He loved John, of course. He always would. But, he loved Mycroft first.
Spring: Mycroft and Sherlock “What are frail? spring blossoms and youth.”
He knew the body was a traitor, its responses autonomic, unruly, disobedient, beyond his control. The body, his body, when presented with certain quantifiable data, for instance, touch of hands, flick of tongue, skin against skin, responded with: 1) elevated heart rate; 2) accelerated breathing; 3) increased salivation; 4) perspiration; 5) erection, etc., etc. Boring, but factual. Irrefutable.
Traitor, he whispered as he arched and ground his teeth. Traitor, he hissed as he twisted and shuddered, coming undone in the dark again and again.
Concentrate, he commanded. Concentrate! Do not let your body falter—
Involuntary. Defiant. He knew these things, knew them like he knew the periodic table, but he still cursed his own flesh and nerve endings when forced to face the inevitable, when Mycroft came to him in the night, stroked him, rubbed him, hands in his hair, down over the slope of his shoulders, down further to the slight dip of his waist, the length of his thighs, the length of him, whispering things, dirty things, things that made Sherlock twitch (I want to fuck you, Sherlock). Autonomic.
“Mycroft,” he said. He tried to make it sound like a warning but somehow it never did. “You are,” he tried again. “This is…beyond my control.”
He sensed Mycroft nodding, as he did when he knew he was right.
“There is nothing to fret about.” Light kisses on the inside of the thigh, fingers stroking, nails scraping.
“On the contrary.”
Mycroft tutted. “Don’t be frightened.”
“I’m not,” Sherlock lied.
“Good boy. It’s just a body, Sherlock. You must learn to separate that magnificent mind from your skin and bones. Enjoy what is being offered and do not analyze it.”
Spasming in Mycroft’s hand, muscles twitching, mouth open, sucking in and then expelling hot mouthfuls of air. All beyond his control, treacherous, traitorous body.
“Mycroft,” he said at last. “Why?”
“Silly. Because I love you.”
Oh.
“And you love me.”
Sherlock ducked his head, tucked it into his brother’s shoulder. He nodded. It was, after all, true.
“Good boy.”
“Sometimes…” Sherlock trailed off.
“Yes?”
“Sometimes I hate you, too.” Ashamed.
Mycroft chuckled sweetly in the sweet, spring evening air. “Yes. Of course you do.” Then he kissed him.
The Wonderful and the Different/1
Spring: Mycroft and Sherlock
“What are frail? spring blossoms and youth.”
He knew the body was a traitor, its responses autonomic, unruly, disobedient, beyond his control. The body, his body, when presented with certain quantifiable data, for instance, touch of hands, flick of tongue, skin against skin, responded with: 1) elevated heart rate; 2) accelerated breathing; 3) increased salivation; 4) perspiration; 5) erection, etc., etc. Boring, but factual. Irrefutable.
Traitor, he whispered as he arched and ground his teeth. Traitor, he hissed as he twisted and shuddered, coming undone in the dark again and again.
Concentrate, he commanded. Concentrate! Do not let your body falter—
Involuntary. Defiant. He knew these things, knew them like he knew the periodic table, but he still cursed his own flesh and nerve endings when forced to face the inevitable, when Mycroft came to him in the night, stroked him, rubbed him, hands in his hair, down over the slope of his shoulders, down further to the slight dip of his waist, the length of his thighs, the length of him, whispering things, dirty things, things that made Sherlock twitch (I want to fuck you, Sherlock). Autonomic.
“Mycroft,” he said. He tried to make it sound like a warning but somehow it never did. “You are,” he tried again. “This is…beyond my control.”
He sensed Mycroft nodding, as he did when he knew he was right.
“There is nothing to fret about.” Light kisses on the inside of the thigh, fingers stroking, nails scraping.
“On the contrary.”
Mycroft tutted. “Don’t be frightened.”
“I’m not,” Sherlock lied.
“Good boy. It’s just a body, Sherlock. You must learn to separate that magnificent mind from your skin and bones. Enjoy what is being offered and do not analyze it.”
Spasming in Mycroft’s hand, muscles twitching, mouth open, sucking in and then expelling hot mouthfuls of air. All beyond his control, treacherous, traitorous body.
“Mycroft,” he said at last. “Why?”
“Silly. Because I love you.”
Oh.
“And you love me.”
Sherlock ducked his head, tucked it into his brother’s shoulder. He nodded. It was, after all, true.
“Good boy.”
“Sometimes…” Sherlock trailed off.
“Yes?”
“Sometimes I hate you, too.” Ashamed.
Mycroft chuckled sweetly in the sweet, spring evening air. “Yes. Of course you do.” Then he kissed him.
Sometimes it was wonderful.