Prompting Part XXXIV

[sherlockbbc_fic]

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Comments

Sherlock/Mycroft - Mycroft as test subject

[(Anonymous)]

Sherlock has a case that involves sibling incest, but is vaguely baffled by the existence of a taboo in cases where there's no risk of pregnancy. Attempts to explain it to him using his relationship with Mycroft as an example don't work very well, since he doesn't distinguish sex from the long list of other things he has no desire to do with Mycroft. But it does give him the idea that he can use Mycroft as a test subject and study his reactions.

Mycroft is very freaked out. Sherlock is delighted to have discovered a way of freaking Mycroft out. Things rapidly get out of hand.

Re: Sherlock/Mycroft - Mycroft as test subject

[kangeiko]

OH MY GOD. THIS x 1000000.

Re: Sherlock/Mycroft - Mycroft as test subject

[(Anonymous)]

I don't know if OP is still about but I think I might be filling this one ...

Re: Sherlock/Mycroft - Mycroft as test subject

[(Anonymous)]

Not OP, but I am still about and excited it is being filled!

Re: Sherlock/Mycroft - Mycroft as test subject

[(Anonymous)]

Yep, still here! :) - OP

FILL: Part 1A - All Life is an Experiment (Mycroft/Sherlock)

[(Anonymous)]

Hi there - I'm suffering some epic writer's block which is good since it meant I wrote the first chapter of this much earlier than I'd expected! This chapter is just setting things up ... I'll add specific ratings once we get to the smut (when I get to writing that!)

“There is no such thing as a failed experiment, only experiments with unexpected outcomes.” Richard Buckminster Fuller

Chapter 1

John hands the fresh mug of tea to Sherlock, who takes it with a distracted air, before placing his own on the small side table and collapsing into his own chair with a sigh. “Well that’s another case solved,” he comments. “You can’t imagine my joy at how you managed to solve the case whilst not getting yourself injured in some way and without doing anything that might cause Donovan to lamp you one.”

Sherlock tilts his head, throwing a quick glare at John. One he can easily ignore. “I can behave, John.”

“Of course, Sherlock,” John replies indulgently. “I’ve never had cause to describe you as an overgrown cuddly toddler in the middle of a temper tantrum.”

“I’m not cuddly.”

John snorts. “That’s what you chose to take offence to?”

“Well it was certainly the most offensive part of a fully inaccurate statement,” Sherlock replies with a sniff.

“Back to the case,” John says, not bothering to hide his amused smile. “It’s going to be an interesting write-up, don’t you think?”

“Dull,” Sherlock replies predictably. “But I know how you like your literary theatre with your blog so I won’t stop you.”

Wincing slightly as he took a sip of too hot tea, John glances back at his best friend. He’s noticed that throughout the case there was something that was nagging Sherlock. Perhaps now might be an opportune moment to explore what it was. “Well it’s certainly going to need a delicate touch. Incest is a taboo and quite sensational.”

“Sensational? I don’t see why.”

John’s surprised by his friend’s nonchalant tone, enough that he puts his mug aside and leans forward. “What do you mean, Sherlock?”

“There was no risk of pregnancy in the case, correct?”

He decides to wait. Follow through on Sherlock’s thread. “No. The sister was sterilised. Pre-existing and unrelated to the case.”

Sherlock shrugs. “So what does it matter?”

He blinks. Is fairly sure his jaw is hanging loose. “It’s a taboo!”

“That’s just a word. A social custom – a cultural construct.”

“But. Wait,” John stutters for a long moment. “Are you saying that you’re in favour of incest?”

He’s reassured by how Sherlock doesn’t answer immediately. Flippantly. “Where there’s a possibility of pregnancy, and given the genetic science is well documented nowadays, it is foolish to indulge. The risk involved are too great. However in cases where the probability of offspring is impossible then I there is no logic in the incest taboo. So long as both parties are sane and consenting then society should have no impact upon their decision.

“In fact, many of our ancient cultures practised such relationships. There are frequent examples of sibling relationships within the Incas, in Egypt and China ancient cultures which were used as a means to maintain political power and wealth within the families of the ruling classes.”

“That was thousands of years ago!”

“And yet my point stands. Consenting adults should be free to do as they wish.”

John decides to take a different approach. “So are you saying that you’d be happy to have an incestuous relationship with Mycroft?” He’s a little relieved when Sherlock pulls a face at his question.

“Of course not. It’s Mycroft!” Sherlock exclaims. “Why would I want to do that with him?”

“Look, he’s not my type, but Mycroft’s not unattractive,” John replies, looking sheepish. “Well that’s what I’m told, at least.”

“By who? Wait, I don’t want to know!”

“So you understand the point of the taboo?”

The look Sherlock throws back at him is enough to make him wince. “Don’t be stupid, John. I didn’t say that. I am merely saying I have no desire to engage in sexual activities with Mycroft because he’s Mycroft. Overbearing, insufferable and interfering. I feel no irresistible yearning to accompany him to the theatre, or to the Proms, or spend time with him in general.”

“Oh yes, your infamous sibling rivalry,” John sneers.

FILL: Part 1B - All Life is an Experiment (Mycroft/Sherlock)

[(Anonymous)]

Sherlock jumps up from his chair so suddenly that John wonders if he’s accidently insulted the detective. However Sherlock merely take the few steps to the table, his hands scrabbling under newspapers, scientific journals and the other detritus until he turns back, a small book and pen in hand.

“What are you planning?” John asks with no little amount of suspicion. He holds his mug of tea in front of him as though it will fortify him from the horror he knows is coming his way. There’s nothing that can’t be overcome with a good cup of tea.

“What makes you think I’m planning something?”

“Well firstly you’re repeating my words which is a giveaway,” John replies. “Secondly, I’ve lived with you long enough that I recognise that look. It doesn’t bode well for someone, and I imagine it’s not just me.”

“You should be happy, John!” Sherlock says, even as his head is bent, scribbling away in his notebook.

“Happy?” John asks, shaking his head in confusion. “Why am I happy?”

Sherlock stops scribbling and graces John with a smile so wide, and manic, that he’s more than a little worried. “I’m going to run an experiment.”

“An experiment?”

“Yes. Didn’t you hear me?” Sherlock continues. “An experiment. With Mycroft as the test subject.”

John is definitely feeling that sinking feeling. The term FUBAR, picked up while he was Afghanistan, rang through his mind. “And exactly what are you going to do to Mycroft?”

“Observation, John! I’m going to study his reactions.”

“Oh god.”

“Don’t be like that, John,” Sherlock chastises him as he sits down in his chair again. “Now, tell me. What does one typically do when trying to woo someone?”

“Woo?”

“Would you prefer if I used a different word? Seduce?”

“God, no!”

“Courting then.”

“Courting is … perfectly fine and I can’t believe I actually said that,” John hurries to reply. “Sherlock, have you thought this through?”

“Of course I have. This is merely a scientific endeavour. I’ll fully document the whole process and at the end of it all, I’ll simply explain the entire matter to Mycroft who’ll understand when he sees my notes and hears my explanation.”

John puts his mug aside and leans forwards. He puts as much seriousness into his tone as he can. “Sherlock, you’re talking about manipulating and messing about with someone’s feelings. Mycroft’s!”

“Oh please, Mycroft is a robot. He doesn’t have emotions,” Sherlock dismisses with a huff.

“I’m sure he does.”

“I grew up with him, John. I think I’d know.”

John definitely thinks Sherlock is wrong but decides not to argue the point. He’s always been better at trying to fix the broken bones and damaged bodies than preventing them from being hurt in the first place. This situation wouldn’t be too different.

Sherlock interrupts his musings. “So John, tell me. What is it people do when they go about courting someone.”

He resists the urge to press his head into his hands and laugh, cry or ignore Sherlock’s question. Or all three at once. “Don’t you know this already? What about Janine?”

“Deleted it.”

Of course he would, John tells himself. “You could Google it?”

“Yes, but you’re here. And given the number of dates and flirting you attempted before Mary, you surely have much more data on the subject than I’d find on Google.”

John narrows his eyes and glares at Sherlock suspiciously. “That wasn’t a compliment, was it?”

“Of course it was.”

“Liar,” John accuses before heaving a great sigh. “Fine. But on one condition. I want to know nothing about this experiment of yours. Whatsoever. You and Mycroft and whatever you get up to is, is … is all invisible as far as I’m concerned!”

“Why would you sa-“

“Invisible! Promise!”

“Oh well then. Scout’s honour.”

John leans back into his armchair. Wishes he had a whiskey in his hand but even he couldn’t justify it this early. Throws one final look at Sherlock, who is once more scribbling some odd, incisive comment or note into his little book. Waits until his best friend – insane best friend who is about to embark on seducing his older brother to disprove a taboo – looks up and then he starts speaking about all the various things one does in the process of dating.

Re: FILL: Part 1B - All Life is an Experiment (Mycroft/Sherlock)

[(Anonymous)]

Wow, loving this already! Fantastic character voices - really excited to read the rest now.

- OP

FILL: Part 2A - All Life is an Experiment (Mycroft/Sherlock)

[(Anonymous)]

Chapter 2

Day 1

“Morning, Mycroft,” Sherlock asks as soon as his brother answers his phone. “How are you?”

Sherlock. His brother sounds suspicious, but then that’s understandable given their semi-tempestuous sibling relationship to date. What do you need? Straight to the point – he must be multi-tasking, is perhaps a little stressed.

Sherlock smiles when he replies because he’s read that it behoves a warmer tone to a conversation. “Can’t I just ring to say hello and wish you a good day?”

Are you quite alright? Now he sounds even more suspicious and Sherlock realises he has to distract Mycroft before his experiment ends before it gets going.

“I’m fine, Mycroft,” he assures. “No need to act like a mother-hen. I spoke to Lestrade earlier today and he has no interesting cases. I don’t understand what’s wrong with the criminal class.”

How terrible for you. I’m horrified that our very own criminals in London don’t take your boredom into account when scheduling their nefarious activities. Sherlock visualises Mycroft at that moment – suit perfectly pressed as always, phone in one hand, fountain pen in the other scribbling something or another on official documents and his lips curled, despite himself, into an amused smile.

“Well … perhaps I could make myself available to you?” Sherlock asks, trying for a flirty tone but is instantly aware he’s missed.

There’s a pause before Mycroft replies where he’s probably assessing Sherlock’s state of mind. When his brother finally replies, Sherlock’s surprised to hear concern. Sherlock, are you … are you asking whether I have a case for you?

Sherlock tries for nonchalant. “Can’t I help my dear, hard-working elder brother out Is that so wrong??”

What’s going on, Sherlock? Mycroft’s full attention is on Sherlock now.

“We both know how much you hate legwork, Mycroft,” Sherlock tries. “I’m offering to do that for you.”

You’re being … nice. What have you done, Sherlock?

He decides to affect an affronted tone. “Nothing! Why must you always think the worst of me?”

There’s a long sigh. One Sherlock is all too familiar with. Experience and scars.

“I apologised for that!” Sherlock protests, knowing exactly what Mycroft is referring to. “Besides which, I have my own scar from that incident and I don’t keep bringing it up!”

Hmm. I remember you blowing up your chemistry set during some experiment; didn’t listen when I told you to stop applying more heat before you destroyed the instruments. You screamed like a banshee when you saw the blood pouring from your lips and didn’t stop until I’d made sure you were properly patched up.

Sherlock took a deep breath, reminding himself that reacting to his brother’s snarky tone would only ruin his latest experiment when he suddenly remembers what happened. “Oh,” he gasps. “You were so worried about me because there was blood everywhere, I looked like something out of a horror film and I assumed…”

We assumed.

“We assumed … Mother and Father had gone out so it was only when they got back that they, we, noticed the blood stains on your clothes and the droplets and smears all over the kitchen floor. How did we miss it? Us?”

Because you’re a self-centred attention-seeking brat, little brother.

“You were being sentimental, Mycroft. Too worried about me,” Sherlock bats back. “I am all grown up now, I promise.”

You were only seven and I was thirteen at the time; you were my responsibility. Mycroft actually sounds a little fond.

Sherlock sniggers. “You fainted!”

Blood loss does have a habit of causing such a consequence.

“You barely lost a thimble.”

It was more than that, Sherlock. You were too young. Not to mention I had part of your glass beaker embedded in me.

“You’re such a drama queen, Mycroft,” Sherlock chastises.

FILL: Part 2B - All Life is an Experiment (Mycroft/Sherlock)

[(Anonymous)]

I wouldn’t dare. That’s your specialist area, brother dear.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock protests. “I’m not a drama queen!”

I think the world’s only consulting detective doth protest too much.

Sherlock groans. “That was lame, even for you. Has your inherent sloth like nature combined with your plush job as the British Government sapped your wit?”

I do wish you’d stop telling your friends I’m the British Government. I only occupy a minor position …

“But you are,” Sherlock retorts. “I don’t know of any other civil servants who can sit there and scare those idiots calling themselves politicians who say lots of words and mean nothing whatsoever all the time.”

I do not scare our esteemed politicians, Sherlock.

Sherlock snorts. “Yes, you do! What about that pompous twit you were telling off when you came to check up on me last week?”

There’s a pause before Mycroft answers. I was having a serious discussion about a very important matter with the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Sherlock. Not telling him off.

“Right, and what were you talking about?” Even as he asks Mycroft, Sherlock runs through their conversation to date and apart from the near-misses, he thinks they might actually be having a rather good, perhaps even slightly flirty – if you squint and look at it sideways – conversation. Particularly if you remember that they’re both Holmeses. He might even consider day one a success.

The latest draft of his budget address.

“And what did you say to him?”

I simply explained that his proposals needed some more thought.

“Not quite. Would you like to try again?”

Mycroft sighs loudly enough to be picked up by his phone and Sherlock smiles, knowing he’s won this round. I asked if the man had forgotten everything he’d been taught about mathematics and the simple logic of balancing income, expenditure and debt management at his hideously expensive and pretentious private school; whether he realised his current budget proposals were fiscally irresponsible and that perhaps he needed to undertake some remedial mathematics lessons if he continued to pursue the proposals.

“You told him you hadn’t seen anything quite so moronic from anyone in the Cabinet in the current government,” Sherlock reminds his brother.

So I did.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says, laughing. “You made the man cry and then put him on speakerphone as you continued to insult his intelligence!”

You were trying to listen in and it’s terribly distracting trying to educate the Chancellor when my little brother is pawing at me.

“You’re an evil, wicked man, Mycroft Holmes.”

Sherlock feels a warm sensation grow in his gut when his brother laughs and decides this reaction definitely deserves to be considered a success. Sherlock, if I’m evil and wicked, what does that make you?

“Sweetness and innocence.”

Oh Sherlock. What are you up to?

“Nothing terrible, brother dear,” Sherlock teases. “Anyhow. I’m sure I’ve taken up enough of the British Government’s precious time today. Do behave and try not to start any new wars will you?”

I’m not even remotely assured with that but I’ll try not to start a war, just for you, Sherlock.

Sherlock hangs up and extracts his notebook from a pocket. Grabs a pen and starts documenting his observations, chemical and emotional responses.


Day one: flirting

Positive movement observed: test subject initially wary but this is the norm behaviour. Not expected to impact significantly upon experiment. No indications to preclude further testing. Objective of light flirting achieved and can be considered successful. See additional notes below for key indicators.

Proceed to next stage of testing.

Re: FILL: Part 2B - All Life is an Experiment (Mycroft/Sherlock)

[(Anonymous)]

OP

Still loving this! And oh, dear, Sherlock's already getting emotionally involved in his own experiment without noticing he's doing it. That bodes well...

FILL: Part 3A - All Life is an Experiment (Mycroft/Sherlock)

[(Anonymous)]

Chapter 3

Day 2

Right on schedule he’s receives the discreet alert indicating his car is outside. Briefcase and umbrella in hand as he locks the door behind him, he’s about to walk towards the waiting car when he catches a flash of colour at his feet.

A light blue glass vase, tall with a flared top. Holding a number of purple coloured flowers.

He’s surprised – a feeling he finds he experiences rarely nowadays – finding himself both confused and intrigued. Making a snap decision, he picks up the vase before continuing onto his car.

As his driver navigates the busy London traffic, Mycroft examines the flowers – purple lilacs and hyacinths he recognises after a moment. There’s no discernable pattern to the bunch indicating that the sender is an individual, not a florist or someone familiar with the art of flower arrangement.

The lack of a card means the question of who and why remains unanswered. With few other clues remaining, Mycroft decides to consign it to the collection of inexplicable events in his life.

Which is all fine and good until he walks into his office, Andrea at his heels. There on his desk, sitting proud on top of his blotter is another vase – this one conical in shape and the tin-like material of a battered appearance – holding just the one flower. A single stem of purple pansy.

“It was already here when I arrived,” Andrea informs him when he shoots her an inquiring look. “No card, no delivery note. It just appeared.”

“Curious.”

“How so, sir?”

“This isn’t the first bouquet, if you can call it that, I’ve received today.”

“Oh?”

“This morning, outside my home, there was a vase of lilacs and hyacinths waiting on my doorstep.”

“How peculiar,” Andrea comments with a bemused stare at the vase. “What would you like me to do with that?”

“Leave it be for the time being,” Mycroft confirms as he takes the files Andrea holds out for him and makes his way to his desk, depositing his umbrella and coat along the way.

“You have a conference call in twenty minutes with-“

“Yes, thank you.” Mycroft sits down, trails a path along the delicate edges of the single pansy before firmly pushing the vase to the side of his desk before turning to his executive assistant. “I’d like to see the latest polling numbers for the presidential race, Andrea.”

With that, Mycroft pushes the strange offerings of flowers aside to focus on his upcoming day’s meetings and conversations. Mid-afternoon comes and goes; Mycroft is just starting his review of the weekly report on high risk foreign operatives in the UK when he’s interrupted by a knock on his door. A second later Andrea cracks the door open and pops her head around.

”Yes?”

There’s a long pause where Andrea looks distinctly amused before speaking. “I don’t suppose you’re aware of a secret admirer?”

Mycroft bites back the annoyed huff. “What is it this time?”

Andrea pushes the door fully open and enters the room, in her arms a large vase – a copper pitcher this time – that holds a large bouquet of daylilies. Bright orange, the richest shade of yellow, pale pink and blood red. The rich vibrant colours of each grouping of flowers stands in contrast to the dark, bland colours of his office.

His assistant approaches his desk, sets the pitcher in front of him. Mycroft, as with the pansy, cannot help but stroke the petals. The imagined sensation of silk against his finger and the riot of colours sets the smallest of smiles to grace his lips. A statement in of itself.

“Well I think we can say he’s persistent.”

“He?”

FILL: Part 3B - All Life is an Experiment (Mycroft/Sherlock)

[(Anonymous)]

Mycroft shifts his focus to his assistant. “The lack of care for visual impact with the first two sets of flowers indicates someone who is either unaware of or is uncaring of flower arrangement.”

Andrea huffs. “I haven’t the foggiest about flower arranging.”

“Ah yes, my dear,” Mycroft allows. “However you would research the matter and then, in all likelihood make a valiant attempt or involve the services of a professional. Balance of probability indicates that these are from the male of the species. And all from the same person I believe.”

“Why then all the different types of flowers? Is he trying to say something?”

“Perhaps. But at this present time I’m more curious about who is sending these gifts.”

“Shall I get security to review the tapes?”

Frowning, Mycroft shakes his head. “That he managed to get into my office here without notice or alarm indicates he won’t show up on the security either. And given that I think I know who the culprit is.”

It takes Andrea a few moments but she quickly comes the correct solution and a small fission of pride blooms in Mycroft. “I’ll leave that particular conversation to you,” she tells him, smirking as she leaves the room.

Something to look forward to. Mycroft wonders what his little brother is planning although his pondering is quickly interrupted by the return of Andrea. As she approaches his desk, she holds a large and tall navy-coloured box in her hands. While redundant, Mycroft feels the need to ask. “Another … already?”

“Delivered by courier upstairs.”

“Oh dear.”

Andrea places the box in front of him and threw him an amused smile. “I imagine it’s a good thing you’re all misanthropes upstairs because rumour is the courier didn’t recognise the Club and called out your name rather loudly.”

Mycroft closes his eyes and counts.

Two, three, four. Five.

Sighs.

Rather than respond, he pulls the box towards him. He isn’t surprised when it drags lightly across the veneer. He has to stand, not to open the box but to pull out the contents. As he wrestles the lid free, he finds himself leaning in. His eyebrows rise at the sight within and he hears Andrea take a sharp breath in surprise.

With careful and steady hands he pulls out a long, thin vase with a thick, wide flared base. Its colour matches the box it came in. The narrow gap at the top is only wide enough to cradle the two stems. One a pure white rose. The other is also a white rose, Mycroft supposes, in its broadest definition. A literary paper rose.

Not quite.

A second glance, as he holds the vase up, reveals the top of the petals yield printed text but the underside of each is a fragment of a musical score – handwritten.

A long while later, when he has the privacy and time to examine the latest gift in more detail, Mycroft discerns the text is a passage from Ovid’s Metamorphoses although he cannot identify the specific book except it is one that refers to Jupiter and that the musical score is one of Sherlock’s own creations.

But why?

He thinks back to the strange conversation with Sherlock just the previous day. His brother is up to something, that much is certain. But what and to what end remains unclear. He finds his phone after ushering Andrea from the room, presses the sequence of icons and waits for the line to connect.

Mycroft?

“John. Have you noticed anything untoward with Sherlock recently?”

What – no kidnapping this time? Have we graduated to phone calls of concern now?

FILL: Part 3C - All Life is an Experiment (Mycroft/Sherlock)

[(Anonymous)]

Mycroft rolls his eyes at the melodramatic reply. “About Sherlock,” he prompts.

What’s he done now?

“You don’t know?”

Would I have asked if I did? Deciding the truth in this case won’t help him, Mycroft ignores the question.

“I, so far today, have received four gifts of flowers. This following on from yesterday where Sherlock actually engaged me in conversation. Would you be able to provide any insight – is there anything I should be aware of?”

He’s not on anything, Mycroft. No drugs.

“Are you sure?”

Very sure.

“So how do you explain this atypical behaviour?” Mycroft manages to ask before a coughing fit from John causes him to jerk his phone away from his ear. “John, do you need medical assistance?”

There’s a wheezing noise before John manages to speak again. No, I’m fine. Really. Did you say four sets of flowers?

“Yes.”

Blooming hell, the man is an idiot. I said one would be enough! He doesn’t do things by halves does he?

“John? What are you referring to?”

Ah, yes. Mycroft. Right, I promise you Sherlock is perfectly … well not sane but then I’m not quite sure he ever really is, but he’s definitely not on drugs. That’s all I can say.

Mycroft wishes he had kidnapped Sherlock’s ex-roommate after all. “But he is up to something?”

When is he not?

“How encouraging,” he remarks with a roll of his eyes.

Mycroft?

“Yes, John.”

Look. When this all comes to a head. Don’t…

“Don’t?”

Just … I don’t know, Mycroft. Just be careful will you.

He frowns. John is being purposefully oblique and successful enough to subvert even Mycroft. “When it comes to Sherlock I always am.”

I know. Just … just remember that.

Mycroft hangs up on John. The smallest of indications that this is one of only a few occasions where he feels more confused following a conversation than before. Perhaps a visit to Baker Street and his brother is in order.

Of course, that is when the Prime Minister calls with a minor emergency only Mycroft can solve.

The thought the universe is out to get him does flit through his mind. But then, he reminds himself, the universe would rarely be so lazy and really, Mycroft is really not worthy of its attentions.

Much later that night, minor crisis solved, and having prepared the main structure of his rant to the Prime Minister during their next one-on-one conversation, Mycroft finally arrives home.

He almost misses it in the dark. Another vase, a goldfish bowl this time, holding at least a dozen red tulips. It’s only when he holds the vase in his hands that he realises there is a second flower. Not in the arrangement itself but painted onto the ceramic vase itself. Of honey flowers.

A quick glance at his watch tells him that even though both he and his brother are prone to long days and short nights, it was not be wise to call Sherlock at this late hour. Tomorrow, on the other hand …

Mycroft wants answers.


AuthorAnon note: I've deliberately chosen not to explain the meaning of the flowers in this chapter (or some of the vases chosen) but if you want to guess, feel free and I'm more than happy to confirm/steer left.

FILL: Part 4A - All Life is an Experiment (Mycroft/Sherlock)

[(Anonymous)]

Chapter 4

Day 4

Mycroft is having an unusual day, even by his own exceptional standards. Except this time it’s not a criminal mastermind intent on creating havoc, terrorists trying to destroy his country or the ingenious ineptitude of the government.

What makes his day so unusual is the normality of it all. Especially after the last three days.

Which means the balance of probability is that he’s not having a normal day at all.

His fingers trace the latest surprise from his brother. A book. Well not just any book but a copy of Phliosophiae naturalis principia mathematica. Mycroft can still feel the tendrils of surprise at Sherlock’s thoughtfulness and attention to detail in selecting this particular book. Not to mention the cost, although it would be far too gauche to mention such a thing.

The question of why, however, still remains unanswered. Sherlock is ignoring him. Which is clearly an aberration given the previous three days’ worth of attention he’s garnered. It’s a snap decision as Mycroft makes the call to order his car to take him to Baker Street.

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

He’s still suffused in the thrill of solving his latest case that Sherlock doesn’t immediately notice he has a visitor. In fact he manages to shed his coat, scarf and jacket in his bedroom, confirm that the only ‘edible’ foodstuff in the fridge are the toes he collected from Molly the previous day, and is halfway to his chair to sulk before he notices Mycroft. Sitting in John’s armchair as usual.

He executes a perfect half-pivot turn, turning to face his brother who has to tilt his head to gaze upon Sherlock. The look is searching – deducing. That he expects this is no surprise although the timescale is considerably shorter than he estimated.

What Sherlock didn’t expect is that he doesn’t quite know what to say to Mycroft. All the carefully crafted words he could say fly from his mind.

“It’s not like you to be lost for words, Sherlock.”

He reins in his immediate defensive instinct, knowing it won’t serve him here. “Mycroft,” he says in greeting as he walks over to his chair and sits down. He rests his arms along the battered leather supports and tilts his head just a touch. Enough to set off the curve of his neck and his curls against the waning sunlight filtering through the windows behind him. He’s been complimented on his silhouette his whole life but it seems Mycroft is either immune or blind to it. “What brings you here?”

“I’m concerned about you,” Mycroft replies and Sherlock makes a mental note to document the scrutiny he’s under in his notebook. “Your actions of late have been … out of character.”

“Paranoia doesn’t suit you, Mycroft,” Sherlock drawls with a lazy flick of his hand. “Something I told you many years ago when you assented to join the Service.”

“The flowers?” His brother’s voice is diffuse with suspicion.

Sherlock smiles beatifically. “Were they an inconvenience?”

“The identification of the security gaps were rather helpful actually.” Mycroft scowls. “Although I’m still at a loss as to why you chose those particular types. But then you always did like games and puzzles.”

He doesn’t bother replying. Instead he stands and strolls into the kitchen. The soft rustle of fabric and the familiar tread tells him his brother has decided to join him. Sherlock ignores his brother for the moment, bending and ducking his head into a cupboard.

“And then there’s the book, Sherlock,” Mycroft continues in the same politely puzzled tone. “It’s an incredibly generous gift. Thank you, but why?”

Sherlock quickly finds the bottle he decanted two days ago amongst the small collection of wines and spirits he keeps at 221B. Taking the bottle, he stands and faces his brother. “You always took after Mummy with your affinity for mathematics and its application to physics and astrophysics-“

“Perhaps you might fare better if you cease to inform your friends that you’ve deleted the solar system from your mind palace.”

Sherlock doesn’t want to meet his brother’s gaze so he turns back to the cupboard, looking for the wine glasses. “I was never all that interested in the details of the sun, moon and stars. That was always your area. I prefer its more aesthetic qualities.”

FILL: Part 4B - All Life is an Experiment (Mycroft/Sherlock)

[(Anonymous)]

Mycroft lets out a soft laugh. “Yes, dragging me out of the house in the middle of the night to lie in the garden so you could poke me in the side each time you saw a shooting star. Demanding I tell you stories of the greek and roman gods the stars and planets were named after.”

As his brother reminisces, Sherlock fills the two glasses. “Don’t deny you didn’t enjoy it, Mycroft,” he teases. “The opportunity to show off all the vast, unnecessary knowledge in that brain of yours to a captive audience. Although I didn’t know any better back then.”

“Oh how could I forget the thrill of lying on the cold, hard and occasionally damp ground because you were too impatient to collect a blanket and then threatened to throw a tantrum at the mere suggestion of going back inside to get one,” Mycroft replies as he takes the proffered glass. “What is this?”

“Maderia. 1814,” Sherlock replies nonchalantly as he watches his brother’s face, cataloguing any reactions however minute. He takes his glass and lifts it to his lips, tips his head back a touch. Wets his mouth against the sweet wine and pulls the glass away for a moment as his tongue flicks out to lick at his lips.

Sherlock peeks from the corner of his eye, having twisted the angle of his torso just a little to give Mycroft the best view of his mouth and throat when he swallows a mouthful of the fortified wine. He sees a corresponding movement in the adam’s apple of his brother and finds himself inordinately pleased at eliciting the reflexive reaction.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice is low. Tentative.

“Take a sip, Mycroft,” Sherlock reprimands his brother lightly as he takes the decanted bottle and his own wineglass and walks over to the sofa. Places the bottle within easy reach on the coffee table and gracefully sinks into the cushioned seat before patting the space next to him. “Enjoy, don’t think. For once.”

Mycroft is compliant and slowly follows his brother to the sofa. Sits down beside him although his posture clearly expresses a level of discomfort Sherlock is not used to. Sherlock leans to his left, nudges his brother’s shoulder with his own and throws a smile. “Drink up, Mycroft.”

Much to his surprise, Mycroft does. Sherlock watches his brother’s lips part, slim fingers come into view as the wineglass is tilted. How his brother’s expression of suspicion melts into appreciation. “This is excellent. Rich, sweet and there’s an undercurrent of cocoa and butterscotch.”

“You were always more partial to the aromas of sweets,” Sherlock comments without rancour. He takes another mouthful, encouraging Mycroft to do the same. Their glasses are almost half-empty. “For myself, there’s the scent of coffee,” he says, noting how his brother nods in agreement. Another sip.

“With the complex taste of … dried fruit. Quite possibly some notes of raisin?”

Sherlock agrees. Leans forward to refill his own and Mycroft’s glasses before relaxing back against the sofa in a languid pose his brother does well to emulate. “The colour is a lovely dark brown which is backed up by the concentration of flavours, don’t you think, Mycroft?”

Mycroft takes another mouthful, closing his eyes to better contemplate on the complex taste. His eyes flutter before stilling and Sherlock wonders whether eye-lashes can be considered erotic. He closes his own eyes, imagining his own dark lashes contrasting against pale skin. He’s still pondering on the question and whether he could test it in his experiment so when he opens his eyes and notices Mycroft is staring at him, he’s a little taken aback by the intensity of the look his brother directs at him.

“Yes.”

Sherlock’s forgotten the question yes is an answer to.

Instead he changes the subject. Recounts the particulars of the case he’s been distracted by earlier that day. Sherlock is pleased when Mycroft decides to be an interested observer, nodding and making small comments, rather than subverting him by announcing the crime’s perpetrator.

FILL: Part 4C - All Life is an Experiment (Mycroft/Sherlock)

[(Anonymous)]

By the time he finally explains how he solved the case, Sherlock realises that he and Mycroft have made their way through two-thirds of the bottle of Madeira. Combined with the lack of dinner on both accounts – given Mycroft was already at his flat – it would certainly go a long way to explain the somewhat tipsy feeling Sherlock is experiencing.

A sidelong glance at his brother, eyes closed with his head resting against the sofa, as he places both empty glasses – once he extracts the wineglass from his brother’s slim fingers – on the coffee table confirms he is also slightly inebriated. Neither of them used to fortified wine on any regular basis. Sherlock thinks the slightly askew and loosened tie makes Mycroft look ever so slightly rumpled. Wonders what a fully dishevelled Mycroft looks like.

Maybe it’s that thought that makes him skitter his right hand across Mycroft’s torso, the barest touch against wool, cotton and silk. That skims up his brother’s throat and traces his jaw, the light stubble translating into a light tingling at the tips of his fingers. He rubs his thumb across Mycroft’s lips – slightly wet and wholly soft.

“Sherlock. What are you doing?” Mycroft eyes are open, slightly unfocussed, but he doesn’t move or draw away.

Interesting.

“Sherlock?”

He moves a little closer. Mycroft still doesn’t move, but then why would he, Sherlock reasons. “I was wondering if they, your lips I mean, were really as soft as they looked,” he says before realising what an inane comment it was. “Lip balm?” he teases.

“Lip envy, Sherlock? Really?” Mycroft replies with a huff and Sherlock successfully hides the light shiver as he feels the warm, damp huffs of air against his thumb still resting at the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. “Have you forgotten how Aunt Doris cooed over your heaven sent cupid bow lips? Kept going on about how you’d break all the young girls’ hearts.”

Sherlock scowls, rolls his eyes at the amused look he gets from Mycroft in return. “She was always wrong. Couldn’t make a simple deduction to save her life. How she never realised that Uncle Ru-”

“Ignorance to protect one’s emotions-“

“I thought you said caring is not an advantage,” Sherlock interrupts.

It’s Mycroft’s turn to roll his eyes, a slow and lazy movement – probably a result of the alcohol he’s consumed. “It isn’t, but that doesn’t stop people.”

He brushes his thumb across Mycroft’s lips once more. It takes a fraction longer because Mycroft is smiling. Sherlock leans forward, in his mind it plays in slow motion, and presses his lips to Mycroft’s.

He doesn’t do anything else, just a simple press of lips before pulling back and dropping his hand to his own lap, although he makes sure to brush it against Mycroft’s knee on its way back.
He waits.

And waits.

Mycroft is blinking – processing.

Sherlock would say something but he’s too busy recording the various reactions and twitches so he can accurately transcribe it into his notebook, particularly since he’s moved ahead of his plans. But then Sherlock doesn’t consider himself a conventional scientist.

The silence hits the thirty second mark and Sherlock thinks this is the longest he’s managed to dumbfound his brother. He’s delighted – smirks. This finally triggers his brother’s own reaction.

Mycroft’s a sudden flurry of movement. His head snaps up and he’s wearing his practised incredulous expression. His hands pull at his tie, waistcoat and jacket almost as if Mycroft putting himself into order will help him reorder his thought processes. Sherlock notes that while his brother looks flustered, confused, Mycroft hasn’t shifted away from Sherlock and doesn’t look disgusted.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft runs a hand – trembling, Sherlock observes – through his hair. An almost unprecedented reaction, much to Sherlock’s delight. His brother almost never touches his hair once he’s styled it into place each morning. “What on earth is going on with you?”

“Oh, haven’t you guessed?” Sherlock asks with an arched eyebrow.

“Guess? Your behaviour is much more atypical than usual and in this case, I have no frame of reference,” Mycroft snaps back.

“Brother dear, I’m disappointed.”

Mycroft growls and Sherlock twitches. “Sherlock!”

FILL: Part 4D - All Life is an Experiment (Mycroft/Sherlock)

[(Anonymous)]

“Surely the wine hasn’t dampened your deductive prowess this much?” Sherlock taunts, leaning towards his brother just an inch. His brother doesn’t move. Bewildered though he obviously is, his concern for Sherlock’s mental wellbeing is keeping Mycroft firm.

The words spill from Mycroft’s mouth slower than usual. “The flowers. You’d obviously selected them yourself given the lack of finesse in their arrangement but that wasn’t the point. There was a meaning, or several to each flower you chose, even the paper rose although the message is unclear, convoluted. Whether that is by choice or your lack of familiarity with the subject matter.

“And tonight with the 1814 Madeira, one of my favoured vintages at that,” he continues, gesturing to the coffee table. “The book. Expensive but deliberately chosen with me and my interests in mind. The absence of animosity in our recent interactions and conversations-“

“Don’t forget the kiss!” Sherlock’s expression is positively impish and his brother is suddenly lost for words, his eyes dart over Sherlock’s face and body.

“You’re not on drugs again.” A statement.

“No.”

Mycroft’s face and his reaction doesn’t express any hint of relief. “Then what in fuck’s name is going on?” Mycroft demands, white-lipped. His brother never uses that word. Too uncouth. Crude. Sherlock’s almost giddy.

“I’m courting you,” he finally explains.

His brother’s slack-jawed reaction is the icing on the cake. “Courting?” he finally asks.

Sherlock bats his eyes on purpose. “Yes,” he confirms as Mycroft’s expression turns incredulous.

“Have you lost your mind? Do you know what you’re proposing?”

“No and yes. Don’t be so affronted, Mycroft.”

“Pardon me, Sherlock, but I think it’s a perfectly acceptable reaction to my brother dropping into everyday conversation that he wants to date me.”

Sherlock smiles beatifically. “Not just date.”

“Dear lord.” Mycroft finally stands, looks for his coat and umbrella for a long moment before realising he hadn’t brought them on this visit. The warm summer nights meaning he needs neither. “Sherlock. I don’t know what or why you’re proposing this but I want you to sober up and reconsider this course of action.”

He stands up, faces his ruffled brother. “I wasn’t drunk when I sent you the flowers, or that book,” he reminds Mycroft, who looks baffled. “Mycroft, I suggest you get used to the idea because I shan’t be giving up this easily.”

Mycroft’s mouth opens but snaps shut almost immediately as he reconsiders whatever he was about to say. With a final inscrutable look, he pivots on his heels and stalks out of the room, with only the slightest sway to his hips and stride that indicates his inebriated state.

Sherlock takes the few steps to the window and pushes the voile panel aside. Watches as Mycroft exits 221B, opens the door to the car parked outside before twisting his body to look up – at Sherlock. Sherlock smiles before brushing his thumb across his own lips.

There’s a peculiar look on Mycroft’s face as he breaks eye contact and slips into the back seat of his car and out of sight, but not before Sherlock catches his brother tracing the curve of his own lips with his index finger.

Only after the car has driven away, taking Mycroft away, does Sherlock move away from his post. He makes a quick assessment of his own self and decides writing up his observation notes following their very interesting and informative evening could wait until the next morning when he was sober and clear-headed.

He’s careful as he makes his way to the back of the flat. Has no desire to trip over his own two, slightly drunk, feet. And if he traces his own lips again along the way, there’s no-one around to see.


AA - so I've posted this chapter without my usual chapter in hand so the next one might take a little while (but I am writing tonight) so I hope this tides y'all through!

FILL: Part 5A - All Life is an Experiment (Mycroft/Sherlock)

[(Anonymous)]

AA - so I was meant to update one of my WIPs and ended up writing more of this instead. Oh well, I follow the muse as it hits me.

Chapter 5

Day 5

Ping.

Extracting his phone from his inner pocket, Mycroft quickly unlocks the phone to read the message. It’s Sherlock. For the first time in his life, Mycroft isn’t sure what to think about his brother – a fairly disconcerting issue.

When they were young, Mycroft couldn’t help compare his brother’s burgeoning intelligence and find it wanting compared to his own. As they grew older, he taught Sherlock all he could about the power of deductions, the basics constructs of a memory room to help his brother retain information that comes to easily for Mycroft. As young adults, worry and anger as Sherlock started his battle with drugs.

With John Watson, a hint of relief that there were someone else who also protects Sherlock from his own demons. Moriarty, a threat to those Mycroft protects. And the three years while Sherlock was dead, he doesn’t like to think about too deeply.

He’s in his armchair at the Diogenes. The efficient service means there’s a hot, steaming tea service at his side table. Here Mycroft can sit and think. Try to understand.

He thumbs the message open. It’s a photograph.

Of a teddy bear, muddy-brown with short fur and a prominent black nose – wearing a pirate hat, with a little eye-patch covering one of the beady black eyes. At its short, round waist is a small sword, Mycroft notices. But its most distinctive feature is the knitted dark navy coat, so reminiscent of Sherlock’s own.

He closes his messages down, confused. Why Sherlock is sending him a photo of a stuffed toy eludes him, but then much about Sherlock’s stated desire to court his own brother does.

Incest. Taboo. Verboten. Three simple words. Constructs.

In his case, there is no abuse of power, not really. He can say no.

Societal norms.

Mycroft is not a man who commits himself to following society’s views of acceptable and normal. His mind sets him apart for one. His job second. Protecting Queen and country – and Sherlock – requires the occasional flouting of norms.

After all, how normal is it to keep dead bodies in a freezer until he had enough to fill a 747 jumbo jet?

Brother.

Sherlock has never expressed any feelings of want towards Mycroft before. Although his brother oftentimes denies it, he knows Sherlock does feel desire. Irene Adler is a recent example of this, Mycroft recalls. There were the odd dalliances at university of course. Janine – on the other hand – Mycroft never quite understood.

But mostly, Sherlock desires the thrill. Cases. Puzzles. Games. Danger. Flouting rules. Gets off on those more than any physical relationship he’s ever had.

He wonders where he fits into this or if he needs to draw up a new battlefield.

And then there’s his own feelings to consider.

Mycroft loves Sherlock.

But does he desire him?

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

FILL: Part 5B - All Life is an Experiment (Mycroft/Sherlock)

[(Anonymous)]

The grandfather clock in his hall chimes midnight as Mycroft locks away his briefing papers and puts aside his now-empty tumbler of brandy for his cleaner to clean and replace the next day. He checks the windows and doors, switching off lights as he makes his way to the stairs.

Familiarity. Schedule. Comfort.

When he finally walks into his bedroom several minutes later, he’s jerked out of his routine.

There’s a teddy-bear on his bed, resting on a pillow. A match to the photo Mycroft received that morning and had forgotten in the absence of any further contact. Of course Sherlock would have no compunction with entering Mycroft’s home – his bedroom – if it suits his aims.

Mycroft had given him a key after all.

He chooses to ignore the lack of concern at the thought of Sherlock being in his bedroom.

Perching on his bed, he picks up the teddy bear – it’s smaller than he thought it would be but carries the distinct scent that is Sherlock – he finds a brown envelope. He places the bear back pillow as he swops it for the envelope. From it spills a small collection of Polaroid photographs. He shuffles through them.

There’s one of Sherlock and the bear – of course there would be. Sherlock’s face is split by a wide smile and there’s that glint in his eyes. One that Mycroft recognises doesn’t bode well for him.

He flicks through a handful of photos of the bear at various random places – in Sherlock’s chair at 221B, in front of Big Ben, at New Scotland Yard. One that captures a somewhat confused Lestrade holding the teddy while a second one is of a grinning dark-skinned woman – Mycroft pulls the name Sally Donovan from his memory – holding the bear up to the camera.

Then there’s one of the bear and … Andrea. The bear sitting on his desk, in his personal office under the Diogenes. In his car.

There’s one of a horrified looking John Watson holding the bear from its ear.

John Watson. He knew. Had hinted as much when Mycroft called him just a few days ago. Knew Sherlock was trying to court Mycroft for whatever insane reason his brother had concocted. Had warned him not to hurt Sherlock.

A final photo of the bear with another teddy bear. This one suited out to look just like Mycroft – three-piece suit, tie and umbrella.
Mycroft’s pulse is rapid and he takes several deep breaths to calm down. But the message is clear.

Sherlock is determined. And Mycroft is … confused.

FILL: Part 6A - All Life is an Experiment (Mycroft/Sherlock)

[(Anonymous)]

I think this is my favourite chapter so far ... enjoy!

Chapter 6

Day 6

Mycroft is content. So what if he sways a little when raising his hand to signal a black cab.

“It’s barely twenty minutes to yours. Let’s walk?” He jumps when Sherlock’s fingers curl around his wrist, pulling it down.

He feels altogether indolent after a delicious meal at Tamarind of Mayfair. Sherlock’s choice and a wonderful one at that – the menu was a delectable balance of spices and flavours that burst on the palette. Well paired wines and excellent service. All to be expected from a Michelin starred restaurant. So he’s surprised when he lowers his arm and lets Sherlock pull him down the road in the direction of Green Park.

They walk, arms and fingers brushing against each other sometimes. And in-between periods of silence they talk, in fits and starts, about inconsequential things and quiet deductions about the other city dwellers they pass by. Mycroft doesn’t mention the obvious topic of conversation. Sherlock’s courting of him. Doesn’t need to.

It’s obvious in the way his knuckles are white, clamped around the polished wood handle of his umbrella. The stuttered intake of air when Sherlock’s hand brush against him. In Sherlock’s keen gaze and the secret smile he shares with Mycroft when no one else is looking.

And yet the two of them have just shared a pleasant, argument-free dinner. Pleasantness – that isn’t unusual, Mycroft is quick to remind himself, when they’re on their own. Argument-free, however, is given their temperaments – Mycroft rarely making considerations for his greater intelligence, Sherlock resenting the simple fact that Mycroft is the smarter one.

Perhaps it’s because Mycroft still feels wrong-footed, nervous because he can’t read Sherlock. A rare and unusual feeling, one he dislikes greatly. And Sherlock is confident, charming and seemingly imbued with a hidden knowledge giving him an inner confidence.

Mycroft is so lost in his thoughts that he almost misses their turning in the middle of Green Park, fully intent on walking straight on taking him to the Victoria Memorial and the Palace.

Luckily – perhaps – Sherlock’s arm curls around his waist and steers him to turn left. Except this isn’t a dance move and Mycroft is not as light-footed so, of course, he stumbles. Into Sherlock.

In that moment it’s just the two of them.

Sherlock’s arms curled around Mycroft’s middle, holding him close. Mycroft clings to Sherlock’s upper arms for balance. Support.

He can feel his brother’s muscles flex under his touch. The increase in respiration. At this close distance, Mycroft can easily see how Sherlock’s eyes move in a triangular pattern between Mycroft’s eyes and his lips. It’s too dark to know but Mycroft thinks Sherlock’s eyes are dilated. As are his.

When he licks his lip – nervousness – Sherlock’s eyes fix there. Mycroft feels like he can’t get enough air into his lungs when Sherlock leans forwards just a little. Ridiculous, he tells himself sternly. Act like the grown man you are.

So when Sherlock speaks, a low, husky rumble rather than the expected press of lips against his own, Mycroft jumps. Just a little to his shame.

FILL: Part 6B - All Life is an Experiment (Mycroft/Sherlock)

[(Anonymous)]

“You really should walk through London more often, Mycroft. Getting lost in Green Park is just so unbecoming, don’t you think?” Sherlock teases as his hands drops to Mycroft’s hips, tightens there for a split-second before letting go and taking a step back.

Mycroft shivers. From the loss of Sherlock’s body heat in the cool of the evening, of course. “Old age, perhaps?” he offers as a defence.

Sherlock smiles and merely points the way and Mycroft follows in his brother’s wake and a moment later they’re back walking side by side. That his brother doesn’t give voice to the expected retort just adds to Mycroft’s bewilderment. Perhaps there are some benefits to this courting process, he wonders.

Stop it, he tells himself.

When they finally reach his home, Mycroft unusually hesitates. Sherlock’s sharp eyes don’t miss this and he flushes. “Will you come in?” he asks.

“Thank you. I promise you’ll keep your virtue,” Sherlock says as he walks past Mycroft and into the hallway, before turning back to face him, adding. “For tonight at least.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes as he closes the door behind him, stashes his coat and umbrella. “Sherlock.”

“What?”

“I…”

Sherlock removes and throws his own coat onto a convenient chair as Mycroft enters his main reception room. He makes a quick diversion to pour two snifters of whisky before approaching Sherlock, extending one arm to offer his brother the glass.

“Do you mind if I stay over,” Sherlock asks, his voice all innocence. Mycroft’s gaze snaps to Sherlock and his hold on the proffered tumbler loosens. It’s only Sherlock’s quick reflexes that prevent his floor bearing the remnants of broken glass. “Oh dear, Mycroft. Don’t tell me you’re suffering from nerves?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft manages to say but the rest of the sentence is lost to him.

That Sherlock takes advantage of his horrific lapse in composure to stand within Mycroft’s personal space is not a surprise. And by now nor is the quick press of lips to his cheek.

“Relax,” Sherlock murmurs.

“How can I?” he replies, trying to keep the distress from his voice.

“Mycroft.”

“Sherlock, look-“

“Hush,” Sherlock interrupts him by actually placing his finger on Mycroft’s lips. It’s intolerable. Because, from nowhere, he’s hit with the image of flicking his tongue at the single index finger. To hold it between his teeth. Lave it.

Mycroft gasps.

It’s loud in the silence of the room and Sherlock’s curious eyes are fixated on him. Trying to dissect him. For all that his brother can deduce, he’s thankful his mind and thoughts – perverted mind and thoughts – are his and his alone. He trembles.

Sherlock bring his glass to his mouth and knocks back the amber coloured drink, throwing the empty glass at one of the armchairs. Twenty-one year old Highland Park his mind supplies. Before he can protest at the abuse of the fine drink, his glassware or his furniture, Sherlock’s hand is cupping his left cheek. Leaning in towards him.

Kissing him.

FILL: Part 6C - All Life is an Experiment (Mycroft/Sherlock)

[(Anonymous)]

Not a simple press of lips this time. Sherlock is moving his lips, encouraging him to join in. Mycroft closes his eyes. Is assaulted by the scent of the whiskey on his brother’s lips – the hints of sweet sherry and balsamic, his nose picking out the toffee more easily.

He licks his lips. The movement means he inadvertently brushes his tongue against Sherlock’s plump lower lip. Aniseed, a complex sugar, apple crumble and smoke his mind supplies, decoding the signals from his palate. The low, cut-off groan on the other hand needs no interpretation.

Mycroft tries to pull away but the hand is now curled around the back of his neck, holding him in place. And he’s not pulling away all that hard really. It’s been so long since he’s been kissed and with his eyes closed he can almost pretend; it’s simply muscle memory and yet like learning a new language, moving his lips and curling his tongue around new sounds and accents, at the same time.

Sherlock does something with his tongue and plump lower lip and a moan is ripped from Mycroft without his permission. He feels Sherlock’s lips curl into a wide smile and this time he pulls back.

Firmly. Takes two steps back. Takes three deep breaths. Snaps his eyes wide open for five seconds. Blinks eight times.

Counts his hammering heartbeats. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.

“Fuck!” Mycroft swears. Remembers the glass in his own hand and downs it. Stumbles to the closest armchairs and collapses into it, head hung low as shame, guilt and horror course through him.

When he feels he’s collected himself together, he sneaks a glance at Sherlock. His brother looks … confused. Not at Mycroft. It’s clear that Sherlock is undertaking some sort of internal review. Perhaps common sense will prevail, Mycroft can only hope.

Because his reactions just now, not just the hammering pulse, rapid breaths, tingling skin or – to be firmly ignored for the sake of his own sanity – the interested twitch in his groin, makes Mycroft wonder if he’s already lost.

“I’ll just…” Sherlock interrupts his thoughts, trailing off when Mycroft raises his head to look at him. He waves a hand in the direction of the guest bedrooms.

“Yes, fine,” Mycroft replies quickly, abruptly. All he wants is Sherlock far away from him right now. “You know where everything is.”

Sherlock hesitates. Opens his mouth as if to say something before thinking better of it, much to Mycroft’s relief. Spins on his heel and leaves the room. Mycroft can hear the tap of Sherlock’s feet on the floorboards, growing quieter as he walks upstairs and into the part of the house Mycroft keeps for his – admittedly rare – guests.

He needs time on his own. To rebuild, sort his thoughts out. Plan a course of action that will subvert them from the path Mycroft is following Sherlock down. A plan that will work, he hopes.


AA - so I solved the problem with day 7 and I didn't need to delete the 1k words I've already written so super happy. Next chapter will be a while however, between work and the TdF starting this weekend, I will have no free time for a while I'm afraid so I thought I'd stop at a nice kiss!

FILL: Part 6A - All Life is an Experiment (Mycroft/Sherlock)

[(Anonymous)]

AA here - sorry for the awful long wait between chapters. Hopefully I can get some time on this and a couple of others over the next few weeks and move towards the end!

Chapter 7

Day 7

Day seven: kissing – observation notes.

Test subject observations indicate a level of

Test subject is

Mycroft and I progressed to kissing last night. Original planning for experiment can no longer be adapted and will be discarded.

My brother is clearly disturbed by my attentions but at the same time approves of it. He participated in the kiss, eventually, and is more skilled than I had expected. Perhaps there is truth in his insinuations that he is more intimate in the arena of sexual interactions even if he is the greater misanthrope. However I missed his immediate reaction to our kiss.

The courting process has been a series of steps with instructions to be followed, although there is a wide range of acceptable standards and flexibility within the courtship ritual. I did not expect to be drawn into the process but I realise I am no longer quite the impartial observer. Looking back at the set-up, process and previous observation notes, this should have been obvious at a stage much earlier than today and valuable data about Mycroft’s reaction has been lost whilst I catalogued my own (see additional notes references).

Normally I would confide in John however he has been clear he wishes to know nothing about this experiment. If this is still classed as an experiment.

Conclusion is to continue with next steps – although plan is to be discarded, initial outlined objectives are still achievable. However will need to develop contingency planning exercise. For self and Mycroft.

FILL: Part 8A - All Life is an Experiment (Mycroft/Sherlock) Rated M

[(Anonymous)]

Chapter 8

Day 8

Mycroft thinks he might feel better if he let out a loud sigh. Perhaps a snarl. But he can’t. Not in the unique distinguished institution that is The Diogenes. Instead he picks up the china cup and takes a sip of the fragrant tea. He’s meant to be dwelling on the latest MI6 analysts’ reports on South America and the upcoming NATO meeting being held in Britain but Mycroft will readily admit to himself, if not to anyone else, that he’s in no mind to concentrate on trivial affairs of state.

Certainly not when there was a more complex, immediate puzzle at hand.

Sherlock. His brother, who wants to date him. Whom Mycroft now dreams of.

There’s a heavy, dark bitter echo whenever he thinks about what Sherlock is proposing. But it’s counterbalanced, exceeded even, by an unusual lightness, a thrill in his mind and chest, a tingle of anticipation that he can feel overwhelm him.

When he’s being Mycroft Holmes – cold, rational, the institution – he can see every reason not to. Pain, lies. Hurt. He’s the elder one. The big brother. Knows better – has always known better than anyone else he has met.

Then why is this thing with Sherlock affecting him so.

There is no peace. In his daylight hours he is either fielding his brother, thinking about him or attempting to deduce what is next. In the dark of night it is even worse – or better. There Mycroft’s conscience can wander free and he’s left with the impressions of contentment, happiness and more when he wakes up.

And now Mycroft finds himself handling an unexpected additional complication. Last night he dreamt of Sherlock. Of his long, lean lines and hidden strength. Of pale skin and tempting eyes. Even now, wide awake, Mycroft’s breath stutters in his throat as he relives the memory of his brother’s lips pressed to his own skin in his dream, of fingers tracing a path across his body that set his nerves alight. Luckily no-one notices his lapse between the gentle clink of china and rustling of newspapers.

Mycroft, almost ruefully, decides it’s too late. He’s already damned.

There a soft buzz at his side that distracts him from his illicit thoughts. Mycroft fishes out his mobile phone and opens the incoming message. It’s from Andrea – just a single word. Zwischenzug. For the briefest moment, Mycroft wonders how much his executive assistant actually knows about his complicated situation with his brother before pushing it aside.

Because Sherlock is at the Diogenes, waiting downstairs in his private office.

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