sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXIV

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Prompting Part XXXIV

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Let's have a Mind palace!Mycroft giving Sherlock directions to do other things. Things more... pleasurable.

Yummy!

“Lie down. Do nothing to conceal yourself.”

He did.

“Touch yourself.”

He did.

“Oh, Sherlock, such a paucity of imagination! There is no need whatsoever to start with the cock,” Mycroft went on.

Irritably aroused, Sherlock tweaked his own nipples (filing himself in the probable majority of the male population for which this didn’t do much), and started in on the inner thighs (that, on the other hand, did). Concentrating on thighs, balls and arse was doing a fair amount to shut off his brain, for now, so he continued.

“Excellent visual aesthetics,” said Mycroft. “A violinist’s fingers are most elegant, and a sexual flush on your alabaster skin...”

With one part of his brain, Sherlock was quite convinced that Mycroft would never describe him as having an alabaster skin, but he was outvoted by the quite wicked part that imagined having a good look at himself wanking (not that he’d got to the main event yet).

“Now bring your hands into play properly,” said Mycroft, and Sherlock gasped sharply, going for his cock with one and his balls with the other. He squeezed his eyes shut, caught between ‘horribly embarrassed’ and ‘wanting to watch’.

“Oh, tut, tut, tut!” said Mycroft. “Altogether too hopelessly coarse form.”

Sherlock snarled as his subconscious disinterred that particularly infuriating moment from one of his early fencing-lessons. “Then I suggest, brother, that you show me how it is done!”

Mycroft sighed, as though mildly burdened. Sherlock could hear him opening his trousers and getting himself out. Opening his eyes, Sherlock watched. He doubted Mycroft was actually that big -- he doubted anyone was actually that big -- but he couldn’t deny that he couldn’t take his eyes off the thing.

Mycroft was now making soft noises he’d never heard from his brother except involving cake, and using delicate, fluttery gestures around the head at the end of each smooth stroke.

“Oh, get on with it!” said Sherlock.

“If you insist.” Mycroft removed his hands and walked over to the bed, and that was all kinds of wrong, except he showed no signs of wanting to touch or get in. Then he started to masturbate again, more vigorously, aiming himself at Sherlock’s face. “Dirty boy!” he gasped, as they both started to come, loud and hard.

Sherlock was entirely uncertain what mental crevice that particular fantasy had crawled out of, but he had to admit the result had been a long, comfortable night’s sleep, even if cleaning-up was going to be awkward because he’d waited till the morning.

He now felt even less like seeing his brother’s smug face than he had before, if possible.

Apologies for cocking up where I posted this, so it turned up in the wrong order, blast!

You made my night. I loved it.

I loved the sweetness of Mycroft (at least, the Mycroft of Sherlock's subconscious) naturally appearing for Sherlock during his loneliness in the aftermath of John's wedding.

I loved every single line from Mycroft. Pure gold. His brusque, authoritative and rational tone, and his sardonic criticisms of Sherlock's technique was equal parts hilarious and titillating (and in-character too). You particularly had me at these:

“Oh, Sherlock, such a paucity of imagination! There is no need whatsoever to start with the cock,” Mycroft went on.

Mycroft was now making soft noises he’d never heard from his brother except involving cake, and using delicate, fluttery gestures around the head at the end of each smooth stroke.

“Oh, get on with it!” said Sherlock.

It was everything I was looking for and I cannot think you enough.

(writer here!)

Thank you! I was visualising this just before the wedding, actually, when Sherlock must have been in fits of despair about not knowing if he could manage at all.

I got a nudge from the other writer, because her writing Holmescest as more straightforward sex reminded me I'd been thinking of it in terms of how to differentiate both the characterisation and the setting from reality. What makes the mindpalace a Thing of its own kind.

Apologies for my oversight, I stand corrected.

I definitely think you did a fantastic job with portraying mind palace interactions vs reality. Even if it's all just happening in Sherlock's head, I don't think Mycroft would go so far to help Sherlock take care of his "needs" in anything other than a purely observational, pragmatic sense from a calculated distance. Oh, I do love me some voyeur Mycroft now.

YES PLEASE! hngh

+3

+4 <3

He knows he shouldn't. He knows it's not what normal, good boys do. But then again, Sherlock has never been a good boy and god knows he's not a normal one either, so why should he start now? He shudders to think of what Mycroft would say if he ever found out. He doesn't imagine it would end well. His thoughts are straying, not focusing at the task at hand and for that, he receives a stern scolding from the image of his brother his mind has conjured for him.

"Brother. Enough thinking. Do as your told. Squeeze harder."

Sherlock moans, tightening his hold on his cock as he pumps his hand up and down. He wonders what this would feel like if Mycroft were really there. How would he ever even go about convincing his brother to do that? Lestrade would never allow it. He'd always been possessive. Still, there was no harm in fantasizing. For now, he just followed his instructions, running his thumb along the head of his cock and using his other hand to fondle his balls, focusing on his brother's sinfully delicious voice as he brought himself to orgasm.

A/N: Sorry it's so short, but I hope you like it!

Wow, not just one but two fills for my prompt. This is my lucky day. Thanks so much for writing this. It's a mini but still a goody! I saw what you did there with the allusion to Mystrade. Ha.

I'm the author of the mini fill and I'm glad you liked it :3 And yes, Mystrade is my OTP so I couldn't help but put that little thing :P

(set between TEH and tSOT)

In bed, Sherlock opened the door of his mind-palace, entertained as usual when it flicked between his own home door, his brother’s very dignified door, and the door of the last case he’d taken, complete with crime-scene tape. He didn’t always spend too much effort stabilising his own visualisations, partly because free-associating had led him in a few useful directions, and partly because spending time fixing the images took up a certain amount of mental effort and it wasn’t worth it if he was merely resting.

This time he was at home. He wasn’t in the mood for thinking about John, which meant thinking about Mary, which meant thinking about the immense cumulative balls-up which was no doubt going to follow from anybody picking him to be Best Man. He turned around sharply, and was in a different part of London.

Bart’s? No. For once he wasn’t in the mood for dismembered things, a fact which would no doubt have surprised John, except he wasn’t thinking about John. He’d had a rough time of it Outside. Outside London, outside the country, outside everything his mind was likely to hit at a gallop and take to a successful conclusion.

“It really is remarkable how much your mental capacities, which were never that impressive to begin with, have diminished outside your normal locale.”

“Shut up, Mycroft.”

“Your lip’s wobbling, little brother.” Faint distaste.

There wasn’t much he could say to that. He’d lived through the lot of it. Then he’d found that home no longer meant John and all that promised future, all that talking-to-John-in-his-head now meant nothing. And he’d ended up having to save John for somebody else. It all added up to wanting comfort, which he never did. He didn’t need his mental image of his brother to tell him his brain was malfunctioning (which it never did).

He looked around. They were in Mycroft’s flat in Knightsbridge, which was in no way, shape or form anything that added up to Sherlock’s comfort.

“Of course it is,” said Mycroft. “My home is perfectly comfortable, and it may readily be at your disposal any time you wish to ask.”

Sherlock sighed, because of course he’d been used to the comforts of the world, good sheets, an excellent coat, his scarf -- and he’d been used to these things because Mycroft made them available. And he’d never ask for the use of any of Mycroft’s things.

“I really think I must insist,” said his version of Mycroft. “You’re not taking care of yourself, and that makes it my responsibility. John and Mary have each other now. And we have each other.”

“I find that disturbing.” Sherlock shuddered, in a way he would certainly have been able to suppress outside his own mind.

“But I must insist you take care of some of your bodily needs.” Infinitesimal pause. “Your ‘transport’, as you would have it.”

“I refuse to be lectured on eating disorders by a man struggling with his own relationship with food!”

“Your knowledge of my eating-habits is less than current,” said Mycroft, “while my knowledge of your personal care is in all ways up-to-date.” Damn. I can sometimes get to the real one that way, but the one in my mind is better-defended.

Sherlock looked down sooner than agree with his brother, even mentally.

“Otherwise,” said Mycroft, “you are lacking in sleep, comfort and sexual release. Dealing with any of that will both soothe you and clarify your thoughts.

“Every time I think I have reached the depths you are capable of...!” Sherlock began hotly.

“Except, I am you.” Mycroft bowed his head slightly. “And you know very well my original would never lay a finger on you, nor you on him. That’s not what this is about. Now remove your clothes, please, and open the bed.”

Sherlock was slightly amused to realise his mental self was now fully-dressed, right up to the Belstaff and the scarf, and they were in the bedroom. He took everything off, folding it, and did as he was told, awaiting the next order.

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