!! Have you not been watching that foolish young man turn the flat into a Bacchanalian orgy?! Men and women of all dimensions waltzing in and out like it is the era before syphilis. Even I didn’t have so many partners then. You are otherwise so brilliant and wise and managing the whole damn world but you can’t care for his poor heart?!! You reptile!! I expected better from you! We raised you better than this, we DID. Now GO find a way to fix it or it’s going be MY frying pan and YOUR head the next time!”

With that she propelled him out and pushed him onto the street before he could even process what had just happened.

Mark stood outside the blue door, gawping like a goldfish.

Umm…what the hell?!! This place was worse than Bedlam. Who were these utterly insane people who lived here?!

He rubbed his eyes as if trying to confirm that this was just some truly bizarre dream.

.

.

As the bruise from that punch landed on his jaw bloomed into a large wonderfully black and blue thing, so did the feelings in his heart for this lovely charming nurse, who was so competent and clever and funny and the best thing since sliced bread. Or actually since bisexuality was recognized as a valid orientation.

By the end of the day John was confident that he had found his soulmate and luckily for him Mary felt the same and they decided that life was too short and why wait for happily ever after to start?

They decided there and then to get married.

So he texted Greg and asked him to meet at the Slug and Lettuce for drinks. Who better to be his Best Men than Gregory and Sherlock?

Mary was sitting at the table when John went to get the first round of drinks. Greg came into the pub just as John was returning with the glasses and he flashed John his patented predatory grin and also gave his arse a jolly good squeeze.

“Ready for some more action tonight Dr Watson?!” he said with a grin.

John almost choked and suddenly felt hot and cold all over.

Could he really do this? Could he give up a life of freedom to choose sexual partners of any and all genders and be with only one woman in a monogamous heterosexual relationship? For …ever?!

He gulped and looked over to where Mary was sitting and watching all this.

“Uh…..Greg…meet Mary. My…fiancée.” John said.

Greg’s eyes almost feel out of his head. “Uh what?!” He asked, looking utterly baffled.

Was this some kind of alternate reality universe he had been dropped into?! First there was the Not Greg who seemed to be courting Molly and now John, his friend with many benefits and his partner along with Sherlock in the most rollicking threesome he had been involved in, was now planning to settle down in holy matrimony?! Holy crap. He might as well turn celibate now if this was what the universe was sending back to him. Damn Irene and her false prophesies of not just threesomes but also quartets for him. Who was he supposed to have sex with now?! Mycroft?!

As his mind was still coping with crushing disappointment, and John seemed to have lost his ability to speak, Mary slid off the stool and stood in front of Greg and held out her hand.

“Mary Morstan. You must be Gregory Lestrade. John has told me so much about you and Sherlock. But you look even more delectable than he described” and she winked at him. " Definitely more a salted caramel than a chocolate mousse."

Gregory made a faint gurgling sound in response and John looked as though he would rather be back in Afghanistan.

But Mary smiled and hooked her arm in John’s. “Come on boys! We are all adults here. Surely we remember what we were taught in kindergarten about sharing? None of us is each other’s first --right? So, what do you say we have some fun?”

.

.

Meanwhile back at Baker Street, Sherlock woke up after an hour or so with a happy smile on his face.  He stretched himself and yawned. He had a happy feeling inside his tummy as though he had eaten something delicious.

But as soon as he was fully awake he remembered that he had not actually kissed Mycroft!! He couldn’t kiss Mycroft. It was against the rules.

But he wanted to!! He wanted to do it SO badly he could almost feel it like a physical ache. He wondered fleetingly if 7% solution would help him but decided that if he really wanted to win Mycroft over, he would definitely have to stay away from drugs.

He needed to woo him and make him fall in love with him too.

What could he do to make that happen?

Mycroft did appreciate all the finer things in life, so maybe that is what Sherlock needed to do for him. So he set about composing something for him on his violin.

.

.

Mrs. Hudson heard the music and shook her head and wondered when that silly boy Mycroft was going to get his act together. She was pleased with the talking- to she had given him today and hoped he would see sense soon.

She poured herself a tall glass of her herbal soother and sat down to write something. She really needed a fix after all this. Maybe she would write something about a pagan festival. After all as a witch she needed to keep alive these important memories!

She typed the title. Ostara.

Against the coming of the night, the vast ring of flaming torches held back the dark.  They flickered and crackled merrily, a bright and welcoming sight as people began to arrive at Musgrave.

Like every year of Sherlock’s life, the Ostara celebration had been a full day event. As a child, he’d chased after painted eggs with the other young ones; collecting them in a careful pouch made of the front of his shirt, and bringing them to his brother to show off.  Mycroft would laugh at his exuberance, forever amused by the impish child.

But that had been a long time ago.

And the man standing within the ring of golden light seemed entirely unlike the brother he loved.

Huffing to himself, Sherlock dug one heel into the bale of hay he had commandeered for a seat, his elbow propped on the raised jut of his knee.  It was an unseasonably warm Ostara, and the hay crinkled under him, rustling, and warmer than the folding chairs that some of the other coven members had chosen.


It smelled earthy, and sweet, even though the prickly edges jabbed uncomfortably into his thighs.  

But his vantage point offered him a perfect view of his brother.

Lover.

The man he had been forced to share at every coven gathering since Yule.  His Mycroft, the Holly King-- and Litha couldn’t come soon enough. Not for Sherlock, who wanted nothing more than to grab his brother by the hand and drag him around the side of the house before the ceremony started.

Greedy and possessive in love, he was so very tired of sharing his brother’s attention.  Mycroft should be with him, and only -- always-- forever him.

Chapter Text

Mycroft sat in the Cabinet Meeting with an expression of icy calm. It was only Anthea who knew him well him to sense that he was really very close to snapping. In fact the second time she glanced at Mycroft she shuddered. If Boris wasn’t careful, he was going to end up brexiting his own earthly existence.

Luckily just then Mycroft’s phone buzzed and he excused himself and stepped out. Anthea followed a few seconds later and found him leaning against the balustrade, smoking.

Wow, he must be really stressed to fall off the wagon and that too here, so publically. She frowned. Surely it wasn’t just Brexit that was responsible. After all the British Government, like all others, had a fairly regular schedule for fucked up decisions and idiotic leadership.

This HAD to be about Sherlock.

She felt a twinge of guilt. She had promised to help him when she met him at the hospital but since that evening, what with her hot date and then the non-stop negotiation meetings she had barely had time to think. Maybe today she would do something about it.

So she went back to her office to check on surveillance and also to quickly write up and post her short ficlet. After all, all work and no play makes Anthea a dull girl!  ‘Enough’ she typed.

“How  dare  you?!” Mycroft Holmes felt his pulse racing. There was sweat in his eyebrows. This all couldn’t be healthy. But… “How can you be so stupid!”

“Excuse me!” Boris Johnson, Prime Minister of what would soon be ‘Ex-Great-Britain’ ruffled his yellow hair. “I just want the best for our country and we can’t allow them to bully us around any lon...”

“Shut up! Shut up, you moron!”

“Mr Holmes! I’m the elected PM and...”

“No you are  not !” Mycroft screeched, and reached up to his hammering heart a moment later.

.

.

Greg sat against the headboard and drank some sparkling water straight from the bottle as he watched Mary and John kiss each other silly. He grinned as Mary looked at him over John’s shoulder and winked. Honestly. Good things do come to those who wait. Not in his wildest dreams would he have thought this was possible.

Was it the Chinese year of the Rabbit?

He didn’t really care. It could be the Global Year of the Pikachu for all he cared. No strings attached mind blowing sex? Yeah. He would take it every year he could get it.

He wondered casually what Sherlock was up to and if it would ever be possible to bring him into this ‘arrangement.’ He imagined that cool lithe body draped over the sheets and that curly mop floating out like a dark halo. He could even smell that ridiculous Holy Oil he had used the first time. He smirked to himself as he remembered how awkward and shy Sherlock had been that day and then how wanton and wild he had been when they had their threesome.

Scrumptious…..

‘So will you do it?” John was asking.

“Hmm?” Greg asked, turning to look at him, not having heard anything as he was day dreaming.

“Will you be my Best Man Greg? Along with Sherlock of course.” John said.

“Yeah yeah. Sure.” Greg said with a shrug. “Have you asked the genius?”

“Not yet.” John said. “Probably do it tomorrow.”

“Well….. best of luck with that!” Greg said with a slow grin as he got up and got dressed. “I have to be at work early tomorrow so I will see you both later.”

.

.

Mycroft stood there and smoked one cigarette and wished he could just blow off his troubles like the black smoke. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

He looked at the smoke wafting away in the breeze and wondered what his legacy would be.

The most brilliant mind of his generation. Forced to work for a series of prize idiots.

Did the ‘ordinary’ person even care that they slept in peace at nights because of what he did? That they had jobs and their kids went to school and they could sing and dance and watch movies because someone like him was working non-stop to prevent terrorists, fascists, dictators and bumbling morons from destroying the Free World?! Did they care that they could have the luxury of falling in love and being in relationships because people like him sacrificed any semblance of normal so as to defend Queen and Country?

He sighed. No. No one would care if he died that evening. Not even Sherlock.

That thought made his heart flip and his stomach turn and his fingers turned cold.

Of course. Why the hell would Sherlock care?

He had a whole bloody matrix filled out with bloody ten thousand sex positions from the BLOODY Kama Sutra that he seemed determined to perform with every damn citizen of the United Fucking Kingdom.

Mycroft almost growled as he threw the finished stub on the floor and ground it viciously with his heel, as though crushing all of Sherlock’s past and future sexual partners to the ground. He wished he could. Although he had already told Sherlock to carry on and do whatever he needed to do for his ‘experiment’.

Then why had Sherlock texted him today?! Of course the timely message had prevented him from reaching out and strangling Boris with his own tie, but it had done nothing for his stress levels.

Sherlock had just asked ‘Tonight?’

What did he mean ‘Tonight’?!! Sex tonight? New positions tonight? BDSM tonight?!

What did he WANT from him?! Why didn’t the world just leave him ALONE??!

He had a sudden vision of himself in the Himalayas. Maybe a place like the legendary Shangri-La where he could sit in peace and meditate, read, write. No sound but the cold winds from the Everest. No disturbance. No conversations. No pointless arguments.

Where he could be far away from any possible temptation and responsibility of one Sherlock Holmes: that infinitely troublesome and relentlessly beautiful young man who haunted his dreams and occupied most of his waking thoughts.

He knew Sherlock preferred texting but he wasn’t sure what to reply and was about to call when he remembered. Of course. He had dinner plans tonight. With Leo.

In fact…..THAT would be a fantastic way to let Sherlock know that he was not available for his silly sexual shenanigans and that he should leave him alone.

So he texted him back.   {Busy. Prior dinner plans. MH}

.

.

Sherlock kept the violin down to check his phone. Mycroft had replied. Saying he had dinner plans.

He narrowed his eyes at the phone as he felt a stab of pain in his chest. His Mycie.

Mycie had dinner plans?! Who with??

He didn’t make any private plans as far as Sherlock knew and there was no official dinner on his calendar. He felt annoyed and restless and wondered if Mycroft was lying to avoid him? After all, he had told him to go off and ‘play with the other children’ the last time they met. Maybe this was Mycroft’s way of putting him off.

Oh well, Sherlock thought. He wasn’t going to sit around moping. He was the genius Consulting Detective so he was going to DETECT. He was going to shadow Mycroft and find out who was meeting with and why. And maybe after that stupid dinner Sherlock would follow him home and then persuade him to…Sherlock checked his matrix to see what he could try out. 69? Sex toys? One of the more exciting Kama Sutra positions? Something more adventurous?  

Suddenly he felt almost tingly all over and couldn’t suppress a frisson of excitement. He could almost smell Mycroft and his heady woody fragrance, mixed with wool, paper and ink, perspiration on silk handkerchiefs and perhaps a few molecules of Darjeeling Tea. He was drooling at the thought of having all that in bed tonight.

His handsome, brilliant, beloved brother. His honey-bunny!! His cuddly cabbage!! Sherlock gave a squeal of joy at the thought. He HAD to find a way to get Mycroft to stay in his experiment.

He knew that Mycroft practised yoga regularly so surely he would be flexible enough to try the Tigress, or the Milk and Water embrace from the good old Kama Sutra. Or maybe he would prefer that chocolate flavoured lube for starters. Or perhaps some handcuffs …..

Well, he could figure all that out once he got into Mycroft’s bedroom after dinner.

Oh! That sparked off a BRILLIANT idea!!

He would go into Mycroft’s bedroom as soon as he left for dinner and set up everything for some sexy times by the time Mycroft returned. He rubbed his hands in glee. This was going to be so exciting!

He started packing lots of stuff into a duffle bag. All kinds of flavoured lube. Sex toys. Satin sheets. Silk cords. A large feather. Massage oils. Condoms. Lace panties. Stockings. Eyeliner, lip gloss.

Hmm….That should be enough options for one night. Oh and those new socks.

He smiled at his bag and hummed a happy tune under his breath. He had a couple of hours now to shower and shave and get ready to surprise Mycroft!

He was almost giggling with anticipation by the time he was done. He wore his most sexy purple shirt that Mycroft had bought for him, settled his curls into their usual artful disarray and sent out a message to Zoe from his homeless network to let him know when Mycroft left the house.

He couldn’t wait for tonight!!

Just then his phone buzzed again and he picked up hoping it was Mycroft but alas. It was John. Wanting to talk.

He rolled his eyes and replied [I prefer to text.SH]

(Sherlock we live in the same apartment! Can you give me five minutes tomorrow morning before I leave for the clinic?)

[Ok. FINE. Now go away and stop bothering me. I am busy. SH]

Chapter Text

As Sherlock had expected, he got a message from Zoe at 7.15.

{Cobra is on the move. Z)

He rolled his eyes. Everyone thought they were James Bond these days.

He sent her a thanks message and transferred 50 pounds into her account. Then he checked himself once again in the mirror, ruffled his hair a bit and thundered down the stairs yelling to Mrs. Hudson as he crossed her door.

“Back tomorrow. Laterzzz!!!”

Martha Hudson heard the front door bang and shook her head in exasperation. She fished out her phone and logged on to the parent monitoring tracker app to figure out where their stupid kids have gone. She looked at it as she sipped her herbal soother and after ten minutes when the destination was becoming obvious she allowed herself a victory punch in the air.

“Yesss!! Finally.” She said. “Looks like my talking- to helped that stupid genius older brother of his to do something about it.”

.

.

Mycroft had dressed with particular care that evening. In order to make it appear exactly as though he had dressed without any particular care. This was quite a skill that Mycroft prided himself on having perfected ages ago.

He wasn’t sure if what he was feeling was just a smidgen of nervousness or some flutter of anticipation. After all Leo was the only one who had come anywhere close to breaching the walls of Mycroft’s Castle of Defence built around his heart. He had been vulnerable in those early years in MI6. Sherlock had just been rescued for the second time from a near death episode and he genuinely had no idea how he could stop him from this self –destructive behaviour, nor how he could keep buried his feelings for his younger brother.

And then there was Leo. Brilliant and funny and thoughtful. Erudite, discreet and absolutely perfect at his job. Mycroft had spent many pleasant hours in his company. But alas, when Leo had hoped for more Mycroft found that he couldn’t walk down that road after all.

He sighed now as he sat in the car speeding towards the Ritz.

What a ridiculous irony. He had said no to Leo all those years ago because he knew his heart belonged only to Sherlock and he knew he could never have him. And now?! Now Sherlock was messaging him to be in bed with him and he was using Leo as an excuse to avoid him.

He wondered sometimes if the gods of mischief had written his fate.

.

.

Sherlock broke into Mycroft’s house despite having the key that had been handed over to him years ago. It was just a matter of principle. B&E made him feel more sexy and undercover than just the bog standard ‘use a key and open a door’. Yawn. So BORRING.

He stepped in and closed the door behind him and took a deep breath. It was ridiculous that just smelling the lingering remains of Mycroft’s cologne could turn him on now.

He took his bag and went up to the bedroom. He covered the bed with satin sheets and then sat there wondering what he should do to surprise Mycroft.

Besides the obvious ‘Surprise- Mycroft- I am- here- in- your- bedroom’ kind of surprise…..

He emptied out his bag on the bed and rummaged through the things. He picked up the lace panties and stocking and on a sudden whim went into the spare bedroom and opened the closet.

He KNEW it!!! There was a railing full of gorgeous, slinky, spangled sexy dresses, along with matching shoes. He KNEW that there was something fishy between Mycroft and Anthea. They were too close and now he had proof!!! He wanted to slash those dresses and burn the shoes but a small part of his mind reminded him that his brother had to often attend formal events at very short notice and maybe Anthea needed to keep a spare wardrobe here because she was usually his plus one.

That was both a comforting and annoying thought.

He wondered what it would be like to go as Mycroft’s plus one to such an event. The events were sure to be boring as mud but with Mycroft at his side-- powerful, commanding, elegant, suave, thoughtful, brilliant, witty, snarky….he was running out of adjectives….it would be a delight to be there.

He could just picture the two of them dresses in black tie, smelling like heaven, catching each other’s eyes when separated. Standing close enough to touch when near each other.

He imagined what John would do if he saw Sherlock getting ready to go out with Mycroft as his plus one and snickered to himself. That would be funny.

“Didn’t you hear me?” John asked, pushing his way into Sherlock’s room. “I thought we agreed that we’d keep the door locked unless we’re expecting someone?”

He stopped dead in his tracks when he caught sight of his flatmate, who was standing in front of the full length mirror. Sherlock was wearing slim, tailored black trousers, a white button shirt with fancy French cuffs. He had a bow tie tossed casually over one shoulder.

“So are we?” John asked, perching on the corner of Sherlock’s bed. “Expecting someone, that is?”

“Obvious,” Sherlock said, doing up the last button.

John frowned. “Case?”

“Uhm...” Sherlock looked as if he were actually considering it. “Not exactly.”

John’s eyes widened. “Do you have a date then?”

Sherlock shook his head, but then surprised John by saying, “Not exactly.”

John frowned; he could feel his forehead wrinkling, but was helpless to stop it. “What do you mean?”

“Favor,” Sherlock said, reaching for a pair of black socks. He sat down next to John and John watched, while Sherlock unrolled the ball of wool, carefully straightening the socks. He laid them both out on the duvet between them, but made no move to put them on.

“Since when do you do favors?” John asked, glancing down at Sherlock’s feet. He’d seen them before, but somehow, against the dark material of the trousers, they looked unnaturally pale and he was struck by the desire to touch them. He wished Sherlock would put his socks on. Looking for something else to put his attention to, John glanced up the jacket that was hanging on the doorway to Sherlock’s closet. “Is that a tuxedo?” he asked.

“You’re observant tonight, John. Well done.”

John’s felt his mouth draw into a line. “And you’re being a right pain in the arse,” he returned. “What’s going on? It’s either a case or not a case. It’s either a date or not a date. So forgive me for being curious, but not only have a I never seen you do a favor for anyone, I’ve also not seen you in a tuxedo before.” He pushed himself up from the bed and started to go.

“I’m going to dinner with Mycroft.” Sherlock said, his words coming out in a jumble.

John sat back down. “Excuse me?”

.

.

Sherlock ran his hands over those dresses and wondered.

He was sure one of these would fit him rather well. Suddenly it all fell into place. This is how he would surprise Mycroft!

If he didn’t look like his bratty baby brother then maybe Mycroft wouldn’t mind doing more with him. Maybe kiss him on his strawberry lip gloss slicked lips. Maybe run his hands up his stockinged legs…..maybe feel the edge of his satin and lace panties and let his fingers move in….

Sherlock shivered. He was getting turned on at just the thought.

So, he chose a deep red slinky dress, pulled on the stockings and panties and in fifteen minutes had been transformed to a glamorous beauty with a hint of an eyeliner and glossy lips. He draped himself artfully all over the satin sheets and day dreamed about how it would be if he really was a woman and Mycroft his brother and lover.

.

.

The door opened.

“Sherlock! Mycroft! Er, come in!”

“Hello, Daddy!” Sherlock gave her father her widest smile and threw herself at him, pecking his cheek.

Father patted her cheek and smiled uncertainly. “Hello, Lovely-locks. Were we expecting you?” His brows drew together at the shake of her head. “Are you in some sort of trouble?”

Sherlock pouted and leaned back in her father’s embrace. “I don’t only show up when I’m in trouble. I was just here at Christmas and I didn’t kill anyone this time!”

Behind her, Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Sherlock! Mycroft! What—”

“Mummy!” Sherlock launched herself at her mum with the same enthusiasm with which she’d greeted her father.

Mummy returned the affection with equal fervour, but then put her wayward daughter at arm’s length. Peering around Sherlock, she asked, “What has she done now?”

“Mummy!” Sherlock stamped her foot.

“Well?” Mummy looked sternly up at her.

Sherlock huffed. But then she smiled mischievously and said, “You’re about to become grandparents! We came especially to tell you!”

Mycroft sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“What?!” chorused their flabbergasted parents.

“Mycroft can give you the details. I smell baking. I’m famished!” With that, Sherlock flounced into the kitchen.

Three pairs of eyes stared after her. Two then swivelled back and focussed on Mycroft, who could only shake his head in resignation.

.

.

He felt a twinge in his lower stomach.

Suddenly he wanted to have Mycroft’s babies.

He wanted to raise children with him. He knew Mycroft would be a wonderful father. He could see them together, at a Sunday picnic, with Mycroft carrying their son on his shoulders and Sherlock walking along with their daughter in his arms. The sun was shining warmly on all of them and Mycroft turned back to look at Sherlock with so much love in his eyes and then told their son, come on let’s race Daddy!

Later that evening after the kids had fallen asleep ( Mycroft would read to them of course) , Sherlock would cuddle up with his beloved on the sofa, they would hold hands and maybe Mycroft would run his elegant fingers through his curly hair and then they would kiss and they would just be so happy and content and it would be paradise.

It would be better than paradise.

 

Sherlock sighed. This was crazy. Insane. Preposterous. Absurd.

He was so deep and so far gone now that there was no hope.

What if Mycroft would never come near him again no matter what?

What if Mycroft came back today and threw him out of his house and told him never to talk to him again?!

What if he hated him for being like this? What if he said Sherlock disgusted him?!

Would he be left with the pieces of his shattered heart to pick up and hold on to for the rest of his life?

No. Sherlock decided. There was no point in living if Mycroft rejected him.

On an impulse he took the paper knife from Mycroft’s desk and made a shallow cut on his arm. He used the blood to write a note and went down to keep it on the dining table where Mycroft would see it as soon as he came in.

“Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.”

He didn't sign it but kissed the paper, leaving a sticky imprint of his strawberry glossed lips.

Then he went back up to the bedroom, switched on some music to listen to and waited.

Chapter Text

Mycroft was smiling at Leo over the third glass of that excellent wine. He couldn’t remember the last time he had enjoyed anyone’s company so much. Leo’s eyes are sparkling and Mycroft can sense that the old feelings never really went away.

An hour later, as they waited for the car to be brought in Leo said “So how about a coffee Myke? For old times’ sake?”

Mycroft looked at him and his impish grin and hesitated.

Leo shook his head slightly. “Yes, yes I remember that you love someone and can never have him but hey you can still have some fun Myke. I am not asking you to marry me.”

Mycroft smiled and wagged a finger at him. “You rogue. Ok. No marriage Leo. But no ‘fun’. Just coffee.”

Leo tipped his head in a mock salute. “Yes Your Highness, whatever works for you!” he said as they slipped into the car and into the roads of London.

.

.

Mycroft opened the door to his house and hesitated. Sensed some molecular level disturbance. But he was distracted and decided that it was probably just paranoia.

Leo said “I need to just freshen up quickly.”

“Sure.” Mycroft said putting away his umbrella. “Upstairs and to your left. See you in the living room. I will get the coffee. Single origin Java.”

He walked into the dining room and froze. That note had not been there when he left! He was about to warn Leo when he saw the handwriting on it.

Sherlock.

He rolled his eyes. He should have known.

But…what was this ink? Was it blood?!!

And what in heaven’s name was that smell?!

He sniffed the paper gingerly.

Strawberry flavoured lip gloss?!!

What in the Nineteen Nymphs of Narnia was going on?!

.

.

Meanwhile Leo had climbed up the stairs and was about to turn left when he noticed the bedroom door open at the right and someone on the bed. It was obvious that Mycroft had not been expecting this so he pulled out his mini revolver and silently crept towards the door.

Someone was draped artfully over satin sheets and wearing a crimson dress, sheer stockings and ….that face looked familiar….was it that actor from the TV series based on Mycroft’s brother?!

Leo looked in, suddenly feeling rather disoriented, as Sherlock lifted his eyes and gave a sultry bedroom eyes look, fluttered his eyelashes…….….and then sat up in shock.

“Who are you?” Sherlock asked wide eyed.

“Erm….…….” Leo said pointing downstairs with the revolver in his hand.

Sherlock shot up from the bed before he could say another word and gathered everything into the satin sheet and slipped out of the window and shimmied down. He ran barefoot to the corner and hailed a cab.

“Where to guv?” The cabbie asked.

Sherlock sat there with tears messing up his mascara as he rubbed the lip gloss off and stared out of the window, watching the city speed past over the pieces of his broken heart.

If he went home like this he was sure John would have a hundred questions and he really didn’t want to face him or Mrs. Hudson like this.

He would go to Greg’s.

.

.

Leo stood there wondering what the hell had just happened when he heard Mycroft come up the stairs. With alacrity he closed the door, slipped back his revolver and said “Sorry, I think I was confused. Did you say right or left?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him. They had both been in this game for too long.

“What is it Leo?” He asked, with a creeping sense of foreboding.

Leo shrugged one shoulder and opened the door again in a silent reply. Mycroft took in the scene. The bed was slightly messed up and there were some sex toys on the bedside table that definitely did not belong to him. He took in a deep breath.

That Cool Water aftershave.

Sherlock.

He closed his eyes and leaned back against the door frame.

.

.

Greg frowned as he heard the doorbell.

He was not expecting anyone else at this time.

He opened the door gingerly to find …..”Sherlock?? What happened?!! Were you undercover?? Is there a case?”

“Yes Lestrade now let me in and leave me alone.” Sherlock said sharply and went straight to the bathroom before Greg could stop him.

Sherlock flung the door open and found Mary there, naked and wet.

He stared at her as she stared back at him. Then he turned and called out to Greg.

“Um…Lestrade? What is going on here? Who is this person with lady parts?!”

John popped out of the bedroom just then, with only a towel around his waist. “Uh…Sherlock. Hello. This is Mary. My fiancée.”

Sherlock blinked very rapidly. Fluttering his eyelashes like hummingbird wings.

“Your fiancée? Doesn’t she have a shower in her house? Why is she here in Greg’s??”

“Umm.” John said.

“Uhhh.” Greg added.

Mary sighed and found a towel to wrap herself up in.

.

.

An interesting ten minutes later Sherlock was sitting on the sofa drinking whiskey as Greg, John and Mary sat there looking at him in anticipation.

All Sherlock could think of was –those Ao3 writers were right!! They knew everything!!! They seem to think sex is the solution to everything. Did they know that Mycroft was going to break my heart? What should I do now? Maybe they are right about that sex stuff…...

“So Sherlock? What do you say?” Greg asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock said nodding.

Greg and John looked at each other and blinked.

“Yes to what?” They both asked simultaneously.

“Yes to both.” Sherlock said. “Yes John I will be your Best Man for the wedding. Yes Greg I will be part of your Quartet.”

Mary grinned as she sat on John’s lap and smiled at Sherlock.

“I like him!” She said. “You must help me with my eyeliner sometime. Yours looks perfect.”

Chapter Text

Mycroft sat on the sofa, a glass of whisky in his hand and a sense of utter despair oozing out of every pore. He had the note in his hand that still smelt faintly of Sherlock’s cologne and had a sticky kiss imprinted on it.

“Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.”

Surely this was part of Sherlock’s experiment. Some variable which involved love notes. Mycroft wanted to stab himself for the almost physical ache and longing he felt as he wished that this note were real. That these words were real. That Sherlock had really meant them. Had meant them for him.

Meanwhile Leo sat there contemplating what he had just heard.

Arguably the most powerful and dangerous man in Britain was in love with his own younger brother. He had never ever allowed his feelings to be known and had hidden them all his adult life under a perfect veneer of indifference, snark, boredom and annoyance. He had found other ways to deal with his longings and indulged himself with the luxury of the finest music and book, exquisite clothing, delightful food. He had sought no one else. Ever. Never could. He had thrown his considerable intellect and energies into his work.

And then a few months ago, completely out of the blue apparently (though Leo wondered what Mycroft was not telling him) Sherlock had asked to have sex with him and babbling about some experiments had apparently turned into some kind of a sex maniac.

Mycroft was thus on the edge of a delicious and painful dilemma where he could have his yearning fulfilled with Sherlock in his bed, but not in his heart. He was unsure which rabbit hole he could fall into and never recover from.

Sex or love? Body or mind? To be? or Not to Be?

Leo smiled. For a man who operated mostly in shadows and five hundred shades of grey, some of which were even blood stained, Mycroft seemed to think there was some ethical issue here whereby he had to choose one or the other.

“Why do you think you can’t have both Myc?” He asked, thoughtfully.

Mycroft gave a bitter laugh. “I have lived with the knowledge that this was never to be. Not in this one lifetime. And now you are suggesting that not only has life thrown me a lottery with him in my bed and you think there is a possibility of even having his heart? Where did you learn this optimism Leo? The trenches never taught us that.”

Lep shrugged. “I agree with everything you are saying. But as you said, it is just this one lifetime. That’s all we get. Any of us. No matter how brilliant or how powerful or how good or bad. One lifetime Myc. And then….. when it’s over, it’s over. Take the risk. Go on. Tell him how you feel and see what happens. What is the worst case scenario? He will say no. Would that really be worse than what you had till now?”

Mycroft stared at the remaining whisky in his glass as though the deepest answers of the Universe were to be found there. He swirled it and drank it all up.

What was the worst that could happen? With his luck, Sherlock would not only say no but would laugh at him and tell Dr Watson who would blog about it and then someone would find out and Tweet about it and the Queen would know and then OMG Mummy would be so angry……His Mummy. AND Sherlock’s Mummy……

“Hey? Myc? Breathe!” Leo said as Mycroft seemed to be in the grips of a panic attack. “We stopped a war in Lebanon and took down at least three dictators in Africa as well as managed the handover of Hong Kong, and have still kept the secret of the British Colony on the Moon, so what’s this in the larger scheme of things?”

It’s my whole world Mycroft wanted to tell him. Sherlock is my whole world. I have been able to survive without his love because I can pretend it’s because he doesn’t know. But if I ask him and he rejects me?!! Then how do I cope with that reality?!

.

.

An hour later Leo had proved to be his match in negotiations and a decision flowchart had been drawn up. Ok. So his mind was made up.

“Soldiers today.” he said to Leo as he got into his car to get dropped off at D.I. Lestrade’s house. His surveillance had told him that he would find Sherlock there tonight.  

For the first time in his life he was nervous and unsure and had no conversation and negotiation planned out to within the last punctuation mark. He was going to plunge into this ocean of longing and fear and hope he didn’t drown in it but could instead swim across to the other side. Stand on the other bank hand in hand with Sherlock.

His one true love.

.

.

He found the door slightly ajar and slowly pushed it open with a mild frown. This was very unsafe. What the dickens was the Detective Inspector thinking?!

As soon as stepped in he realized that obviously the D.I. had not been thinking. Not with his upstairs brain at least.

A strange tableau met his shocked eyes.

There were many bodies. Naked bodies. Groaning and moaning. Contorted and linked and draped over each other and the poor helpless sofa in a scene reminiscent of a Salvador Dali painting or a Roman orgy more than the ordinary living room in a regular apartment owned by a D.I. of the Queen’s Scotland Yard Police Force.

Sherlock was in there somewhere. But so was John and Gregory and …good heavens …a woman too. Naked as the Lord made them. All of them.

Mycroft shook his head and blinked twice as though to attempt to erase this image from his grey matter permanently if possible and quietly stepped back out into the cold night. Closing the door behind him.

Every brilliant negotiator knows that sometimes the best negotiations are those which don’t even happen. Maybe this was the sign from the heavens. A great big honking DON’T GO THERE SON from the Holy Ghost or the Godfather or whoever was in charge of Heaven nowadays. With a great big Monty Python-esque finger pointing down at him through the clouds to say-- You. Yes I am talking to YOU Mycroft Holmes. Forget this.

Not quite the time to tap on Sherlock’s shoulder and say Oh by the way I have been in love with you for what seems like forever. So do you think you could love me back? If not it’s ok……maybe we can still continue to have sex? Or at least please don’t stop talking me…..Or even if you do, at least let me still keep an eye on you and keep you safe. Please.

Mycroft rode back in silence wondering how the driver and the whole world could not hear the sounds of his heart breaking….. no….. shattering …….into tiny tiny pieces….. like a beautiful kaleidoscope thrown out of a car into ongoing traffic.

Roadkill. That’s what his heart felt like. Roadkill with shards of glass. With acid poured on it.

He pulled out the note from his pocket.

“Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.”

He rolled the window down the tiniest bit and let the note flutter out into the cold dark London night.

Why had he ever allowed his heart out of its safe prison?

Chapter Text

About an hour after no one noticed Mycroft enter and leave Greg’s flat, the orgy seemed to be over. There were only so many orgasms a person could have in an hour. Apparently.

Now Sherlock was sitting cross legged on the bed with his laptop and filling out some details in his chart when Greg said something about planning a stag do for John before the wedding.

Sherlock looked up. “Wedding? Whose wedding?”

“Uh …mine. Mine and Mary’s.” John said. “Remember I said I wanted to talk to you in the morning? I was going to ask you about the Best Man.”

Sherlock blinked. “Billy Kincaid. The Camden Garotter.”

“What?!” John, Mary and Greg all asked, baffled.

“The Best Man.” Sherlock said. “Billy ran the safest and best children's home in northern England. Balancing the sheer number of lives saved to the occasional garrotings, Billy Kincaid is the best man I ever knew.”

John sat down and sighed. “Sherlock, I wanted to ask YOU to be my Best Man. Well…. you and Greg.”

“Me?!” Sherlock asked in a perplexed tone. “Why me?!”

“Because you are my best friend?!” John said, confused. How could Sherlock not know that??!

There was a pause and then Sherlock asked “You like me?”…….and Greg thought his heart was going to break.

John just stared at Sherlock like a rabbit in headlights. He blinked and opened and shut his mouth looking exactly like the goldfish Mycroft held in disdain. When he finally gathered his wits and spoke he pinched the bridge of his nose and looked at Greg for support.

Greg nodded at him and moved towards Sherlock to stand by his side.

“Sherlock…..” John started to say and then cleared his throat. “Sherlock you do not know that I like you very much? In fact I love you. I always have. You saved my life, you made my limp go away, you gave my life purpose and meaning. You are the family I never really had and you will always be a significant part of my life. How can you not know that?!” His voice was sounding exasperated towards the end as he looked at Sherlock still staring at him glassy eyed. He flung his arms out and nearly yelled. “How can you recognize blood spatter patterns and smell perfume molecules and …and identify footprint and bloody 30 million different kinds of ashes….and….and read clues in eloquent DUST for fuck’s sake …..but this??! THIS you can’t see?!!!”

Sherlock stood there like a statue listening to this. Then he slowly he turned to look at Greg. John tended to get emotional and irrational and seemed to always be scolding him but Greg he trusted. He knew Greg had tolerated way way more nonsense from him than John had ever had to but Greg had never even raised his voice at him once. Greg was always in his corner. Somehow nothing was making sense now and for once he hoped Greg would help solve this very puzzling mystery.

Greg looked at him and gave a small smile and nodded. “He’s right lad. He loves you.” He came closer and spoke softly as though to a wild animal that might get spooked and run away. “Sherlock…… I love you too. Always have. Since the first day we met at the crime scene and you were high as a kite. Through all those years when you lived on the edge of death with your drug overdoses and your whip smart deductions that flashed through like lightening in the dark sky of our most difficult cases. I have loved you through the years when you re-invented yourself as the World’s First Consulting Detective. That is why I cannot bear to see you unhappy. Or hurt. Or in trouble. You are so very precious. And for all your discomfort with emotions I have seen you move heaven and earth to get justice for the weak and to save a child. I have seen your homeless network worship you with a devotion they never show anything over their own safety.”

Greg had come closer now and he gently held Sherlock’s face in both hands. “You are the most amazing and brilliant person I have ever had the privilege of knowing. Is it so difficult for you to believe that we could love you?”

John had also moved closer and had his arm around Sherlock’s waist, wondering if his high strung roommate was going to collapse from the weight of all these emotional reveals.

Sherlock looked at Greg and saw the truth there.

He put his own hand up to cover Greg’s and couldn’t stop the tears from flowing freely.

“But I love him Greg. I love him so much. And I can never have him.”

And then he collapsed.

.

.

.

 

Mycroft’s had barely reached home when his phone buzzed with an incoming message.

[So can we expect a happy announcement next week? Leo.]

He tapped back a reply.

{It was more of a Coventry conundrum. But thanks for the encouragement anyway! Hope you have a safe trip back. MH}

That was the end of that. False hope can keep someone alive only for so long. He gave a wry smile even as he wondered how he could carry on living at all, with his heart in tatters. Surely the damn thing was needed to keep pumping blood all over his body to propel his meaningless existence in this pointless life?

It was now 2 am and all he wanted to do was curl up in his bed and never wake up.

Never have to dress up and tie his ties in a perfect knot and never have to face idiots and morons in the government and never have to negotiate with terrorists and dictators and never have to keep the damn Queen and country safe BECAUSE HIS HEART WAS BROKEN DAMMIT AND HE WANTED A BREAK!!!!

As he opened the front door and went in he wondered what his housekeeper would say if he just went nuts and broke all the dishes in the kitchen and tore down all the curtains and made a little bonfire in the living room?

And then maybe left all the taps running and shredded all the pillows and smashed all the glass windows?

He saw in his mind’s eye the disastrous mess that it would create. Irredeemable. Chaotic. Beyond salvage.

Like his heart.

It was a good picture.

Then he took a deep breath. He put his umbrella away. Quietly.

He checked the alarm and switched off the lights on the ground floor. He went up the stairs slowly and changed into his monogrammed satin pajamas.

He hesitated and changed his mind twice but finally allowed himself one chocolate which he ate delicately and cleanly. He crushed the wrapper and threw it in the bin.

He lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling till sleep final overcame him……just a few minutes before the sun started to rise in the sky and his alarm had started to beep.

Chapter Text

That morning, as the sun rose over all of London, Martha Hudson stood outside the door at 221 B Baker Street and picked up the milk bottles.

Just then a piece of paper flapped its way to her. Something was written on it.

Now she may be magical but her eyesight was beginning to go the way of the old flesh she was inhabiting, so she picked it up to take it inside and read it.

At the contact it gave her a sudden zing and she almost let it fly away.

This was some powerful blood magic!! her brain told her so she took the bottles and the paper and bustled inside quickly.

.

.

She found her glasses and read the note.

“Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.”

There was a kiss imprinted right there.

She closed her eyes and let her fingers do the reading. She could sense two auras here. So much longing. So much guilt. So much love and despair. It almost broke her heart.

She wanted to fix this for the two lovers whose lives were tangled over this note.

She needed to gather the right ingredients. It had been a while since she had done a love spell. She had tried putting something in the cupcakes and cookies she gave Sherlock but somehow even though she tried to time it with Mycroft’s visits she suspected that John ate most of them and had probably fallen in love with Sherlock.

Oh well….that boy needed all the love he could get so she wasn’t too fussed.

She also knew that Sherlock and Mycroft had never been separated in any of the multiple and alternate universes that she had monitored. They may have behaved like idiots and not found each other right away but they had never been truly apart. She had hope. There was still time.

But these two…… and she squinted at the piece of paper again. These two clearly needed an intervention. Although the one who wrote it had obviously know idea that he/ she/ they were casting a powerful blood magic into the words.

She was about to write up a list of the ingredients she needed when the front door slammed shut so loudly that she had to go out to tell the person off.

This had to be that silly boy Sherlock. The house was shaking to its foundations!!!

She opened her door and saw Greg carrying Sherlock up the stairs bridal style as John followed holding a small duffel bag.

She shook her head. What would it take to make Mycroft understand what he needed to do?! Oh well. For now she would bake Sherlock some of the cookies he loved and take them up for tea.

So she bustled around the kitchen, the love note forgotten, tucked into the knitting basket.

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Mycroft spent the day at work as prim and polite and brilliant and sarcastic as ever and no one could have told the difference except for Anthea who strongly suspected that something was off. But somehow also realized that her boss would probably not take too kindly at being questioned. She had already seen him in a vulnerable state twice, which was two times more than anyone else had since his childhood.

She needed to tread carefully. She needed more eyes on his house and the recent death of the KGB double agent with the poisoned doorknob gave her an idea. She passed on the file to Lady Smallwood suggesting that Mycroft Holmes could be at risk and the level of surveillance be raised to critical levels.

Chapter Text

That evening Mycroft let himself into his house, as quietly as he had the earlier day.

He wondered if he should consider this day onwards as Mycroft 2.0.

The version 1.0 had never let his heart out of its cage. Or maybe from behind the walls. Or beyond the veil….or whatever. Till yesterday. And then that fragile and stupid heart had been trampled upon and shattered and destroyed.

Version 2.0 was the survivor. The reluctant survivor if he was to be honest.

Who had asked his soul and body to survive that disaster?! Why couldn’t they all have died along with his heart?!!

Now he had to live in a world knowing that Sherlock had tried to manipulate him into sex using a love note and then gone ahead with an orgy almost right away. Wow.

Emotions truly are a chemical defect on the losing side. Now he was the losing side. He was the loser. If all is fair in love and war, this had been a war for love and he had lost.

He had been alone earlier but at least he had moral courage in the knowledge that he had never revealed his love for Sherlock so it could still be, like Schrodinger ‘s cat, both accepted and rejected.

But now? Now it was just a dead cat. Fully rejected.

He was no longer just alone. He was lonely.

The world appeared like an abyss of darkness and silence. Staggeringly large and infinite in its emptiness.

What could keep him company at the edge of his sanity and the hollow madness of his broken heart? What could he use to fill up the Sherlock shaped hole in his soul?

As he poured himself a glass of whisky and drank it, the answer came to him. So blindingly obvious that he wondered if his brain had also broken along with this heart.

Fanfiction. Ao3. That was going to keep him company on the long and lonely nights.

His imagination and his fantasies. His community of support that would continue to, foolishly, ship him with Sherlock, not ever knowing what the reality was. But hey, denial wasn’t just a river in Egypt! And JK Rowling herself had said that there were fringe benefits to failure and that we need to recognize the importance of imagination.

Well, here he was he thought bitterly as he raised the glass in toast to himself and the writers and readers on Ao3. Here’s to imagination!

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He drained the glass, went to his office room and switched on his laptop. He wondered what would be the easiest way to cope with this.

Maybe he could imagine that Sherlock had just physically gone away. Not emotionally. Not metaphorically. Just away. He was away on some escapade and Mycroft could write letters to him. Tell him how he felt about him. Slow burn. Epistolary.

So he logged into his email and wrote to eloquated. Would they co-write?

He got an answer soon enough.

Yup. They totally would. But why not pretend that Sherlock was not only away but had faked his death and gone away?! That would make for more angst and desperation.

Yeah…..yeah…..Mycroft thought that would surely be cathartic for his broken heart. Nothing like imagining your soulmate on the run after faking his death.

Ironically enough, eloquated wanted to write in Mycroft’s voice.

Huh. Ok. Mycroft was intrigued by how he would find it in himself to write as Sherlock. But he was never a person to back down from a challenge so he was determined to give it his best shot. So, over the next few evenings, the two of them tapped away at their respective laptops and posted a new fic.

Come Back Safe (You Belong to Me)

For a week, I've had no word, save for the vague assurance that you were alive. And I can't explain to you the relief that you're safe. Or the equally undefinable sense of wrongness that I'm not there.

Yes, I'm certain you'll have nothing but acerbic wit for my moment of sentiment, but given the number of times I've sat by your hospital bed, it seems fundamentally wrong not to be there now. Be careful, Lock. You're the only brother I have, and I would prefer to keep you around a while longer.

Your violin is currently sitting safely in your room at Baker Street, and I am making certain your rent is being paid. I think Mrs. Hudson is enjoying the idea that I'm so utterly shattered by your death that I can't bring myself to venture into the apartment.

Hold at your current position until Dr. Sadat has cleared you for travel.

Be careful,

Mycroft

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He read it twice and then typed out a reply.

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April 19

I thought you would be happy to finally not have to sit by my bedside at any hospital.

Probably had enough for a lifetime, didn't you?

Isn't John staying at Baker Street any more?

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Myccroft deliberately didn’t sign the name, knowing that Sherlock would likely be in stroppy mood and take it out on his big brother as always.

Just ten minutes later he had a reply.

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A month ago, you said I must be grateful not to be sitting by your hospital bed. It was a ridiculous statement then, and continues to be. Do you remember when you were four, and I contracted the measles? You were sent away to stay with our aunt, and I remember you screaming from the foyer that you didn't want to go.

Even as a small child you understood that we were stronger together. I still believe that, even if we haven't always made it easy for each other.

The rest of this file is music. Sentimental, perhaps, but I'm not there to see you pulling faces. You always claimed that my music helped you rest during the withdrawal, and it certainly put you to sleep as a child. We'll see if Nuvole Bianche has the same effect over a recording.

Now rest, and be good for the doctor. You will simply have to be fine, because I refuse to allow any other option. I... Lock... I've sat through your funeral once. And that is once too many. You'll have to get better, and get this job finished, so you can come home.

London is impossibly grey without you.

Mycroft

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Mycroft read this and blinked back tears. He started typing.

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May 14th

Mycie,

What was that atrocious piece of music you played for me?? Perhaps it is best that your piano gathers dust ....

Did you WANT me to have more hallucinations from that cacophony?

Mummy needs to get a refund from your teacher!

........is what I would have said to you a week ago.....but it is only fair to inform you that I have written three drafts of this letter and discarded them.

Listening to your voice had an unexpected effect on my Mind Palace, much more so than the music in fact.

It seems to have opened some doors which were perhaps locked for a reason but I am still too weak to push them back into place.

You ask me if I remember the four year old boy who cried in anguish at being separated from you?

But what if I ask you when you stopped being able to hear that boy crying for you when you left him?

Home became impossibly grey without you ...and when I followed you to London I still couldn't find Mycie, although I met Mycroft, the British Government, rather more often than I desired.

I am sealing this and sending it with Mahmoud before I realize what a maudlin letter I have written. I will have started on my way to Morocco by the time you get this. I may need a passage to Brazil from there.

Do me a kindness and never ever refer to this letter again because once I recover from my illness I am certainly not going to want to be reminded....!

And keep my violin carefully. I will come back for it.

Not soon I think, but someday.

Sherlock

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He sent it off to eloquated and waited for a reply. The next day he almost bit his nails down in his anxiety, wondering what ‘Mycroft’ would say to this. When he went home he booted up the laptop even before he loosened his tie. He almost ran upstairs to change his clothes so that he could sit comfortably and read the update from el.

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May 18, 2014

Brother mine,

For what little comfort it might bring, know that you aren't the only one finding himself writing and rewriting their letters. It's a strange feeling to send a note out into the world, hoping that it arrives where you will be, before you are. And I will forgive your maudlin sentiments if you can forgive mine.

I can't answer your question without referring to your letter, and at first, it seemed that might be a blessing. An excuse to avoid answering. I have four variations of this letter currently crumpled in my wastepaper basket, all filled with very useful information about the state of things in Brazil, and the names of your contacts there. Information I will include in this letter, of course-- it is important.

But you are not merely an agent in my employ. You're my brother, and that changes everything.

This letter may be consigned to the bin as well, but perhaps honesty will serve me better than detachment has.

I was almost sixteen, and leaving for university. There were expectations for what I would do with my life. And surely, as an adult, you can understand why I couldn't remain in Sussex, waiting for you to be old enough to leave home yourself.

I don't believe either of us anticipated the separation to be so difficult. I wrote, every week; but as the radio silence continued, I began to fear that you would never forgive me for leaving. Some measure of it was my own guilt, I'm sure. I despised Cambridge, and most of my classes. I'd gone with the hope that there would be a challenge for my mind, and I could return to Hartfield with wonderful things to tell you.

Maybe it was too optimistic. But I was young, and swiftly proven wrong.

I missed you terribly. You were the only person who understood my mind, but you were furious with me, and a child. I couldn't burden you with my problems. The seven years between us seemed like more when we were younger.

I was struggling with myself. And sides of myself that I didn't know how to make peace with. It seemed easier to keep people at arm's reach, but Lockie, please believe me-- I never intended you to be one of them.

Be careful,

Mycroft

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Mycroft stared at the screen, mesmerized.

How did eloquated know so much about him?! This was some kind of black magic perhaps. Should he be scared?! Was eloquated was some kind of a witch or wiccan?? The words seemed to resonate very closely with what he would have written. And without much planning a romance seemed to be blossoming on the pages which gave solace to his battered and bruised heart.

He would up the game a bit and see what happened. So he typed:

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Mycie,

I am trying to follow your example and compartmentalize the different parts of me. Yes, I know that Sherlock and Lockie share the same transport but it is probably no surprise to you that they occupy very different spaces in the Mind Palace. You have a permanent (and prominent) place in both their Mind Palaces, of course.

I have re-read your letter so many times that it is falling to pieces in my hands now. I learnt the content at the very first reading of course but I am appalled to say that it is only now that I am fully grasping the fact that yes, you were also just a vulnerable young boy being sent out into the world swimming with goldfish.

I felt utterly abandoned and missed you like a limb had been torn away but at least I had the comfort of being home and in a safe place.

You were alone. As I am now.

And I want to ask you to forgive me now for not being able to forgive you then.

Do you know that I really believed you could do anything ? You always knew more than anyone, you always understood me better than anyone. So it felt like the most enormous betrayal because I thought you wanted to go away and you didn't care that I was being left behind.

Then when you did come back during the holidays, you kept telling me 'Caring is not an advantage'. Of course I interpreted that to mean me. I never imagined that there was anything or anyone other than me at the centre of your universe ! That what you were telling me was ---Caring for me was not an advantage for you .

But enough of this for now. Someday we will talk about who broke your heart enough to make you believe that.

Today, there is something I need to say before I seal this and send it to you.

I may be your Lockie but right now I am also your agent against Moriarty. Remember the trolley problem. The greater good.

I will not be able to live in peace if I find out that in trying to save me you have condemned John, Greg or Mrs. Hudson.

So, although I never expected to have to be the one to remind you ---caring is not an advantage.

We are playing an impossible game against a web of ruthless criminals.

Bring your best play to it Mycie or it would all have been for nothing.

Your

Sherlock

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The reply was rather quick this time. By the time he had finished dinner and checked email only sixteen times, the reply was there. This time he read it and felt a chill down his spine.

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There's a strange thing in letters. Unless I mention it, you'd have no way to know that I've been sitting here at my desk for half an hour, struggling for words. It's cold and grey today, with dark clouds that threaten rain; and I find myself pricked by memories. Call it nostalgia, or sentiment, but we used to be able to talk so easily. I miss it. But there's nothing to forgive.

You were a child, and it was my responsibility to make sure you understood that I didn't want to leave you. And however good my intentions were? You still felt abandoned, and so I failed. Perhaps I should be grateful to have the chance to set the record straight.

You have been the centre of my world since you came into it.

And caring for you has been my constant from the day Mummy tried to explain that babies were miracles delivered by storks. Remember that, Lockie. I have always cared for you, and I always will. I'm only sorry I ever let you doubt that.

Be careful,

Mycroft

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Was this some kind of a mind reader?! Was it a KGB plot?? How could eloquated possibly get such an accurate reading into his mental state and emotions?! Were all Ao3 writers spies?! It was not uncommon for spies in the Cold War to be in hiding as journalists, writers, academics. He knew that most writers on Ao3 identified as middle aged women but they were the best decoy weren’t they?! Like Miss Marple. Homely, no- threatening, baking pies and knitting scarves, while underneath all that lurked the dark beast of espionage….

He took a deep breath and shook his head. NO. This was ridiculous. If anything these writers spoke of love and longing and belonging. They spoke of being cherished and being together and they gave so freely or orgasms to their characters. Surely they were not evil at all but on the side of angels.

Maybe…a small whisper spoke in his head…maybe he could influence the way his life turned out by sending out enough positive energies into the world via Ao3.

Maybe someday is love story too could have the happy ending. Maybe he too could get rid of the ‘unrequited’ and ‘heavy angst’ tag on his life and go straight to ‘shmoop’ and ‘established relationship’ and ‘true love’.

Oh how badly he wanted to believe that!  He wanted this more badly than a sinner wants salvation.

So he flexed his fingers and wrote.

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Mycie,

I wonder if it is a sign of schizophrenia that I find myself compelled to use a different identity with you when I think of you as my brother. My brother.

I think one of the reasons I felt so betrayed when you left was the shattering of the illusion that you were only mine. That you belonged to me in a way that no one else could lay claim to.

Because suddenly it seemed as though the entire world had expectations from you, and they became a priority.

In retrospect I probably had an identity crisis then since I really couldn’t figure out who I was. It’s a bit like the solar system (and thanks to John’s constant tutoring on this I do finally know that the earth revolves around the sun!). You were my Sun. And when you left, I had no orbit, no purpose.

Perhaps that is why I found the drugs so attractive.

But we have come too far along now to dwell on these old sorrows.

Sherlock

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The reply came in under an hour.

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It feels strange that you could doubt something that has always been so obvious to me. Whether we're in the same city, or not, Lockie-- you will always have a claim over me. You're my blood, and the other half of my brain.

Distance has no power over that. If you believe nothing else, let it be that.

Yes, Mummy did try to tell me that! I thought it was ridiculous, so went to find my own answers. I remember trying to explain it to you when you were small, and probably making quite a hash of it!

Storks, indeed... At least I know I did better than that.  

Professor Rosa just came in with your music. I won't pretend to guess where you managed to track down a violin on your travels, but it's beautiful.

I hadn't realized how much I miss hearing you play.

For the last six months you've never been far from my thoughts, and I've read and re-read your letters until the edges have started to wear. I hope this one finds you safe.

I miss you, Lockie. The city echoes without you here

Be safe.

Mycroft

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Mycroft rubbed his eyes because the words blurred and he realized he was crying. He was crying. Tears. The last time he had done that was when he was 10 and his grandmother had died. No …the last time he had done it was a few weeks ago when Sherlock had go him the tiramisu!! No …in fact it was two days ago when they first started co-writing this fic.

How many more times was he destined to cry over Sherlock?! He wiped his eyes and face and started to type.

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I have been thinking about your response to the trolley problem and, while not a distraction, it is giving me a new perspective on so many things between us that I had not deduced earlier. I know I asked you to keep the others safe and sacrifice me if you have to. But after reading your reply I wondered if I would actually be able to follow my own advice? If I had to kill you to save others? If I had to shoot you to save myself even?

Logic and evolution would state that self- preservation is above all else.

But what if there is no separation between yourself and another? What if without you there is no me?

It is ironic that it has taken a distance of a million miles and an actual ‘death’ and so many near misses after that to make me aware that we are in fact an inseparable part of each other. You say that I will always have a claim over you? At some level I have always known that. Demanded it even.

Although I don’t fully understand what that means even now but when I think of you alone in an echoing city, missing me, well, selfish and even cruel as it sounds, that is what I want. I don’t want you belonging to anyone else. I want you for me and me alone.

The way we were before you left home. Mine.

I am not good with emotions so I will wait for you to explain to me-- what is this feeling that causes such an ache inside me when I think of you and yet I do not want to be without it. It was easier earlier when my interaction with you had a known path of antagonism. But having opened the doors to this new space between us I find myself loathe to return to the way we were.

Why did we put this distance between us Mycie? Did something happen that I have deleted? I worry if these sentiments are only a result of the separation and the stress. After all, the goldfish do say that distance makes the heart grow fonder.

If my return would make us go back to the way we were….is it wrong to consider that I would rather stay here instead and write these letters to you?

I must finish this letter and seal it soon since the runner will be arriving for it, so I shall leave these selfish musings for another day.

 

………….This unfinished business with Stefan makes me more uncomfortable than anticipated. I am sitting here recalling all the Russian you taught me, sitting in our library back home. Gorky, Pushkin and all those Chekhov plays. You always did have a morbid streak even as a child!

And from all that literature and poetry, do you know what comes to me, unbidden?

This poem by Simonov that you used to read out. ‘Wait for me.’

I suppose you would say that there are no coincidences and the universe is rarely so lazy? Well if so, then this poem is my message to you today.

Yours,

Sherlock

Wait for me by Konstantin Simonov.

Wait for me and I’ll return, only wait very hard.
Wait when you are filled with sorrow as you watch the yellow rain.
Wait when the wind sweeps the snowdrifts.
Wait in the sweltering heat.
Wait when others have stopped waiting, forgetting their yesterdays.
Wait even when from afar no letters come for you.
Wait even when others are tired of waiting.

Wait for me and I’ll return, but wait patiently.
Wait even when you are told that you should forget.
Wait even when my mother and son think I am no more.
And when friends sit around the fire drinking to my memory
Wait and do not hurry to drink to my memory too.

Wait for me and I’ll return, defying every death.
And let those who do not wait say that I was lucky.
They will never understand that in the midst of death
You with your waiting saved me.
Only you and I will know how I survived:
It was because you waited as no one else did.

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Mycroft clicked send and then waited, his fingers trembling in anticipation, quite convinced now that somehow the universe had conspired to give him this connection with another writer on Ao3 and he allowed himself to feel a little hopeful that somehow this was going to help tip things in his favour. After all, the universe does not do coincidences.

This time the reply did not come till midnight so he went to sleep. When he woke up the first thing he did was check emails but there was nothing.

Later that evening after dinner his wait was over.

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You’re going to drive yourself mad with that line of thinking, Lock. Perhaps the trolley problem is better applied to the goldfish, and their linear, black and white thinking. We know the world is made of many more shades of grey, and the rest is only speculation. Neither of us can ever be entirely certain what we would do in a situation like that.

But losing you? I don’t believe I could. At the risk of sounding sentimental and foolish (such things happen in old age, or so I’m told)?

You are more vital to me than my heart, or my brain. And a lifetime without you sounds more like vivisection. I wouldn’t be able to let you die. Not if there was a single iota of a chance to save you. And you should be happy, you have your wish. I am, in fact, trapped in the city and missing you. Apart from last weekend where I was trapped at our parent’s. Keeping up appearances, and reassuring them that you’re safe and well.

I’m certain by now you’ve noticed me skirting around your revelations. I don’t think anything happened to us, Lock. Just time, and a distance. We’ve both said things we later regretted, but never found the words to apologize for. These conversations are long overdue, but perhaps that’s better than never having them at all. It’s strange, but in some ways I feel closer to you now than I have for years.

Ironic. And if I could explain those emotions to you, perhaps I could explain them to myself as well!

Being close to you, claimed by you, never felt strange when we were children. It was the most natural thing in the world, and so I never questioned it. It never occurred to me to deny you my bed when you were scared, or my time when we were awake. Just as you never went to our parents for answers to your million questions. It was our definition of normal. Meeting other children, and going to university, made me realize how strange that was. Other brothers weren’t close as we were; and they didn’t miss each other as desperately as I missed you.

The only conclusion I could draw was that there was something wrong with loving you the way I did.

I didn’t want to hurt you, or stop you (however accidentally, I swear it) from growing into your own person. I wanted you to be happy.

You don’t need to remind me to wait for you. I know things between us have been difficult in the past, but however unlikely the circumstances? We have a chance to make amends for those mistakes. My place is with you, Lockie-- always.

This assignment can’t go on forever, and I refuse to accept that I may never see you again.

With hope,

Your Mycroft

 

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<incoming radio message> Urgent

Shooting at Whitehall. M injured, in surgery.

Will message when I have more information.

-Anthea

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Mycroft stared at the screen, a strange hollow feeling in his stomach. He had always seen this relationship only from his own perspective. All those memories of sitting by Sherlock’s bedside praying to the gods he didn’t believe in, to save him, to keep him alive, offering himself in exchange if the gods wanted their pound of flesh.

All the surveillance, all the scheming, everything that he did to keep Sherlock safe, because he could not imagine a world in which he lived while Sherlock was gone.

But truly, what if one day he himself were gone?! Would Sherlock feel so strongly?! Would he even really miss him??

He huffed a laugh remembering that orgy scene from Greg’s apartment. No. He would probably think of him in an off- hand way once in a while. Maybe during Christmas because with him gone there would be no one to protect him from Mummy’s unwelcome attention during traditional holidays.

Then Sherlock would go back to sleuthing and playing his violin and sharing the flat with John and solving cases with Greg. Perhaps having sex with both of them every day. Twice on a Sunday. All memories of his older annoying brother as lost as the ashes scattered in the wind.

Mycroft stood up feeling like is chest was going to explode. He needed air. He went to the window. He opened it and with steady hands he lit himself a cigarette. His third this year. By the time he had finished it he was calm enough to write a reply.

He sat at the laptop and typed. This was what he wanted to send out into the universe and then wait to see how the universe re-aligned itself, if at all..

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Thornfield.

The great Victorian edifice that Mycroft had inherited from their Uncle Rudy at his death. Even in the night, the warm 18th century bricks felt solid and real, the tangible weight of the sprawling stately home spread across acres of sparsely tended grounds. In the dark, the vast panels of collections of high, narrow windows seemed to have a life of their own-- and they watched Sherlock guardedly as he approached the house.

For the first time in seven months, Sherlock Holmes was back on his home soil. But the bitter July wind seemed unsure if it intended to welcome him, or blow him back towards the sea. Sherlock neared the enormous door at the entrance and slowly placed his hand flat against it, grounding himself. Allowing his skin to feel the familiar texture and to accept that this was real!

He was here, in England. Alive. In less than two hours he would see Mycroft. His Mycie.

He would be able to look upon his face instead of bringing forth Mind Palace Mycie every night to soothe him to sleep, and every day to argue with him, or to hold counsel. He felt a frisson of excitement which was replaced almost instantly by a shiver of panic.

What if they ended up arguing and fighting ? What if he lost the new Mycie who was so tender and caring and who belonged to him so completely that he could almost forget where one ended and the other began....What if those feelings were possible only on paper? What if this was a bad idea?

What would he say to him? What if there were no words left to say what he wanted him to know? What did he want him to know?

He went in and found his old room by almost by instinct, not wanting to switch on any lights or light any candles which would draw attention for miles around. He sat on the bed, taking a deep breath, remembering happier days spent in this house.

Then he settled in to wait.

It felt like forever, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corridor marking out the passing time. The hour came with a ringing toll, eight the first time-- and nine the next-- reminding Sherlock of every precious second that was slithering away. The ticking was a hateful sound; a miserable, incessant thing that burrowed into the dusty silence of the house.

Nobody had lived here properly in years; and though the staff kept things clean and functioning, it had a desolate, forgotten air about it. Ten generations of Holmeses in oils on the walls, and fixtures that had been updated at the turn of the century (and the invisible electrics and plumbing that their uncle had replaced the year before Mycroft was born).

It was a sad house, their mother had always said. A waiting house, craving a family to fill it again. And what a lovely place it would be, she'd hinted (again, and again, and again) to raise a family.

Outside, the wind whistled and shot through the grounds, searching out chinks in the window panes and burrowing draftily inside. It smelled of approaching rain, and the starless sky was black and clotted with clouds-- but neither wind, nor rain, could blot out the sound of tires crunching on the gravel drive.

.

.

 

Sherlock heard the car arrive and the door open. Then the car left, almost purring quietly down the long driveway.

His heart was beating so loudly he was surprised Mycie couldn’t hear it. He felt a bit faint with anxiety. He had to remember to breathe. Was he going to have a panic attack?

He remembered the ambush they had faced on the outskirts of Kabul some months ago and he hadn’t thought twice about jumping into the danger zone. But today? The ten steps down the passage to face his brother seemed like a Herculean task.

What if this went spectacularly wrong? They had already gone from an extremely close relationship as children to a fraught and almost cold one as adults.

The separation and the constant sense of impending loss in the past few months had brought them closer together again. Far closer than they had been ever been.

Sherlock pondered that. How can you say you are ‘close’ to someone who is essentially a part of you?

The moments after he had heard Anthea’s message, his world had fallen apart.

He had sent Mycie Simonov’s poem just days earlier, asking him to wait for him. Assuming that Mycie was safe in London.

Missing him, yes. Alone, yes. Worried, yes of course. But safe. Protected by his own Secret Service and the British Government.

Sherlock was the one courting danger, flirting with death, praying to all the gods old and new, that he would return to his … his brother… ?

Or his other half ? His better half. For sure. His infinitely better half.

He had never, in his wildest nightmares, imagined that Mycroft would be the one in danger and that e would be the one anxiously waiting for good news.

And now, when Mycroft was separated from him by only a few feet instead of a few continents, his feet seemed to be made of lead and he was unable to close the distance.

Then he heard footsteps, cautious and quiet, come up the stairs. Mycroft was coming to his old room, preferring to maintain the cover of darkness too. He stood up and took a deep breath. It was the moment of reckoning. And let the chips fall where they may.

 

Chapter Text

Sherlock woke up with a headache from where he had hit the floor last evening. He rubbed his head as he stirred, groggy and slightly lost. He was in his bedroom at Baker Street and his butt was too sore to allow him to sit up properly.

Felt like he had been in an orgy….oh wait. Ha. Yes he had indeed!

The memories of the earlier evening seeped into the edges of his consciousness. Greg. John. Mary. It had been a rather enjoyable experience. Then John and Greg had overwhelmed him by expressing their love for him. Love?!! For someone like him?!! He still found it strange and difficult to believe. Love?! The way he felt for Mycroft, they felt for him?!

He wanted to laugh at that thought.

It was impossible. No one could ever love anyone the way he loved Mycroft.

The way he felt like tearing open the sky and breaking apart the earth and pulling the moon down and slicing apart the Sun because words were too inadequate to express how he felt. The way he could almost hear his soul sing and vibrate anytime Mycroft was near. The way….but ….how had he ended up at Greg’s home in the first place?

Oh yes.

Oh.

Oh no.

It all came back to him like a high speed home video with distorted audio screeches. He had gone to Mycroft’s apartment and left him that note downstairs and waited for him on his bed, only to find someone else come in.

Mycroft had brought some man home.

Not just home but upstairs into the bedroom.

Of course. Why would he not?!

What commitment had he ever made to Sherlock? What promises had they given each other?

Besides the ones Mycroft had insisted on of course –no kissing on the lips and no emotional involvement. And then Sherlock had to go and mess that up right away by falling in love. Stupid crazy love.

So all they had done till now was have sex twice for Sherlock’s ‘sexperiment.’ After which Mycroft had politely suggested he find other variables for his data.

While Mycroft brought in his own variables into his bedroom.

Sherlock clenched his fist as he wondered how he could find a way to solve this utterly messed up situation.

Just then “Hello Sleeping Beauty!” Greg’s voice boomed.

“Aaargh hush!!!!” Sherlock said groaning and clutching his head at the volume. “Shut up!!”

“Oh sorry.” Greg said, a bit softer now but grinning and handed him some tablets. “Poor baby got an ouchie?! Here take this. Better get well soon so we can take John out for a stag do day after tomorrow before his wedding next week.”

Sherlock swallowed the tablets reluctantly and finally after an hour or so when Greg was convinced that Sherlock was ok he left for work.

Sherlock’s head wasn’t hurting much by then but his heart was in agony.  

What could he possibly do to solve this??

Real life was such a pain. He sighed. Everything had seemed so wonderful in Ao3 world. Love, sex, kisses, magic, ABO, fem!Sherlock, teen!Lock, soulmates AU….….he was swept with a  wave of nostalgia.

Was it only a week ago that he had discovered fanfics?!! It scarce seemed possible that his entire life and identity had been turned upside down and sideways and freewheeling into outer space in such a short time.

He cringed at how naïve he had been. He had read these amazing fantasies and got swept away into thinking real life could also flow along these fluid lines. If you told someone the truth, they would love you back. If you wanted someone badly enough, they would eventually fall into your arms.

Ha.  Well. Reality sucked. Big time.

He needed to escape it. He needed to feel better about what the future could hold. There was only one way out and that was through. Through some more fics. Through many, many, many more fics.

So he booted his laptop and opened the Ao3 site.

.

.

As he was logging in and starting to read, Mrs. Hudson was busy downstairs with some old world magic.

All that fic writing yesterday as ‘Mycroft’ writing those sentimental and tender letters to his brother had made her more restless than she had been in a long time. Not since that foolish Montague boy had killed himself over that overwrought Capulet girl.

No patience these young people had. Could he not have waited till the medication wore off?!! Just stabbing himself like that….. she tutted and muttered as she hauled out her little used iron kettle and rummaged through her pantry till she found all the ingredients.

Eye of frog and tongue of newt, some crystal powder, saffron strands, pearl dust, gold coin, tears of a saint, a stone touched by the hand of God, dried dragon blood and some other even more obscure stuff.

As she mixed them all into the pot she recited the spell, her voice rising and falling with the chant and then finally she added that love note. The blood on the note flashed bright and then a strange green light pulsed out of the pot and wafted away leaving only ashes in the pot.

With a happy sigh Martha wiped her hands on her apron and went to the oven to take out the cookies she had baked for Sherlock. The poor boy had been looking so down lately. And although she liked that handsome Inspector with the distinguished grey hair, she wondered what Mycroft was doing staying away from Sherlock for so long.

She wondered who those poor lovers were whose note magic she had worked and pondered on whether Mycroft also needed an intervention.

Well it would have to wait. She was too old now to do active magic more than once a week. Six hundred years do take their toll on a woman.

She sighed and climbed up the stairs slowly with the freshly baked cookies and tea on a tray.

Now Martha should have remembered what her mother had taught her about handwashing thoroughly after doing magic but she was tired and didn’t realize that some of the magic was still on her fingers when she served the cookies and tea.

Within minutes of consuming both Sherlock fell into a magic slumber.

.

.

He was in a deep dark green forest which obviously seemed enchanted since it was glowing and pulsing like a heart. He saw that he was dressed like a prince and there was a magnificent and enormous bed with satin sheets in the middle of the forest. So he sat on it wondering what was going to happen next when he heard a rumble.

He looked up to see a large shining ink blue dragon high up in the sky. It swooped down and turned into Mycroft as he slowly landed and brushed some specks of dust off his perfectly tailored suit and tucked his blue silk tie into his pearl grey suit waistcoat.

He held out his hand to Sherlock and they slow danced, because of course the forest was now full of the glorious sounds of an angel choir and a million violins. He felt almost hypnotized. Mesmerized. Enthralled. Bedazzled.

As the dance continued and Mycroft held him closer, he realized gradually that Mycroft had more than two hands holding him.

Uh…ok….

Oh wait, Mycroft had tentacles. Of course he did. 

All those tentacles slowly and gently writhed all over him and before he knew it, they had helped remove both their clothes. Soon they were both standing there, naked as the day they were born. Gorgeous and stunning in their own ways.

Then Mycroft leaned in and kissed him sweetly and they made love on that satin bed as fireflies winked and floated around them.

Afterwards they lay in each other’s arms and fed each other grapes and nectar. Bluebirds flew over the bed and some rabbits played nearby. In the distance he could hear a rainbow glowing and he could taste a rose bush growing.

It was all very confusing but delightful. He felt like bursting into song and floating on a cloud, hand in hand with Mycroft.

But then…just as he was about to say ‘I love you’ to Mycroft he woke up.

.

.

He groaned and got up and rubbed his face. As he staggered to the bathroom to wash his face, he felt just a teeny bit strange.

He really must stop over eating Hudders’ cookies. He was in a sugar coma probably. Stupid Transport.

But he felt like……like he was a ripe fruit heavy with sweetness or……… a thick and full flower about to bloom…….for want of a better analogy.

He shook his head to get rid of the crazy feelings.

.

.

Of course, there was no way for him to know that he had become pregnant in the enchanted forest of his dreams.

Chapter Text

Mycroft woke up with a start, breathless and with his heart pounding.

What in the Shakespearean silliness was that bizarre dream?!! He looked around him dazed, half expecting to see someone cavorting around with a donkey’s head and find some fairies floating near the ceiling.

Huh.

He gave a sigh of relief when all seemed to be as it was before he dozed off.

He went to take a shower since he seemed to have gotten rather excited during this dream and was still reeling from the orgasm. He blinked several times but he could still see Sherlock in his mind’s eye…..…his beautiful radiant Sherlock, dressed like the prince he was, and those kisses…..oh…he would gladly give a kingdom or two for one of those kisses against his lips. Like a marshmallow or a cloud. And the taste of him….like rainbows and unicorns and cinnamon and earth.

As he showered he rubbed the small of his back feeling as though something was missing. As though there used to be ….tentacles the word popped into his mind and he almost slipped and fell down in alarm.

Did he just think that he used to have tentacles?! What in the horny hounds of hell was that?!

He had the strangest feeling as though he was inside a large green cool dark heart that was throbbing. Something whispered in his ear. This is love. True love. Soulmates.

Instantly he thought of the fragmented memory of his dream with Sherlock dressed as a Prince and he could feel himself getting aroused again. He shuddered and turned the water to the coldest temperature possible. 

As he stood under the shower to clear his jumbled head and decided that he needed to get out today. It was a Sunday. For a change the world was not in imminent danger of falling apart or off the edge. He should catch that play everyone had been going gaga over.

.

In an hour he found himself outside the splendid theatre at West End and walked in to sit down and enjoy Frankenstein.

It was a bravura performance and the bald naked actor who emerged from that ball of goo as the newly formed ‘monster’ was rather lithe and well proportioned. It was a good distraction but the way he moved had a disturbing resemblance to Sherlock and seeing him naked and wet on the stage didn’t really help at this point.

Eventually he got so hot and bothered that he was ready to leave and got up just seconds before the interval and rushed out of the theatre. Can’t even bloody relax with a matinee at the theatre he cursed himself as he sped off towards the office in his black car. Might as well work.

.

.

Minutes later Mark Gatiss’s phone buzzed with an incoming message.

{Naughty boy! Watched the entire scene where I didn’t have a stitch on me and then ran away before the interval ;) Ben.}

Mark was on set waiting for a shot to be readied and he looked at the message in utter confusion. What?! Where? Why?? Who??

What again?!

As he read it again he figured out that someone had come to see Ben in the play, where of course he was prancing around naked, and had run out in the interval. The message must have come to him in error.

Who the hell was this person?! He wasn’t sure why it upset him so much. It couldn’t have been Martin (who he hated because of the way fans shipped him with Ben. With Sherlock. Whatever.) He was going to write in some scenes of betrayal and violence that would make any sensible viewer hate Martin. Hate John. Whatever.

So who could this person have been? Had to be Rupert, the sly dog, with his warm smiles and cheerful winks. Half the bloody crew had a crush on him.

Just then the scene was called and he got busy and forgot about all this.

.

.

Mycroft’s phone buzzed just as he entered his office. It was an alert on his personal email. From LadyGlinda.

 

Anthea waited to see if she would get a reply. She had suspected for a while that her boss had been writing fanfic under the pseud sherlock221Bismymuse. The name seemed like something he would pick and his stories always had Sherlock making the first move. Never him.

She knew he had been in an odd mood for a while and had seen him brooding on those CCTV feeds she now had access to. She wondered if she could prod him into getting out of his funk by writing something really far out. Something apocalyptic where only the two of them would survive.

To her surprise sherlock221Bismymuse agreed to write this crack making here even more convinced this was Mycroft. Somehow he had managed to keep those emails on some encrypted server that even she did not have access to.

She was so pleased that her strategy was working that she also sat down and spent her Sunday evening writing something crack-y in return. After all Andrew was away on a tour with his theatre group and she had nothing much to do.

Half an hour later she got a notification that a fic had been gifted to her.

.

.

2B or not 2B that is the question

Gifted to LadyGlinda for her burning desire to always have me kill off anyone but the two Holmes Brothers. Molly can go first. John can most certainly go. Lady Smallwood is always a target. So naturally this is the event horizon of that wish fulfilment---where everyone on the entire planet is killed off but the two of them.
The title is a play on 221B and of course Hamlet’s existentialist soliloquy.
Presenting the magnificent end of the world apocalyptic tale. 2 B….or not 2B

 

Chapter 1

The rotor blades of the helicopter could barely be heard above the chaos that erupted all around London and in fact around the world.

As far as the eye could see there was only death and destruction. Plumes of smoke spiralled up towards the sky from fires and bombs. Zombies were running amok on the streets, devouring any poor creature that crossed their paths and even many who didn’t.

.

Molly was the first to die because when the zombies emerged, they did so first in the morgue. Molly saved everyone else in the hospital by sacrificing herself. She locked the main door from inside and fought the zombies for as long as she could.

But, alas, how long would a single person wielding one scalpel last?

John died in the plague that swept across the planet the very same day. Those affected developed large purple boils all over their skin and when these ruptured they bled to death, lying in heaps all over the streets as they died instantly.

Greg died in an explosion while attempting to kill the zombie king. He did succeed but unfortunately that only delayed the inevitable and didn’t prevent it.

It was the end of days.

Sally died in a volcanic eruption when the tectonic plates shifted beneath London. Anderson fell into the wide ravine that opened up below the Thames and swallowed the entire river in seconds.

Mummy and Father Holmes had come to spend the weekend at Baker Street at the insistence of Martha Hudson. A poisonous gas leak there meant that none of them woke up the next day.

Locusts, tsunamis, hellfires, everywhere one could see only mayhem..

.

The only sign of life at this point was the black helicopter whirring over London and one lone figure standing on the roof of St. Bart’s, black coat flapping behind him as he watched this scene, aghast, his eyes searching for someone.

“Sherlock!!! “he heard someone yelling and looked up to see Mycroft in the helicopter.

A ladder dangled down and as he held on to it and started climbing he noticed that Mycroft was still dressed impeccably as usual, and was piloting the helicopter.

“What happened Mycie ?!”

“ARC Air is a go Sherlock.” Was all he heard as the helicopter picked up speed and they hurtled away towards an unknown destination.

.

.

Mycroft smiled as he posted this and felt much better already. Everyone else was dead. Muahahaha. He flexed his fingers. The two of them were going to have so much fun in this fic. Sex in outer space. He grinned as he wrote up the next chapter.

 

Anthea read the first chapter and grinned to herself. She would post hers now.

 

Chapter 1: Texting

You've got a case? I'm bored… SH

You never take care of my cases… And I don't have anything for you right now anyway. MH

Oh. Wrong number. SH

Why am I not surprised? But your friend Greg Lestrade doesn’t have a case for you either I’m afraid. MH

And of course you know that, Mr Control-Freak… SH

I am merely keeping my eyes open, little brother. Wider than ever… MH

It wasn't your fault, you know that, right? SH

We both know it was but it is kind of you to say that. When will you visit her next? MH

Don't know. The response is a bit… poor. SH

I'm sorry, Sherlock. I know you have tried hard. MH

And you probably didn't like it. SH

I'm a big boy. I can deal with my brother bonding with my sister. But I don't have very fond memories of that particular day a month ago. MH

Neither do I. But I thought I could help her. Was probably stupid… SH

Not stupid at all. But we have to accept we cannot save everybody. MH

Well said. SH

I have to go now, the Prime Minister is waiting. Have a good day. MH

And you. As much as the goldfish let you. SH

They are a menace but I can manage. MH

That almost sounded like poetry. SH

I'm doing my best. MH

No doubt about it. Laters. SH

Chapter Text

Since it was a Sunday Greg had gone in to finish the paperwork in order on stay on top of it all.

Since the ‘thing’ had started with John and then Mary and now Sherlock, his overtime capacity had reduced substantially and currently he was facing a tsunami of paperwork. Sally suspected he was having too much fun and was slightly resentful and thus not being very cooperative with the blasted forms and things. Ugh.

But now he was done. Greg yawned, stretched and looked at his watch. Bloody hell. 4 pm already! How time flies when you are having fun he thought to himself grimly.

He wondered if he should go check on Sherlock. A small voice of warning was whispering in his head, more and more often nowadays. Reminding him that Sherlock was not like other people. He did not do feelings. This was all some ridiculous experiment. He allowed himself to feel a little smug that despite all those rumours about Sherlock and John that he, Greg, had been the first one to get his hands on that lush booty.

Of course sex with John had been awesome too and when Mary joined in….wowza….that had been super awesome. No strings attached orgies.

Even better than being a Roman Emperor he thought to himself. The poor sods didn’t have wifi.

And anyway, who wanted messy relationships and the emotions and the expectations and then the inevitable failures…..maybe Mycroft was right after all. Damn genius.

But…he sighed….and he would probably carry this secret to the end of his days…….all the sex was truly great ……but Sherlock was the one he genuinely had feelings for. He wanted Sherlock to be happy. Even when this ‘experiment’ would inevitably end some day and he would go back to being snapped at and having his name forgotten. He would always wish for Sherlock to be happy.

So, he pushed himself off his chair and wore his coat and made his way to Baker Street.

.

.

 

He found Sherlock sitting there on the sofa, crying and eating chocolate.

“Hey, hey Sherlock?! Hey?!” Greg asked, immediately worried. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock said, weeping and cramming the chocolate into his mouth. “I was just watching this commercial for a bank and there was a baby and ….and …..a kitten and …….”

He sobbed and held on to Greg who was now baffled beyond any locked room mystery ever. What in the heck was going on? Should he call John? Mycroft?

He sat there holding Sherlock as his weeping subsided. Suddenly Sherlock got up and marched to the bathroom. He came out cleaned up and beaming.

“Hello Gregory!” He said cheerfully. “Are we meeting John and Mary again tonight?”

Greg just stared at him, wide-eyed, feeling like he had just got whiplash from these mood swings.

“Uh…no.” He said. “They have some wedding stuff to deal with. It’s just you and me. Should I order some takeaway and we can plan John’s stag do?”

“Ok sure.” Sherlock said, still bright and cheerful. He waved his arms around. “Isn’t everything so beautiful? Sparkly and fresh and joyful?”

Greg blinked at this and in a split second went from bemused to enraged. He stood up and caught hold of Sherlock and dragged him to the window to look at his pupils.

“Sherlock!! Have you been using?” He seethed.

“What?! No! What is wrong with you?!!” Sherlock said slapping his hands away. “Unhand me you beast.”

And then he fainted away in to Greg’s arms like a Victorian damsel.

.

.

This is what Mycroft saw when he checked the cameras for his usual evening update on Sherlock’s status.

He sighed. The fates really had it in for him didn’t they?! So he just gave up and shut the window. He drank all the whiskey in his glass and stared at it sadly.

If this is what real life was giving him, he needed to make it better with fic didn't he? He rolled up his sleeves, opened the encrypted folder and started typing. 

 

Sherlock moved closer, slowly, tentatively, as though the space between them was too fragile and one or both of them would shatter if it was crossed.

He stood a few feet away from Mycroft finally, never taking his eyes off that face. His dreams and longings of the past few months made flesh and blood.

He could make out that Mycroft was holding his left shoulder a bit stiffly and his own breath hitched at the realization. The bullet may well have found its way to his heart. His knees almost gave way at the stark realization of how close he had come to losing Mycroft…forever.

So many years of anger and unhappiness between them….so many harsh words said and unsaid…..

So many…feelings. There was no other word for it. All those years of chanting ‘emotions are a chemical defect’… ‘caring is not an advantage’... and here he stood.

Head over heels in love.

For this was love wasn’t it?

He had eventually figured it out for himself. This was the source of poetry and art and unbearable sadness…as well as joy.

This was agony and ecstasy and the meaning of life.

He stood here today, with no purpose for his existence that he could imagine beyond loving this man.

Mycie. His Mycie. Only his Mycie.

He reached out and touched his cheek. Slowly. Softly.

‘Mycie?’ He whispered.

When there was no response he came closer.

“Mycie? It’s me.” He gave a shy smile and ruffled his own hair. “My hair hasn’t quite grown back fully yet. I probably look really different…..”

.

.

To his surprise eloquated seemed to be online and responded right away with :

Seven months.  Three days. Eighteen hours.  And Sherlock felt different in his arms when they closed around him; he was stronger than when he'd left, and when Mycroft curled his fingers against the back of his head, cradling him close, the dark hair was short and fuzzy instead of the thick curls from before.

But for all the changes, he was still Sherlock, and Mycroft would know him anywhere.  

He knew the racing, too fast cadence of his heart as it beat against his own.  The catching, tripping sound of his breath, and the way it felt against the side of his neck.  

And he knew the sharp, lanky angles when Sherlock collapsed against him, trusting his brother to hold his weight.  There were things it would take longer than seven months to forget. Mycroft didn't think seven decades. Centuries.  Would be enough.

Kissing him was the most natural thing in the world.  

"Shh.. Lockie, dearest, breathe."  He reminded him gently when Sherlock had pulled away, the warmth of his kiss still lingering on Mycroft's mouth, making his skin tingle.  For a moment, Mycroft looked into his brother's eyes, searching for some confirmation of guilt. Remorse.

And found only a heat that made his own breath catch.  They had to talk about this. Didn't they?

"I love you."  

Those were the only words he needed before he met Sherlock halfway in another breathless kiss.

 

.

.

Mycroft stared at these words with his heart hammering. Truly what if....what if this could happen in real life?! What would he not give to make this happen? 

Would he be willing to take what he could get with Sherlock and his insane sexual experimentation?! He was never going to get the real deal anyway. Might as well make do....

It was with such ruminations that he took himself off to bed and had a very restless night indeed.

.

.

Meanwhile at Baker Street a few hours earlier, Sherlock woke up and explained to a worried Greg that he had slept badly and had weird dreams and he suspected that Hudders was drugging him. For what reason he could not imagine but he narrowed his eyes and looked even more paranoid than usual.

So Greg huffed and rolled his eyes and said it was probably from too much sex. "Let’s just order some curry and naan and get some bloody food into your ‘Transport’. John’s stag do is tomorrow night so you better be well enough to turn up there!”

They had a delicious meal and Greg reminded Sherlock of the very first case they had worked on together and Sherlock shared some stroeis of cases he had worked independent of Scotland Yard. They had a really good time and Greg reflected on how much he actually enjoyed Sherlock's company when he was in a good mood.

After clearing up, just as Greg was getting ready to leave, John and Mary dropped in. After a round of tea and some cake they had got along, Mary looked at Sherlock and Greg and smiled. "So..... you men are going to have all the fun tomorrow night! When do I get my turn?!" and she gave them a lush wink.

Greg cleared his throat and said they needed to go slow because it was affecting Sherlock and he would be better off with some kind of routine. "His Transport can't deal with all these orgies."

“Oh I know Mary said brightly! I have just the thing for him.” She fished a packet out of her bag and gave it to him.

Sherlock opened it to find a panties. Seven of them. Hmm....these would be an interesting piece of data for his experiment.

“Go on open it!” Mary said cheerfully. “They are days of the week underwear. That way we can assign days and you will know which day is whose and which day is free.”

“You are one evil genius!” John said in admiration as he kissed her. It felt strange to know that he did love her enough to marry her but that some part of his heart would always belong to his crazy genius flatmate and no matter how many others came into his life, he would still want to have Sherlock. Of course, he would take that secret to his grave. 

Mary kissed him back and thought about how she would miss Sherlock and his new found love for sex which made him such an adorable combination of being utterly innocent in some ways and completely wild in others. He loved experimenting and while she loved John and his old world soldierly charm and the way he loved her back, she knew there would always be a special place in her heart for his eccentric flatmate. No need to share these feelings of course. They would go with her to her grave.

By now Sherlock had opened his laptop and was tapping away, undoubtedly adding some variables to his sexperiment charts. He saw her looking at him and grinned. “What a wonderful invention! Days of the week underwear.”

“Yeah well, Sally made them famous didn’t she?” Mary said with a laugh. “When Harry met Sally?

“Sally?!” Greg said, his eyes almost bugging out.

“Harry?!” John said equally shocked.

“No no! Hell no!” Mary said with a chortle as she fake punched John on the arm. “The famous romantic comedy! Don’t tell me you haven’t seen it?! We need to watch it on our next movie night.”

" Movie nights!" Greg exclaimed. "Count me in! But I really ought to leave now."

.

.

Martha Hudson listened as she heard all of them troop down the stairs. She had just finished writing a section for the fic she was co-writing.

She wondered if she could put some spell on the damn Ao3 and make the fics come true. Hmm...she sipped her herbal soother. She could check with the coven tomorrow.