Archive of Our Own ^beta

Recreated experiment from Baskerville. Your assistance required to dispose of results. -SH

Really, Sherlock. I have already provided you with the contact information for the hazardous materials disposal unit. You can deal with this yourself. -MH

For the record, I was on my way home from Brighton. I’d have stopped him if I knew. But, yes. This requires your attention. -JW

Mycroft sighs and send another text to summon his car to the Club. For all that his brother is prone to exaggeration, Doctor Watson has always been sensible. If John thinks that Mycroft needs to take care of this himself, it might actually be worthy of his time.

He checks his alerts, but there is nothing unusual on the Baker street monitors. So, not fire or flood, no outward signs of ravening beasts. He stirs himself from the comfortable leather armchair, gathering his briefcase and umbrella to go out and meet the car.

The exterior of Baker Street shows no signs of a disturbance. Mycroft adjusts his jacket as he exits the car. Perhaps this was a waste of his time after all.

Mrs. Hudson must have been hovering behind the door because it is opened before he can even approach the front steps. “He’s been causing such a terrible ruckus. I’ve never seen him like this,” she says by way of greeting.

Indeed, now that the door is open Mycroft is able to hear the familiar refrain of Sherlock’s opus “I am intensely annoyed and or bored.” Solo violin E flat.

Mycroft’s face contorts, his eyebrow raising and his lips forming a small moue of discontent.
“Very well, Mrs. Hudson, I will see to it.” He hands off his umbrella to Mrs. Hudson and climbs the stairs. His briefcase has, of course, been locked into a safe in the trunk of his car.

As he approaches the top of the stairs he can distinguish a conversation, being held in rather loud, but polite tones. Two people are obviously attempting to converse in spite of Sherlock’s ministrations on the violin. Mycroft recognizes one of the voices as John, but is unable to place the second man.

He opens the door to the sitting room. Sherlock is perched on the end on the sofa, hacking away on the violin. John is in his usual chair, facing a stranger who is reclining in Sherlock’s chair sipping tea and expressing every indication of interest in whatever John is trying to tell him. The newcomer’s attire is impeccable, but extremely dated, and Mycroft wonders if he has been called out to deal with some sort of crazed historical re-enactor.  Mycroft sighs and barks out “Sherlock, cease that racket.”

John snaps his attention to the doorway as Sherlock saws viciously at the violin one last time before dropping it from his shoulder. John visibly relaxes as Mycroft steps into the room. “Thank God. I swear Mycroft, I had no idea he would... do this.”

“I’m sure you could not have predicted Sherlock’s behaviour, John. He can be so eccentric.” Mycroft tilts his head towards the stranger. “I do hope that my brother’s experiment hasn’t inconvenienced you in anyway.” He reaches into his jacket for his billfold. “However, if there have been any damages I shall be more than happy to reimburse you from my brother’s account. Shall I make out a cheque to...?

John cleared his throat. “Ah, Mycroft. Allow me to introduce you to... well. Mycroft Holmes, please meet Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft frowned. “John. I fail to see the humour.”

“If I may.” The stranger who was apparently pretending to be Mycroft Holmes interjected. “As far as Doctor Watson here has been able to tell me, your Sherlock has recreated some sort of classified experiment in teleportation. Apparently in an attempt to return Doctor Watson to London ahead of schedule. They have been so kind as to inform me that it is currently the year of our Lord two thousand and twelve. We have been able to determine that I myself was accidently fetched from both an alternative time line and a separate reality. So while I do indeed have a brother named Sherlock Holmes, and he does associate with a former army Doctor Watson, it would seem that that is where the similarities end. Although I do hold a minor position in the British Government.”

Mycroft narrows his eyes. “All of that could have been gleaned from Doctor Watson’s blog. Sherlock, surely you didn’t need my assistance dealing with this imposter. He looks nothing like me.”

Sherlock has replaced the violin in its case in the interim. He scrubs his hands through his hair, running them back and forth through his hair in frustration. “John was in Brighton. Mycroft. Brighton.”

“Yes, I’m aware he was at a conference. Your point?”

“Lestrade’s sister broke her leg. He had to go to Manchester. To watch his nieces.”

“Oh.” Mycroft frowns. “So you, what. Tried to teleport John back to London?”

Sherlock gestured to the kitchen, Mycroft turned to the kitchen and recognized some highly classified equipment, arranged not entirely to specifications and emitting small wisps of smoke. Mycroft does not curse, as a general rule; he allows himself a moment to collect himself before calmly turning back to Sherlock. “That experiment was was mothballed for a reason, Sherlock. It was dangerous even for Baskerville.” He removes his phone from his pocket and dials Anthea’s number.

“I need a level four team dispatched to Baker Street to move some sensitive equipment. And a suite at the Club.” Mycroft hangs up the phone as soon as he has finished speaking.

“You are very calm.” Mycroft addresses the stranger.

“I was last visiting my own brother, in rooms not dissimilar to these. As I see it, either my brother has conducted an experiment and I am currently suffering the ill effects of some potion of his, or your brother has conducted an experiment and I am over a hundred years in the future and in a different dimension.” He raises his tea mug. “Either way, the tea is passable, and I see nothing here to take alarm at.” His eyes flick back and forth between John and Sherlock. “Frankly, I am leaning towards laying blame at your brother’s feet. I’m sure my imagination is not this inventive.”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “Well, it is good to know that even in alternative realities Sherlock is still a nuisance. Sherlock’s call interrupted my afternoon at the Diogenes; if you are finished your tea I would be happy to escort you to the Club.”

Mr. Holmes perked up at the mention of the Club, shifting subtly in his chair and tapping a pattern with his thumb against his knee.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and turned to Sherlock. “Do not cause a scene when the team arrives. All that.” he waves into the kitchen. “Is going back to Baskerville. And you will be debriefed as to how you obtained them.” He turned back to John. “I will leave him in your capable hands. Perhaps in the future, if you require emergency extraction, I can offer my services. I am sure not all the residents of parallel dimensions are as civilized as Mr. Holmes.”

John frowned and directed a glare at Sherlock. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary. Thank you, Mycroft.”

He inclined his head in John’s direction. “Mr. Holmes, I have a car waiting outside. While I am quite sure John has been a pleasant enough host, I’m sure you will find the Club more to your usual standards.”

John declined to comment, still staring daggers at Sherlock. Mr. Holmes set down the cup and saucer on the small table beside Sherlock’s chair and levered himself up. Mycroft had always found the chair to be too short, and he suspected that Sherlock kept it that way to discourage others from sitting in it.

“Yes, well. This has been most enlightening. I do believe that, if I am experiencing a hallucination, I shall have to advise Sherlock to keep Doctor Watson out of Brighton for the foreseeable future.”

He crossed the room to stand next to Mycroft. Once standing it was even more obvious that they were not cut from the same cloth. Mr. Holmes was the taller of the two, and Mycroft tilted his chin up slightly to meet the other man’s gaze. “Shall we then?”

“Of course. Good day, John. Sherlock.” Mycroft led the way down the stairs and out onto the street. At the street door they paused, hearing the beginnings of John berating Sherlock.

“You could have bloody zapped me back to the stone age! Or brought me here and turned me inside out!”

The two men exchanged a glance and stepped out into the street. Mycroft moved forward and opened the passenger door of the car, somewhat awkwardly as he had neglected to text the driver to inform him he was coming down. Mycroft held the door open for Mr. Holmes.

Mr. Holmes crossed the pavement, stopping in front of the open car door. “Definitely your brother’s fault. This is not something even my mind could have imagined.” He ducks and climbs awkwardly into the car.

Mycroft follows him in and sits in the rear facing seat, pulling the door closed behind him. He takes a moment to examine the other man before he reaches up and raps his knuckles on the glass partition. “The Club. As slowly as you can without attracting attention.”

The car pulls away from the curb, smooth and quiet. Mr. Holmes does not clutch at the armrests, but he is obviously uncomfortable. “I saw them going by from the window. When I first arrived, your Doctor Watson said that they are usually much faster. The cabs in my London, are faster than this, but feel different.” He looks out the window, but is unable to see much through the dark tint of the glass. “The city is so very much the same. And yet wholly transformed. The noises, smells, even the texture of the air. It was winter, but Dr. Watson told me it is spring.”

Mycroft shifts in his seat. “I can imagine, it must be difficult for you. I assure you that we will return you to your rightful place and time in short order. There was significant work done on the experiment Sherlock used before the project was shut down. I am confident we will be able to reverse the process.” He flipped out his phone again, sending off a quick text to Anthea. “I am confident in our ability to return you to your proper place. But I am sure you can see that this may take some time. We will need to have a cover story, and I think perhaps an alias for you. I am only a minor official, but Mycroft is a unique name, and in certain circles I am well known. Of course you can retain Holmes; it will be less difficult to gain entrance to the Club as a cousin.”

“Sherrinford.”

“Of course. I’ve asked my assistant to send a tailor as well as some personal items ahead to the Club. No one at the Club will ask questions. It will be best to be prepared to stay, and I will use Sherlock’s trust fund to cover the expenses.”

Sherrinford snorted. “He hasn’t spent it all on cocaine?”

“Ah. No. I’m afraid cocaine is no longer legal, although that didn’t stop him from wasting a good portion of his life on it. Doctor Watson has, to a certain extent, proved a very good influence on my brother. Sherlock... has replaced his addiction with something far less destructive.”

“Doctor Watson and your brother. They live with Lestrade?” Mycroft detected a carefully uninterested tone in Sherrinford's voice. 

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “You have a Lestrade as well? How very fortunate for your Sherlock. Someone to indulge his tastes for the criminal element.” He paused, considering the other man. “Their arrangement is complicated, and brought about by an unfortunate incident involving Sherlock faking his own death.”

Sherrinford flinched, and Mycroft had to wonder if the other Sherlock had also ended his own life. “Our Moriarty had made threats against Doctor Watson, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock took the rather extreme measure of staging his own suicide to prevent any harm coming to the others.”

Sherrinford exhaled sharply. “I do believe I would prefer a reality in which that man did not exist. Sherlock took himself and the Professor over the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland. Preventing, or at least, delaying an international incident.”

The car rolled up to the curb in front of the Club. The driver came round to open the door for them. Sherrinford made a contented noise. “It is the same. I have rooms here, at home.” His voice was pitched so that only Mycroft could hear as they approached the front door.

Mycroft paused in the foyer, entering Sherrinford into the register as his guest. A porter appeared with a key and handed it off without a word. Mycroft gestured to Sherrinford to proceed him up the stairs at the end of the hall. They traversed the distance to the suite in silence, Mycroft taking care that they were seen as little as possible.

Once they were safely ensconced in the rooms, Mycroft handed over the key. “I shall make myself at your disposal if you require anything further.” He pondered the logistics of teaching the man to use a mobile telephone. “I am sure the staff can see to your needs; have you taken your luncheon?”

“My Club is known for it’s Beef Wellington?” Sherrinford sounds hopeful.

“Ah. Yes, I believe our chef has it as one of his specialities.”

“Very good! Have the kitchen send up two.”

Mycroft smiles. “I really shouldn’t.” He runs his hands over his waist. “I’ve been dieting.”

Sherrinford waves away the protest. “Nonsense, man, men in our position need to keep up their strength.”

“Very well. If you insist.” Mycroft’s expression was one of a man who had been persuaded to do something that he very much wanted to do anyway, but needed to appear as though he had made an effort to avoid it.

Sherrinford settled into one of the room’s high backed chairs. Sighing softly. “I have been in rooms very nearly the same as this, on more occasions than I can count. But these are not the rooms I so often frequent.”

Mycroft paused with his hand on the telephone, looking around the room and trying to see it for the first time. He swallowed, realizing that everything in the room was modern by Sherrinford’s standards. There was a fireplace, but it had been refitted to electric, tasteful faux logs and simulated fire removing the spring chill from the air. The overhead lights were of course electric. And there was a large flat screen television mounted to the wall where there ought to have been a painting. The telephone on which his hand rested was old fashioned by his standards, with a cord between the receiver and the base. “Would you prefer if I stayed with you to answer questions? Or is it easier to ignore... this?” He gestured to encompass the room with his free hand.

“If I am truly going home, I might find it easier not to know. Which is not to say that I would be averse to the company in the interim. It is so rare to find someone with whom one might be able to justify the effort of conversing.”

Mycroft nods and picks up the phone to call the kitchen for lunch. “Beef Wellington for myself and my guest. In the suite, please.” He licked his lips before adding, “And a bottle of the Chateauneuf du Pape.” He hung up the phone once the order was confirmed. “I rather think I have earned the afternoon off.” Mycroft settled in the other chair. Removing his phone from his pocket he sent off a flurry of texts. “Barring a true international incident, I will be entirely at your disposal for the rest of the day.”

Sherrinford pressed the fingers of one hand against his temple. “I suppose they do continue to happen. There is no accounting for human error and acts of God I suppose.” He smirked. “And when the two combine.” He shuddered. “You can imagine the leg work.”

Mycroft’s smile was cool but knowing. “Wherever possible I endeavour to have Sherlock do my leg work for me.”

“He does so enjoy it, all the dashing about. Of course in the beginning he was so difficult. I very nearly had to go to Australia myself, after The SS Gothenburg.”

The two men settled back to await their luncheon, trading stories of international incidents avoided, or created as the case may be.

In short order there was a scratch at the door. Mycroft rose and opened the door to admit the serving staff. Two white booted stewards entered, one pushing a small dining table on wheels and the other carrying the bottle of red wine. Sherrinford rose as well and made room for the stewards to adjust the wing back chairs towards the table. Their movements were precise and organized and in a matter of moments the luncheon was set. Mycroft and Sherrinford resumed their places and the wine steward presented the bottle to Mycroft. He nodded and the servants left as quietly as they arrived.

Once the door closed behind them Mycroft relaxed back into his chair. “Now to see if my Club measures up to yours. Wine?” At Sherrinford’s nod Mycroft leant forward and poured a generous glass for each of them.

Sherrinford raised his glass in salute to Mycroft. “To unexpected encounters.” He touched his glass to Mycroft’s. “It does smell divine.” He sipped his wine, “This is very nice as well. I don’t believe I have heard of the vineyard. Another mark against your brother, I’m afraid.”

Mycroft sipped as well, completing the toast. “As much as I would enjoy laying blame at your brother’s feet. I must accept that this rests with my Sherlock since I can assure you I am quite real, as is all this. Here at least Sherlock tends to restrain himself to experimenting on Doctor Watson and Detective Inspector Lestrade. He has outdone himself this time, making a nuisance of himself across dimensions.”

Sherrinford lifted his fork and knife and cut into one of the roasted potatoes next to the beef. “I shall have to be careful when I return home, so as to not give Sherlock any ideas.” He considered the forkful of potato before adding, “Your brother’s arrangement. Is it typical now?”

Mycroft clears his throat and smoothes his napkin over his lap. “Sherlock is never typical, as I am sure you will agree.” He pauses, considering what he knows of the other man. Sherrinford shares enough of Mycroft’s sensibilities not to be uncomfortable with the arrangement Sherlock John and Lestrade share. “Sherlock... You understand that I don’t dwell on the logistics of his arrangement. The number of participants is higher than is typical, but they are otherwise unremarkable.”

Sherrinford has been regarding Mycroft steadily, and Mycroft felt his cheeks heating under the other man’s gaze.

“I’ve often wondered about my own brother and Doctor Watson and avoided thinking too deeply on the logistics, so I can understand your feeling. While I did not have the pleasure of meeting your Lestrade; there was a portrait of the three of them on the mantle, and it would seem that a disproportionate degree of aesthetically pleasing factors have been concentrated here; I believe I could spend a great deal of time pondering the logistics of that arrangement."

Mycroft’s fingers grazed his fork, his brain stuttering as he tried to parse Sherrinford’s sentence.

“I have always held a particular fondness for Doctor Watson, it did seem such a shame when he married.” Sherrinford’s grin was wicked. “It was a delight to rattle that woman’s sensibilities. The Lestrade in my London is...” He grimaced and popped the bite of potato into his mouth.

Mycroft grasped his fork and used it to push a spear of asparagus away from his potatoes. “John never married. After Sherlock’s suicide he and Lestrade spent all of their spare time trying to repair the damage Moriarty had done, they took up together in defense of him. And then he came home. Sherlock indulges so rarely it seems he is trying to make up for quantity with quantity.” Mycroft began to quarter his potatoes and asparagus, involuntarily caught up in the logistics of his brother’s romantic arrangement.

Sherrinford waited until Mycroft was finished arranging his food and had looked back up at him to select a spear of asparagus from his plate with his fingers. There should be nothing licentious about biting the tip from a vegetable, but somehow Sherrinford made it so. Mycroft does not gape or look away, but watches as the spear disappears into the other man’s mouth. There is something, not entirely erotic but, intriguing in watching the other man eat. Mycroft knows exactly the rough texture and earthy taste of the asparagus, he knows what it feels like to cut through it with his teeth. The man across from him is not a copy or duplicate of himself, they share the same outline but the details are different.
He chews his lip and looks away as the last of the asparagus disappears between Sherrinford’s lips. It isn’t something he would consider with ordinary people; Sherrinford is far from ordinary. Mycroft’s eyes drift closed as he considers the plate of food in front of him, hearing the soft pop of Sherrinford’s fingers leaving his mouth. He feels his heart rate increase and his breathing became shallow, his mind stumbling over the overlapping images of his own fingers on his lips, and Sherrinford’s fingers on Mycroft’s own lips.

Sherrinford dropped his hand to his lap as Mycroft looked back up at him. “Apologies my dear man, but if my time here is to be limited I should like to make the best use of it.”

Mycroft cleared his throat and adjusted slightly in his chair. “Of course.” he selected a piece of asparagus from his plate and pierced it with his fork. Raising it to his lips and pausing for just a fraction of a second before placing it in his mouth.

Sherrinford sat back and watched Mycroft chew, a small pleasantly wicked smile flirted across his lips. “Indeed, it is a shame let a good Beef Wellington go to waste.” He sat forward and picked up his knife and fork, making short work of carving up his meal.

Mycroft resolved to only eat as much as necessary to be polite, but once the first bite of beef crossed his lips he continued to eat until his plate was bare. The meal passed in silence for the most part, with only small compliments on the pate and offers of more wine. If Sherrinford’s foot found itself pressed against Mycroft’s calf neither of the men mentioned it

Sherrinford folded his napkin and placed it beside his plate, sighing contentedly as he relaxed back into his chair. The top of his shoe travelling along the inner edge of Mycroft’s calf. “I do believe your club has the superior meal.”

Mycroft felt a thrill along his spine. He could not count the number of times he had used exactly the same maneuver, generally to very good effect. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and slid his foot forward, causing Sherrinford’s foot to ride higher up his leg. “You have me at an advantage in that regard, I have nothing to compare to.”

Sherrinford smiled and swirled the last of his wine in his glass. “London in 1902 is mean and dirty, full of shouts and bustle. Even here in the Club it is never truly quiet. It provides endless distraction for Sherlock, but when I arrived here I was almost overcome by the silence.” His toe travelled tight circles against Mycroft’s leg. “Desert?”

Mycroft smiled, the wine and food had made him warm and content, the presence of the other man presented possibilities for a very pleasurable afternoon. He opened his mouth to reply, the kitchen had a new cheesecake that he had desired but avoided, knowing Sherlock would comment on it if he indulged. His eyes travelled over Sherrinford’s face, taking in the tilt of the lip and the creases around his eyes. Why should he let Sherlock chastise him? Sherlock indulged in every vice known to man, and some of his own devising. Mycroft’s position so rarely allowed him leisure to indulge, he would take full advantage of the situation.

Before Mycroft could speak there was another scratch at the door. Mycroft frowned, but one did not call out to servants at the Club. “That will be the tailor and your personal effects. And they will want to clear this away.”

Sherrinford sighed and removed his foot from Mycroft’s leg. He rose from the table and arranged himself at the mantle, a study in careful disinterest and barely veiled annoyance.

Mycroft crossed to the door and opened it, admitting the two lunch stewards. They immediately went about removing all traces of the fine meal the two men had shared. Behind them were another two stewards, these wearing white gloves as well, carrying a large folding mirror between them. A third man stood at the end of the hall with a small overnight bag. Mycroft knew better than to try to rush the stewards through their tasks, the staff at the Club were all very well trained, and he suspected that they had mandatory synchronized swimming lessons, or perhaps dance. In a matter of moments the table was cleared and removed and the mirror had been set up opposite the fireplace. Sherrinford’s bag was placed in the suite’s bedroom. Anthea had created a perfect replica of a man’s overnight carry-on; the bag was well used, but of obvious quality. If Mycroft was to open it he would discover partially used products, nothing brand new to give away that it had not existed before this morning.

The wing-back chairs were adjusted so that they faced towards the ornate dark wood mirror. And yet another steward arrived escorting Mycroft’s tailor just as the other staff departed, ensuring that Mycroft would not have to answer the door a third time. Mycroft closed the door behind the departing staff and nodded his head towards Sherrinford, the rules of the Club being such that they would not speak until the tailor was finished.

Sherrinford removed his outer jacket and folded it gently over the back of the chair. His fingers were deft and sure as they unbuttoned his waistcoat and placed it on top of the jacket.

Mycroft wanted nothing more than to help the other man unbutton his shirt, but instead he returned to his chair and removed his mobile from his pocket, attempting to appear interested in some report or another contained in the tiny screen while watching as Sherrinford undressed in the reflection from the mirror. Sherrinford’s shirt and trousers joined the rest of his suit, slung over the back of his chair, his shoes were removed and kicked under the chair.

Mycroft did have to glance away, dropping his mobile to his lap and lifting one hand to his mouth, as Sherrinford stepped forward into the professional embrace of the tailor. Mycroft pulled gently at his lip, his heart racing, he knew the man standing reflected in triplicate in front of him. Knew every inch of his skin, despite only having been introduced to him this morning. He had to close his eyes as a warm wave of desire rolled over him. It should be impossible to know every detail of sensation, the brush of the tailor’s fingers against skin that was not his own, the flat non-sensation of pants and vest against his skin. It was jarring suddenly to think that they were not the same, that there could be something that Mycroft had never felt.

The tiny ping of vibration from his mobile brought him back to himself and the room. He opens the email message and scans over the text from Anthea.

Dr. Rathbone attempted to recreate teleportation in his home lab. Experiment failed and Rathbone was reconstituted inside out. Expect delays until new researchers can be cleared and brought up to speed.

Mycroft glanced up sharply at Sherrinford, examining every inch of the other man, frustrated by the presence of the tailor and the existence of pants and vests. Sherrinford caught his gaze in the mirror, the other man’s eyes were calm, hooded but Mycroft knew that he was aware that something had changed. There was a subtle shift in the press of his lips and Mycroft fought to remain impassive in his chair.

The tailor was both extremely discreet and well practiced. He made several notes on a small pad of paper and nodded at both men. He turned on his heel and showed himself out.

The door had barely clicked home before Mycroft was out of his chair and across the room. Crowding the edges of Sherrinford’s space, his fingers reaching forward on their own accord; wanting to brush against the skin of the other man but hesitating before breaking the last barrier between them.

Sherrinford caught his wrist and drew him in, Sherrinford’s other hand catching his jaw and somehow he was anchored. The warmth and steady power of the other man’s grasp soothing his mind and setting aside his fears. Mycroft inhaled sharply, wondering how he had become so emotionally invested in the other man in such a short time.

Sherrinford’s thumb smoothed over Mycroft’s jaw line, Mycroft felt his neck muscles relax into the cup of Sherrinford’s hand. “You must tell me immediately if you feel any discomfort at all, any change in appetite, nausea or shortness of breath.” Mycroft said, turning his head to catch Sherrinford’s palm with his lips. His eyes drifting shut. He doesn’t want to speak anymore, but he knows he needs to warn Sherrinford that there could be side effects to Sherlock’s experiment.

“I am in perfect health, I assure you. And my appetites are exactly as they should be.” His fingers tightened on Mycroft’s jaw and pulled him close, placing a delicate and entirely unchaste kiss on Mycroft’s lips-- full of demand, but seeking permission.

Mycroft’s lips parted, his tongue slipping forward to brush against Sherrinford’s bottom lip, before pulling back to look the other man in the eyes.
“I insist you tell me if you feel the slightest discomfort. I would feel...” he wills himself not to say devastated, “responsible if anything was to happen to you because of my brother’s experiment.”

“I understand. Doctor Watson’s concerns about having his insides reversed were well founded?” Sherrinford scans Mycroft’s face, knowing the answer without Mycroft having to say a word.

It is exhilarating Mycroft realizes, here is a man from whom he cannot keep secrets. One that he does not want to keep secrets from, and one who will conceal anything from him. If Mycroft were a lesser man he would have moaned, as it is he inhales and brings his arm up to rest on Sherrinford’s waist. Mycroft is almost sure that the dual sensation will fade, feeling the soft fine texture of his undergarments over his skin and knowing, now, what it feels like to be the one running his fingers along the fabric. Given enough time, time they won’t have -- can not possibly have enough of for this to fade, his fingers tighten on Sherrinford’s waist with a start, realizing he does not want this to fade that he needs the time to prove this will never fade.

Sherrinford drops Mycroft’s wrist, releasing him only to pull them closer together. They complete the circuit of their embrace and Mycroft tilts his head up slightly, which should feel strange but is infact perfect. Both men know, are similar enough to have no doubts about what the other wants, every motion of tongue and lips is calculated to be exactly what the other needs. It creates a feedback loop that has Mycroft gasping and cursing every moment that lead to this one for not being this moment, why had they wasted so much time? Then he feels the irrational desire to relive those moments, so that nothing else will ever happen.

Mycroft is still fully dressed, and he becomes conscious of the heat in his skin and the blunted sensation of Sherrinford’s hands on him. He wants more but Sherrinford has made no attempt to remove his clothing. Mycroft pulls back and looks at the other man, calculating. Mycroft grasps Sherrinford’s hips and pushes him back, crowding close and guiding him until his buttocks come to rest against the sideboard. He takes a moment there to savour the sensation of pressing full bodied and aching against the other man. There will be time for that later, surely there will be time enough for that. He is the British Government, he will stop all the clocks if he has to, burn all the calendars for more time.

Sherrinford props himself against the sideboard his hands falling away from Mycroft, and that is not a loss because it gives Mycroft room to touch. His fingers roam, slipping under the hem of Sherrinford’s vest. Light touches that raise the skin of both men. Mycroft presses gentle kisses along the line of the other man’s jaw, catching the shell of his ear into his mouth. His fingers scrabble against the waistband of Sherrinford’s pants, trying to gain friction against the other man. He exhales softly against Sherrinford’s hairline, behind his ear. Not a whisper, but his voice is soft as he asks. “God, I want to. Please will you let me. Say you want me to.”

Sherrinford’s eyes drop closed and his body relaxes, if Mycroft wasn’t holding him tight against the sideboard he might have slid down to the floor. Mycroft smiles against the skin of the man’s neck, because of course he was right. Mycroft does not beg, does not even really require permission. His words were calculated to gain this response, and he gets a thrill to say the words that he most likes to hear. He continues, his tone growing wicked, teasing his tongue along Sherrinford’s neck and down his shoulder. “You would like me to, wouldn’t you? Will you let me, will you tell me what you want.” Of course, he doesn’t need Sherrinford to tell him. It is obvious from every breath the other man takes, the way his hands are clenched against the sideboard, his knuckles white. Mycroft feels heavy, the effort required to remain standing is enormous. He wants so badly to drop down, but he knows what the other man will say, and needs to hear him say it first.

Sherrinford removes one of his hands from the sideboard with effort, gently tugging Mycroft’s chin up and pressing hard kisses against his lips. Mycroft flicks his tongue against the seam of Sherrinford’s lips, coaxing words from the other’s lips.

Sherrinford opens his eyes, breaking away from Mycroft’s lips. His other hand coming free of the sideboard and settles in the small of Mycroft’s back. Despite of Mycroft’s layers he can feel the press of Sherrinford’s desire against his. Sherrinford wets his lips with the tip of his tongue and Mycroft cannot help but watch, holding his breath. Sherrinford inhales, steeling himself before meeting Mycroft’s eyes.

“Mycroft.”

The sound of his name runs shivers down Mycroft’s spine and his hips thrust forward, they are met by Sherrinford’s and Mycroft lets out a low quiet moan. They collapse back together and Mycroft drops his head to Sherrinford’s shoulder, pressing a kiss against his neck. He whispers this time, unable to use his full voice in this one guilty pleasure. “Mycroft.”

Sherrinford, he is still Mycroft surely in his own mind, bucks his hips again and Mycroft’s control shatters. He folds sharply down, his feet tucked in underneath him, sharp edges of his shoes digging into the soft flesh of his buttocks. He looks up dizzy with double vision, able to see what he must look like from Sherrinford’s perspective. He feels himself flush, his entire body feels heavy with desire.

Sherrinford’s hands fall away, bracing himself again. His pants are larger than the modern equivalents that Mycroft wears, but in this case it only serves to make his desire more obvious.
Mycroft runs his hands lightly up the other man’s legs, pressing against the soft fabric before slipping his finger tips under the waistband. “If you want to stop, tell me now. I can walk away now, if you want me to.”

Sherrinford’s head drops back, exposing the long line of his throat. “Mycroft, don’t stop.” The fabric of his pants twitches, echoing the demand of his prick.

Mycroft lifts the elastic away from the other man’s skin, eager himself but unable to rush this. He wants to record every moment in his memory for posterity. The way that his knuckles feel against the texture of Sherrinford’s legs, the slight snap as the waistband comes free as it is pulled past the curve of Sherrinford’s buttocks where it is pressed against the sideboard. He makes himself push the pants all the way to the floor before he allows his gaze to travel to the other man’s groin. His fingers trace their way back up Sherrinford’s legs, catching briefly at his knees, forcing them slightly apart. He continues up, ghosting over Sherrinford’s testicles before sliding his fingers along the shaft of his prick. Mycroft strokes lightly, watching the play of his hand over the other man’s member. His own prick twitches against the combined constriction of his posture and his trousers and he shifted slightly, looking up at Sherrinford.

The other man lowered his head and watched with hooded eyes as Mycroft stroked him. To anyone else his face would have appeared impassive but Mycroft could read the naked desire on his face. He found himself unable to break eye contact, watching the wave of pleasure that flowed through Sherrinford as he stroked again. When his hand reached the root he knelt forward and opened his mouth, sliding down the length as far as he was able. He didn’t allow himself to do this often, despite how much he enjoyed it. It was too difficult to find someone who could be trusted to be discreet, much less problematic to receive than to give. He had, however, catalogued the various tricks that he enjoys and was more than capable of reproducing them. Mycroft swallowed and pressed himself closer to the other man.

Sherrinford’s hand comes away from the table and flutters in faux-helplessness next to Mycroft’s head. Mycroft pulls back and tilts his head towards Sherrinford’s fingers, teasing the head of his prick with his tongue. He waits until Sherrinford’s fingers brushed against his ear before letting his eyes close and sliding back down the shaft.

Sherrinford’s fingers followed him, not tangling in his hair or exerting any pressure. He set his own pace, slowly rocking on his knees using his entire upper body as a pendulum. It is more work than using his head and neck, but it allows for longer strokes. When he reaches the limit of what he can take he pauses, waiting with his tongue swirling against the underside until Sherrinford gives just the slightest twitch of his hips that sends Mycroft sliding back up. At the apex he works his tongue over the tip, allowing his head to bob lightly, almost pulling completely free before beginning another slow descent.

Sherrinford lets out a long sigh as Mycroft slides forward, shivering as Mycroft reaches his limit. “Do you feel that, surely it is not only in my head? That we are so perfectly matched, I... my prick inside your mouth, the feel of you around me. Yet,” his hips stutter against Mycroft’s mouth and Mycroft pulls away, “Mycroft. How is it that I can know what my prick feels like in your mouth? I feel your touch as though through my own fingers.”

Mycroft wants to answer, to tell Sherrinford that the feeling is so much more than mutual, but the idea of letting go of the prick in his mouth is unbearable. He shifts forward on his knees, tipping his head into Sherrinford’s hand demanding more pressure. Mycroft brings his other hand up, wrapping it around Sherrinford’s hips pulling the other man closer until he has to fight against his gag reflex as the tip of his prick forces open the back of his throat.

Sherrinford’s breath catches and his pushes Mycroft back, using just the palm of his hand against Mycroft’s temple. Mycroft looks up and is trapped by Sherrinford’s gaze. He flicks his tongue over the head and adjusts the hand he had around the root of Sherrinford’s member, sliding his fingers up over the saliva slicked shaft. He brings two fingers up, pulling off until he can open his mouth wider and slip the fingers in, licking quickly before returning the attentions of his tongue to the prick.

Mycroft chases his fingers back down the shaft with his mouth, until his fingers rush ahead. Sherrinford groans as Mycroft brushes over his testicles and past his perineum. His eyes close and his thighs spread to grant Mycroft more access. He has to stop when his fingers find the passageway as Sherrinford’s fingers clench against his hair. He waits out the intense sensation with short draws against the shaft, never moving fully up to the head or down as far as he can.

Sherrinford’s fingers relax their grip and the man groans, low and quiet. “Mycroft.” It is a question, an invitation and a demand. For his part Mycroft will never tire of hearing this man speak his name. He moans, and feels the echo of the vibration in the stirrings of his own prick. Sherrinford shifts down and engulfs the tip of Mycroft’s fingers before he can react, once he has been breached Sherrinford lets out a broken sob and grinds further down. Mycroft gasps through his nose and pushes further in, sliding his mouth down past where he would have thought possible. He swallows and thrusts in, curling his fingers to find Sherrinford’s prostate.

Sherrinford’s knees buckle and the hand against Mycroft’s head is slammed back against the sideboard to catch himself. Mycroft pulls back with both his fingers and his mouth. Sherrinford twitches and gasps. “No, again. Mycroft, I need that again.”

Mycroft opens his eyes and looks up, he can feel the orgasm building in the other man. Hears the words for what they truly are; “Please Mycroft I need you, please, please I am so close. I need to come in your mouth.” A shiver of pleasure passes through Mycroft and he presses forward again, it takes effort to coordinate his fingers and his mouth, he is perilously close to the edge himself. The dual sensations of touch and being touched have him straining for release.

Sherrinford’s upper body goes lax, his head falling back against the wall, the tension remains in his legs and Mycroft moans around him. Encouragement, approval and acceptance rolled into one warm vibration of his throat. Sherrinford echoes the moan and rolls his hips forward. “I can’t stop, oh God. I will. Mycroft, I will.”

Mycroft pulls back, working his mouth quickly over the head and using his tongue to stroke the point he knows to be most sensitive. Pressing his fingers in small tight circles until he feels the first hard pulse of orgasm before he withdraws. Sherrinford bucks helplessly as he fills Mycroft’s mouth, a stream of obscene Latin falling from Sherrinford’s lips.

Mycroft holds himself still, letting the force of the other man’s thrusts complete his orgasm, swallowing as the rush of semen coats his tongue.

Sherrinford stills, gasping and whispering praise and endearments in Latin. He rocks forward, regaining his feet and thrusting one final time into Mycroft’s mouth. His hand comes up and strokes over Mycroft’s jaw, pulling him back and off his prick with a sigh. Mycroft smiles and presses his cheek into Sherrinford’s hand.

He rises with just the slightest pressure of Sherrinford’s fingers against his jaw and allows himself to be pulled forward into the taller man’s arms. Their kiss is soft, Sherrinford sampling the taste of Mycroft’s mouth.

They break apart after a moment and Sherrinford’s hand drifts to Mycroft’s groin. “I’ve neglected you. How unforgivable of me. Mycroft, what can I do to seek absolution?”

Mycroft presses a kiss against the other man’s lips. He does not break their eye contact but there is a motion of his eyes towards the suite’s bedroom.

“Yes, Mycroft. Of course.”

They pull apart slowly, Mycroft allows himself a moment of concern, perhaps contact with an alternative version of himself would have some negative effects. He mentally shakes himself, desire is overcoming good sense, any matter/antimatter type reactions would have likely been instantaneous and catastrophic. Mycroft crosses the room to the chairs by the fireplace and collects Sherrinford’s clothing, stooping to pick up his shoes as well. When he rises Sherrinford has collected his pants from the floor and is stripping off his vest. Mycroft flinches slightly at the casual nudity and then chastises himself. The door is locked and they are alone, not to mention the activity they had just engaged in.

Mycroft steels himself and follows Sherrinford into the bedroom, trying to avoid watching the sway of the other man’s buttocks as he walks. After a step or two he gives up and allows himself to follow the rhythm of Sherrinford’s gait with his eyes.

Once they enter the bedroom Mycroft closes the door and locks it behind them. The outer door is also locked and gives Mycroft a sense of security. The room is small but well appointed, a large bed and dressing table and a smaller desk and chair. The only light is from a small lamp on the nightstand. Sherrinford nods as he surveys the room, before tossing his undergarments onto the dressing table and sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“There is so much that is similar, and yet nothing is the same.” He bounces slightly on the bed. “This mattress is remarkable. At home, well there is nothing like this at home.” He is suddenly wistful, and Mycroft feels a pang. Sherrinford will have to return to his own... reality, dimension, or timeline, and Mycroft will be alone again. Mycroft turns away and opens the drawers, taking his time to compose himself as he folds and puts away the other man’s clothes. It is not rational to have become so attached to another person in such a short time. They have barely spoken, but then they have barely needed to, Mycroft looks up and sees Sherrinford watching him in the mirror.

“The... the project will take some time to re-create. I could leave you, if it would be less distressing?”

Sherrinford stands, holding his gaze through the mirror and approaches slowly. Mycroft feels a fresh wave of desire course through him and almost closes his eyes. Mycroft Holmes does not melt into embraces, but there is a release as Sherrinford places his hands gently on Mycroft’s shoulders. In the mirror the differences are pronounced, one man is older, taller, darker haired and lighter eyed. But behind the eyes lurks the same intellect, and the warmth of it fills Mycroft. He doesn’t have to look away, his offer was made knowing that neither of them would accept it. The motion of Sherrinford’s fingers over his suit jacket tell him that any time they spend apart would be considered a terrible waste.

Mycroft doesn’t turn, watches as Sherrinford releases the button on his jacket, slides it back over his shoulders. He hasn’t closed the drawer, and it is some sort of sin to fold the jacket and bundle it in next to Sherrinford’s suit but neither man can be bothered to care. The waistcoat, tie and shirt are meticulously undone and carefully put to rest. Sherrinford paused, running his fingers over the tight white fabric of Mycroft’s vest, “Shall I?”

Mycroft looked up from Sherrinford’s fingers and met his eyes again in the mirror, raising his hand for the first time and covering the other man’s hand on his chest. He wants to speak, but the words, “Please, god yes, please, Mycroft.” freeze in his throat. He reaches blindly for the overnight bag the staff had dropped on the chest. Hoping, nearly praying, and almost certain. His fingers don’t shake or fumble, because he is Mycroft Holmes, but he has to try twice to open the bag, his haste and desire betraying him.  Toothbrush, toothpaste, straight razor and brush, shaving soap, comb, and there Thank you Anthea a discreet black case that contains condoms and a small tube of personal lubricant.

He turns, heeling off his shoes carelessly, it is impossible now that he is still encased in clothing while the other man is naked. He presses the case into Sherrinford’s hand, stretches and pulls the vest over his head. Mycroft restrains himself, barely, from throwing the vest on the floor, drops it in a pile on top of the chest. Sherrinford steps back, eyes greedy as Mycroft opens the fly of his trousers. Mycroft lets them fall, steps free to follow Sherrinford, reaching up to cup the back of the taller man’s head and bring his mouth down for a kiss. Mycroft presses back, reversing them until the backs of Sherrinford’s knees brush against the bed. Sherrinford runs his hand over Mycroft’s shoulders and down his back, pulling him close before breaking the contact of their mouths, “You are exquisite.” His hand slides under the band of his pants, cupping his buttock and rocking them together.

Mycroft groans and drops his head to Sherrinford’s shoulder, thrusting his hips up against the pressure, “Are you certain? I can... there are other ways.”

Sherrinford very nearly growls, inhaling sharply, “I feel your desire as if it was my own, which I cannot explain and I will not deny you -us- anything. If I should awaken from some potion of my brother’s I would not wish to have altered even one moment of this.”

Mycroft raised his head and quirked his lip in a way that said ‘I thought we had decided to blame my brother.’ His fingers trace over Sherrinford’s arm, and he clasps his hand around the case lacing his fingers over Sherrinford’s.

Sherrinford relinquishes the case and extricates his fingers from the waistband of Mycroft’s pants before pressing a kiss against Mycroft’s temple. He turns and pulls back the duvet and flat sheet, sliding under the covers with an indulgent sigh. Mycroft considers before slipping out of his pants, and discarding his socks. He opens the case he selects a condom and removes the tube of lubricant. After closing the box and setting it down on the nightstand he turns back to the bed.

Suddenly Mycroft is nervous, he feels displaced, transported back to his first encounter in university, unsure of how best to proceed, how to translate his desire into action. He looks down at the packet and tube in his hand and has a momentary shock at his own nakedness. Sherrinford has destroyed all of his barriers, knocked aside all of Mycroft’s inhibitions. He glances down at the other man, who appears almost demure under the duvet. Mycroft can feel the desire coming in waves from Sherrinford, as much as Mycroft wants to claim him he wants to be claimed. Mycroft opens the condom packet and slides under the duvet next to Sherrinford. He rolls the condom on under the privacy of the cover.

Sherrinford shifts against him pressing himself flush to Mycroft’s side, trailing his fingers over Mycroft’s nipples.  Mycroft sighs and arches up into the contact, he wants to draw this out, make it as pleasurable as possible for Sherrinford, but the baser part of himself is screaming to fuck into him, take his own pleasure and be damned with the other man’s comfort.

Mycroft pulls Sherrinford closer, so he is partially on top of him and hooks his thigh up high onto his waist. It feels dangerous, so he whispers, “Mycroft,” the wicked sin of calling his own name makes him roll his hips up, his prick catching in the fold of the other man’s leg and they both moan. Even through the condom he can still feel the dual slide of his prick against the leg, his leg against the sheathed prick. Mycroft has always been a considerate lover, his partners were never left unsatisfied, but this was the first time he actually wanted to make the other man feel good. He catches the other man’s lips with his own, flicking his tongue into Sherrinford’s mouth quickly before trying again to speak, “I, god, I am sorry, please I need to...” The words are spoken almost directly into the other man’s mouth.

Sherrinford growls against Mycroft’s mouth, his teeth nipping at Mycroft’s bottom lip. “Tell me, Mycroft, tell me what you need.”

Mycroft rolls them over so he is fully on top of Sherrinford, “You, god you know don’t you. You know exactly what that does to me, because it does it to you too.” Sherrinford growls his assent and shifts his legs apart, pulling his knees up until Mycroft is flush against him. Mycroft reaches for the lubricant, abandoned when he rolled them over, “Fuck, we love this. I think next time, I’ll ride you until you fill me, and then I will... god,” He shudders, drops down against the other man and bites his shoulder to calm himself. Sherrinford rolls, merciless, into the contact with Mycroft’s teeth, practically purring.

“Mycroft,” Sherrinford growls against his temple. There is enough in his name to push Mycroft back into action. His fingers finding the lubricant again, he rolls to the side, hesitates before smearing his prick. He knows now that what he desires is what is desired of him, that everything is allowed. Settling back he guides his prick against the other man, smoothing over his arsehole before sinking in slowly. He can barely control his thrust, holding himself back to savour the slide. Sherrinford remains still beneath him, eyes closed until he feels Mycroft shift his gaze to him. “You are exquisite, an Adonis.” His hips rise to meet Mycroft as he sinks in to the hilt.

Mycroft resists the urge to laugh, “Flattery will get you everywhere.” His hips grind down, pressing fully into Sherrinford. He feels Sherrinford’s prick stir between them, hopes that he can bring the other man to orgasm again, buried deep within him. He begins his withdrawal, shaking with the effort required not to pound into this man.
Sherrinford shifts up, thrusting his hips against Mycroft’s. His stream of obscenities, and pleas, has switched to Greek and Mycroft has to laugh as he presses down again, peppering the other man with light kisses “όπως θέλετε εσείς βρώμικο τσούλα” the insult is calculated, and Mycroft is rewarded with a groan and a roll of Sherrinford’s hips into him.

Mycroft shifts, hooking one arm around Sherrinford’s knee and pulling it up over his shoulder. Sliding his prick home at this angle brings a moan to both their lips. Mycroft draws back, settling into a slow, sharp rhythm, each thrust ending with a slap of his hips against Sherrinford’s buttocks. Mycroft moans, realizing that he won’t be able to maintain this long enough to satisfy Sherrinford again.

Sherrinford stutters his hips against Mycroft’s thrust, throwing his head back and gasping “Please, Mycroft, please I want to feel you...”

Mycroft growls and speeds his thrusts, knowing that the other man does want to feel him inside. The wanton school boy act being just that an act, it never the less makes Mycroft harden further. He feels his orgasm building, spreading warm tendrils out from his prick. He feels his eloquence abandon him and he groans as he collapses onto Sherrinford, riding out his orgasm with tiny pulsing thrusts deep inside the other man. Sherrinford captures his lips and breathes “Mycroft,” against him. Sending another pulse of pleasure through both of them.

Mycroft has no desire to ever move again, he wants to remain connected and held close inside Sherrinford’s arms. Part of his mind is scoffing at him, always with his other sexual partners he has been efficient, and if not brusque at least not sentimental afterwards. He feels himself soften and pulls away with a sigh, pressing a kiss against the corner of Sherrinford’s lips. He rolls off and sits up on the side of the bed, gingerly removing the condom and tying it off before tossing it into the wastebasket beside the bed. He sits there for a moment, trying to compose himself.

Sherrinford shifts behind him, reaching out a tentative hand to brush against Mycroft’s waist. “I know it is early, but, if you aren’t needed elsewhere... could you stay?

Mycroft hears the lack of charade in Sherrinford’s voice, turns back towards him. Allowing the distress the idea of leaving his side generates to show on his face, for an instant only before his expression smoothes. “Of course, just...” He stands and retrieves his jacket, removing the phone from his pocket. He places it on the night table before settling back into the bed, “in case.” It is early, but Mycroft tucks himself into Sherrinford’s arms. The endorphins coursing through his body drag him down, but a thought strikes him, “What time was it when Sherlock abducted you?”

“Nearly eight, my pocket watch stopped when I arrived. I must say it was disconcerting to have stepped through a doorway in the evening and suddenly be confronted with early afternoon. Your brother was quite upset that I wasn’t his Doctor Watson.” Sherrinford’s arms tightened around Mycroft, “I suppose I should thank him, but I shan’t risk inflating his ego.”

“No, I think not. Although perhaps tomorrow, if you don’t object, we can have Doctor Watson examine you. Make sure nothing is amiss due to Sherlock’s little experiment.” It would be simpler to have Watson perform any tests, rather than bringing in another doctor and having to explain the circumstances. Besides they could rely on Watson to be discreet.

Sherrinford shifts and Mycroft feels his breathing even out as sleep approaches. “As you say, though I have never felt better.”

Mycroft rolls over and shuts of the bedside lamp, shifting back closer to the other man and tangling their legs together. He sighs, content to remain awake and listening to the other man breathe. He curls closer, putting his head onto Sherrinford’s chest so he can hear the slow thud of his heartbeat. Only when he is sure that the other man is asleep does he allow a small broken noise to escape. How will he ever be able to return his man to his proper place and time?

************************

The discreet ping of the alarm on his phone startles him awake, and he rolls away from Sherrinford to disable it. He rarely sleeps the for more than six hours at a time and he is surprised at himself. More so when he turns back to Sherrinford to find the other man awake, the dim light of morning filtering around the curtains shows a man fully awake. Sherrinford pulls him close, cutting off any inquiry Mycroft may have made with a soft press of lips.

Mycroft’s fingers trail over Sherrinford’s torso, glancing over a nipple before tracing down to his prick. They make matching pleased sounds as Mycroft traces his fingers over Sherrinford’s shaft. Mycroft strokes lazily as they kiss, feeling his own desire build slowly. Sherrinford breaks away and nods towards the case on the nightstand. Mycroft switches his grip on Sherrinford, sliding his other arm out from under the duvet to retrieve the box of condoms.

When he has the condom in hand he pulls back the duvet and straddles Sherrinford’s thighs. He groans at the sight of the other man spread out beneath him, shifting onto his knees and sliding down to swallow his prick, he sucks, swirling his tongue over the head until Sherrinford bucks against his mouth. Mycroft pulls back with a wicked grin and rolls the condom over Sherrinford’s prick. He squeezes lubricant onto his hand and slicks it over his arsehole and Sherrinford’s prick. Mycroft moans as he lowers himself slowly down, his body stretching to accommodate the intrusion that borders on painful.

Sherrinford grabs Mycroft’s hips and pulls him down, snapping his own hips up. Mycroft lets his head drop back and his eyes close, rolling his hips. The dual sensation from last night returns, Mycroft feels Sherrinford filling him, and feels the tightness against Sherrinford’s cock, the unfamiliar feeling of the latex being overwhelmed by the heat of his body. Mycroft shifts forward and braces himself against the headboard, lets Sherrinford guide his pace as he rolls his hips. His head drops against his arm and he looks down, watches Sherrinford’s face as the other man’s eyes follow the progress of Mycroft’s hips. Mycroft hardens and clenches his internal muscles as he realizes that Sherrinford is watching himself disappear into Mycroft’s arsehole. Sherrinford reacts by thrusting up into him, his hips stuttering against the roll of Mycroft’s downward stroke. Mycroft gasps as the thrust brushes against his prostate, sending shudders of pleasure through him.

Sherrinford shifts his grip, trailing his fingers over Mycroft’s hip and stomach until he slides over his prick, he keeps his strokes loose and light, teasing Mycroft into snapping his hips forward into his hand and back down over his prick. Sherrinford’s grip tightens as Mycroft brings them both closer to the edge. Mycroft moans as Sherrinford thrusts sharply up into him spilling over his hand as Sherrinford pulses inside him. He collapses as the pulses fade away, disoriented by the feeling of not knowing where Sherrinford’s orgasm began and his own ended.

He slides off Sherrinford, rolling over onto his back and breathing deeply. “I have an appointment in two hours, I should be back for lunch, if you like.” Sherrinford murmurs his assent and Mycroft rolls away and off the bed, holding his breath until he reaches the en suite.

He closes the door and leans against it, his shoulders shaking violently as he hyperventilates. It is too soon, but all he wants to do is climb back into the bed and beg the other man never to leave him. He knows that he can’t have this, but he knows too that he cannot separate himself from the other man. If he is to only have a limited time with Sherrinford he will hoard every moment against the time when there will be no more time. He shivers as he regains control of his breathing, sentiment, maudlin sentiment that has no place in the mind of a Holmes. He will shower, dress and break his fast with Sherrinford. He will go to his meeting, and heaven help them if they steal even one moment more of his time than is necessary, and then he will be free to climb back into bed and indulge himself.

His breath hitches again as he acknowledges that Sherrinford has already become more important to him than the game of politics he has always thought of as his one true love. He studies himself in the mirror, schooling his expression until he is calm on the surface. Inside his mind rolls, desire warring with duty, affection (call it affection, only that, not love) railing against necessity.

He ran the water for his shower and was just about to step under the spray when the door opened and Sherrinford entered. Mycroft stopped, clutching the curtain, unable to speak.

“For the sake of argument, or for sanity... And since I woke in your arms this morning I must assume this is not some dream. Can... Is it possible to operate as though I will remain here. Perhaps permanently...” His breath catches and Mycroft’s heart resumes beating, “that it may be impossible to return me to my proper place.” That if it were possible I would choose not to go is written across his features, and Mycroft loosens his grip on the curtain. Sherrinford steps towards him and Mycroft’s facade crumbles, his resolve melts and his hand extends to Sherrinford.

“Yes, Mycroft, yes.”

Doctor Watson came that first day and subjected me to every test known to modern medicine. Mycroft... well Mycroft didn’t tell me but he had Watson run tests on both of us, and when they came back negative he stopped buying condoms. If he had asked me I could have told him they would have... but it was early days for us and I forgave him. The man has such an amazing arse, it is impossible to hold a grudge.

And then later when I had time to learn some history... well I’m glad he did.

Watson put me on some medicine for high cholesterol, and is making me diet of all the horrid things one man can do to another. He suggested exercise, but blushed when I told him Mycroft gets my heart rate up enough to be going on with I should think. Really they call me queer, but Watson doesn’t even eat meat!

At first we had nearly weekly meetings with the Baskerville idiots, they were eager to show off the progress they had made in returning me to my London. Which as it turns out was very little. Mycroft had forbade them to actually attempt to recreate the experiment until they could be sure that it would not reverse themselves, or summon any further individuals from my dimension. I shudder to think what would have happened if Sherlock had summoned his own counterpart, or his Watson instead of myself.

The first few weeks were almost dull, I avoided as much history and current politics as possible. Which leaves very little to keep one’s mind active. Mycroft showed me how to use the television, which is mostly useless, the worst sort of base entertainment. I’d taken up theatre, and worked my way through most of the plays in the West End. I was following Watson’s advice and walking as much as possible. It helped to pass the time while Mycroft was working.

I found a store that specializes in pornography. You can imagine, I was in Nirvana! Not to say that we didn’t have pornography at home. We did, but the scope of it here, the mind boggles. Mycroft had given me his cards, and I’m afraid I may have went a little mad with it. I felt as though surely this could not last, at any moment the police or church would swoop in and shut the place down and arrest me. Mycroft was cross at me when he saw the bill, but I was forgiven, you see I also have a fantastic arse.

Thankfully we had moved out of the Club by then, I had to take a cab home and the driver was content with the tip I gave him for carrying it all into the flat. Our flat has rapidly become a place that I consider home, the memory of my rooms at the Club has faded. I find that I have even become a bit domestic, in that I have meals prepared and delivered. That evening I laid in Mycroft’s favourite meal, a curry that I discovered in my meandering through the city. The pornography is outweighed only by the shear, glorious abundance of edibles that this London provides. (Curse Watson and his infernal dietary restrictions.)

Mycroft came home from the office to discover an abundance of sexual instruments and enough food to hold us over for a week. I do believe that it was the first vacation he has taken since his appointment to his minor government position.

As I say, I was forgiven.

The Baskerville idiots have informed us that while it would be quite easy to dispose of me they could not guarantee that I would be returned to my own dimension. As intriguing as it would be to make a tour of various dimensions I have become rather attached to this reality and the Mycroft that I have found here. According to them it would only have been possible to pinpoint my point of origin at the moment of transfer. There are too many shifting variables. I worry for my England of course, but find myself incapable of pining for... whatever it is that one pines for when separated from it.

Mycroft and I very rarely spend time at the Club, occasional lunches, if we are both away from home. Most of our time is spent either working or sitting at home in silence. We prefer our own company, and if anything I would miss the silence that comes with knowing another person so well as to not need to speak.

The original idea to introduce me as a cousin was discarded after the first day. One of Watson’s tests determined that Mycroft and I are not actually related. Which I suppose is both bizarre and to be expected. There is no familial resemblance between us, other than of intellect. When Baskerville informed Mycroft of their inability to locate the correct position to return me to he rather took matters into his own hands.

I’ve never been one to stand on ceremony, and it was rather a bit of a surprise when Mycroft proposed marriage. Of course it did simplify matters, gave me legal standing and all. Mycroft arranged a rather convincing backstory to explain my existence, at least publicly. And there was no need for all the tedious ceremony, there are perks to being the British government’s husband. Lestrade, Watson and Sherlock joined us at the Langham for tea to “celebrate,” Watson managed not to complain about the cake at any rate.

I’ve taken employment in one of Mycroft’s departments, a truly minor position that keeps me out of the way and makes me useful.  I shan’t be able to rise too high, at my age a man doesn’t want to begin again in his career, and of course Mycroft can’t be accused of favouring his husband. I don’t think I shall tire of saying that. Or of the look that passes between us when we are introduced as Mr. Holmes. I delight in, what Lestrade calls, my trophy-husband status, frankly I think the man is jealous, although it is unclear which of us he resents.

We shall mark a year together tomorrow, and I know it to be the basest sentiment, but I think we shall spend it in our room at the Club.