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The crime scene, a body twisted into a death grimace, with Anderson and Donovan loitering nearby, along with the forensics team and other local “experts.” Sherlock had just finished examining the body and was pulling off the thin medical gloves as he stood up. Absorbed in his thoughts and the analysis of the information he’d gathered, he doesn’t even notice Lestrade sneaking up behind him. Leaning in close to his ear, the inspector whispers something. Sherlock’s reflex kicks in — he shoves the policeman away with unnecessary roughness, not even registering what was said. Greg looks genuinely surprised.
Sherlock can’t remember the inspector ever trying to do something like that again.
***
Baker Street. Sherlock has just chased off yet another client with yet another pretty boring case — one he, for some mysterious reason, agreed to take in the first place. The client steps back across the threshold just as John comes out of the kitchen. He leans toward Sherlock’s ear to say something. “You don’t usually bother with such rubbish,” he whispers — and this time Sherlock hears every word, a little too clearly, more sharply than he’d prefer. The breath that carries the words seems to sink far too deep, leaving Sherlock’s body stunned with goosebumps. John notices the hair standing on Sherlock’s exposed wrist.
“Sherlock…?”
Couldn’t he just say it out loud?!
…
“Sherlock!” — Mycroft’s voice rings somewhere beside his ear. Today they were “celebrating” his twenty-fifth birthday, if that ridiculous procession could be called a celebration at all.
Not that Sherlock still remembers where they are or why these people are smiling so nasty. Mycroft had been whispering far too long, and those meaningless words carved themselves into Sherlock’s memory for life. “Keep an eye on her. I suspect that woman has wrong intentions, and my observation might carry risk,” Mycroft was saying, and with every word Sherlock felt himself losing control of his own motor functions. It seems Mycroft had never whispered to him like this before, right into his ear, right from behind…
Receiving no reaction at all, no sign of life, even, Mycroft finally called his brother a little louder. Sherlock suddenly turned, leaning in just enough to reach Mycroft’s ear:
“Get me out of here.”
Elder Holmes frowns in puzzlement and jerks his head slightly, hinting that Sherlock might want to give a clearer explanation of the “problem.” The younger has no choice but to drop his gaze to said problem, fully aware that Mycroft will follow it. Without a word, he turns and walks off at a pace that’s just barely not a hurry. Their connection works flawlessly — Sherlock tracks Mycroft’s thoughts just as clearly as Mycroft tracks his. Younger brother follows almost flush behind, toward the staircase leading to the second floor, where hardly anyone lingers, and the floor itself is completely empty — Mycroft’s orders.
The closeness of Mycroft’s footsteps fogs Sherlock’s mind even more. With no one around, there’s no need to hide his bodily embarrassment behind his brother’s back — yet he keeps the distance closed, breathing in the scent of expensive cologne — unfamiliar and yet somehow overwhelmingly intimate. They stop in the middle of the empty hallway, and Mycroft speaks — uncertainly, but with a faint echo of parental sternness:
“Get yourself together! For God’s sake…”
And he doesn’t leave. He stands there, watching, waiting. Waiting for the tension to drain out of Sherlock quickly so they could head back together, naively assuming Sherlock was stirred by some woman at the gathering. But Sherlock knows that Mycroft’s analytical mind can lead only to one conclusion — the correct one.
A long, heavy minute passes before Mycroft speaks again after a long minute, voice low:
“Go to the bathroom. I’ll wait.”
Sherlock doesn’t move.
“…I’ll wait downstairs.”
Mycroft barely manages to turn before Sherlock grabs his wrist. Grabs it tightly and almost desperately.
“You’re coming with me,” Sherlock mutters, and Mycroft’s heart skips a beat. But that’s nothing compared to the mess that happens inside of Sherlock.
They step into the bathroom slowly, almost awkwardly, and the soft click of the closing door feels like something inside both of them cracking straight down the middle.
Sherlock sits on the closed toilet lid, burying his hands into his dark curls as he exhales. Mycroft can’t allow himself that luxury — can’t even loosen the tie strangling him like a noose. One wrong move could spark rumors, and with his profession, that would be disastrous. He looks at his brother grimly, helplessly.
And Sherlock is burning. All his skin is on fire, especially in his lower body. His head swims strangely, his heart pounding out a frantic rhythm; his mouth is dry, and his legs feel barely strong enough to hold him. He was ready to rub himself against walls or pillars — but what use are pillars when his older brother is standing right there in his best wool-silk suit, polished shoes, and wrapped in the scent of Clive Christian Churchill, hitting Sherlock’s senses like a drug?
“Help me,” Sherlock mumbles, stunned by his own voice.
“How, exactly, am I supposed to help you?” Mycroft is thrown off, but not retreating. He’s scared of himself. “Medication? We don’t keep any in here.”
Both of them know they could find something suitable in a bathroom cabinet, but they deliberately ignore the thought.
“You chose the role of the responsible one — so help me!” Sherlock’s nerves betray him as shamelessly as his muscles. He knows this sharpness could push Mycroft into shutting down completely, forcing Sherlock to swallow a pill and leaving him untouched. His intentions are fragile, and Sherlock knows exactly what he wants, and he wants it unbearably.
A single pleading glance from under his eyebrows is enough to soften everything.
“Stand up.”
Sherlock obeys instantly, though it was not him who actually obeyed. Mycroft steps forward, then again, closing the distance to nothing. He advances, Sherlock retreats, until Sherlock’s back meets the wall.
“Turn around,” Mycroft says, voice quiet but astonishingly firm. The few centimeters’ difference in their height suddenly feels much more pronounced.
Sherlock turns, placing his palms against the smooth chilly wall. He’s trembling with prediction, but there isn’t a flicker of doubt in him. Mycroft steps closer, not quite leaning his full weight against Sherlock, but close enough that Sherlock can feel the warmth of him — and begins to loosen the waistband of his trousers. He doesn’t kiss him, doesn’t let his hands wander in the way a lover would. Mycroft’s hand dives under the waistband of Sherlock’s underwear and grasps his erect and extremely sensitive cock. Sherlock feels the silver ring on his middle finger, but doesn’t feel that his hand is dry.
Besides Mycroft's sweaty palms, Sherlock was dripping like a bitch, so there were no problems with sliding. When brother’s hand slips up and down, Sherlock shudders so sharply he nearly loses his footing, his dick twitching. And, God, how bad he wanted to grab something. Despite the weakness in his knees, Sherlock stands with a soldier's restraint and tries not to make a sound. His breath stutters in ragged little bursts — the effort is doomed from the start.
“Mycroft… spot…” he manages, voice thin with tension.
Sherlock is certain Mycroft isn’t looking down, but he pulls Sherlock’s dick out and adjusts his sleeve guardedly.
“You’ve done this before… you’re doing… well…” Sherlock knew why he was saying all this, but he didn't understand why now, when his voice couldn't stay steady. Pity that Mycroft wasn't too receptive to provocation.
Mycroft fingers tighten, movements growing firmer, more insistent.
“Because I’m your brother.” His breath brushes Sherlock’s ear, and Sherlock comes right after, staining the wall and Mycroft's palm.
The sound of the voice is all it takes. He nearly collapses, but Mycroft’s grip is unexpectedly strong, holding him upright.
“Now get yourself together,” Mycroft says, still maddeningly composed.
A slight feeling of disgust tightens the gut when the impression of orgasm fades into the background. Sherlock’s mind is a haze of heady relief and something dangerously close to bliss — the kind he used to chase through drugs. By the standards of ordinary people, they probably just did something unthinkable, sordid even. But those who know Holmeses also know how strikingly different their minds are from those of ordinary people.
“You feel repulsed?” Sherlock asks quietly as he reaches for a tissue, clearing the last evidence of his sin. Mycroft looks at himself in the mirror, checking for anything that might draw suspicion… or perhaps trying to understand what the hell is wrong with him.
“You have no idea.”
Sherlock allows himself a small, crooked smile.
If it truly repulsed him, his body wouldn’t have leaned in so close — nor his hands held so steady.
“Because I’m your brother…”
If you were truly disgusted, Mycroft, your voice would have sounded very different.
***
Of course, Sherlock was drugged. Of course, both he and Mycroft realized it within ten seconds. Their relationship has changed significantly since that incident, and it would be a lie to say it's for the worse. And, of course, Sherlock's perception of whispers has become extremely sensitive since that day.
Turned out that John knows Sherlock just as well as Mycroft does. Or did. And at John's hand, Sherlock cums just as quickly as he did at Mycroft's, back then — under the influence of viagra.