Archive of Our Own ^beta

There were few things that brought Sherlock as much pleasure as watching Mycroft squirm. Watch his brother fight emotions he found so distasteful. Pedestrian sentiment Mycroft Holmes considered himself above and beyond.

It was delightful, seeing his brother going through an array of negative emotions while firmly in denial about it. Sometimes, Sherlock lived for moments like this.

Mycroft had turned up in France without prior notice (which was wise, because depending on Sherlock’s mood, he might have fled before Mycroft arrived) and stood in the tattoo studio in his three-piece-suit, umbrella dangling from one arm, expensive wool coat from the other, a neon sign might well be hanging over his head.

For a lack of a better word, Mycroft was shell-shocked (or as close as he could get): His jaw was clenched tight and his eyes narrowed as they roamed over Sherlock’s body. Well...he might have changed a bit since his brother had last seen him. The tattoos sneaking out from under his shirt-sleeve for example. Or the vertical labret. The pierced ears and stretched lobes, too. Oh, if only he wasn’t wearing a shirt right now. At the sight of his nipple bar, Mycroft might have needed to ask for a chair lest he fainted.

“I see you’ve been busy…” Mycroft said and the subtext appeared over his head like a neon sign. What have you done? What is this ridiculous nonsense? What will Mummy say? Am I supposed to touch you when you look like that?

“Obviously,” Sherlock drawled and took a piece of gum from his pocket, unwrapping it carefully and putting on an outrageous show about popping it into his mouth, sticking out his tongue only far enough to give his brother a teasing glimpse of the barbell in his tongue.

Mycroft’s jaw tightened a little further, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. Oh, that was interesting. It seemed mind and matter were not quite in agreement about Sherlock’s body modifications.

This was going to be fun.

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked, leaning forward on the counter. Just a little closer into Mycroft’s personal space.

“I’m checking up on you, since apparently you can’t be persuaded to answer your phone or pick it up yourself and give Mummy a call. She’s worried sick while you’re gallivanting around France,” Mycroft retorted.

“You’ve found me. I’m alive and well, as you can see. Which you probably knew anyway, considering how much you love to spy on me. I don’t pretend that leaving the country would deter you.” Sherlock smirked.

“I do not spy on you, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, voice smooth and aloof. “But it doesn’t hurt to be aware of what you're doing. Trouble has a way of finding you.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock laughed. He stopped abruptly and leaned forward just that little bit more to whisper in his brother’s ear: “I’m sure the camera in my old flat’s bathroom was just to make sure I don’t slip and break my neck on the tub.”

Mycroft went rigid and Sherlock had to try his hardest not to break into a smug smile. Oh, he was enjoying this. Mycroft really had had no idea Sherlock had discovered the camera after two days and decided to have fun with it. It was only then that Sherlock had started to masturbate in the shower. Realistically, he knew Mycroft had had it put there because it used to be Sherlock's favourite place for shooting up. Installing a camera just to watch him in the shower was too pedestrian for Mycroft, but he could hardly ever resist temptation when it came to Sherlock.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mycroft said after he had gathered himself. He tried hard to sound dismissive -- too hard.

Sherlock only chuckled and moved back behind the counter. “I’m not going back to England, Mycroft. Not for some time yet.”

“Sherlock, there are far better opportunities for someone of your intellect in Britain. My employers are eager to have you." With a little less metal, that is…wasn't spoken aloud, but Mycroft communicated the sentiment with a cursory glance at Sherlock's face.

“You sound like a broken record, Mycroft. I have no desire to work for the government, as you well know,” Sherlock sighed. The same old argument again.

Mycroft brought down the tip of his umbrella on the polished tile floor with a sharp thud. Regaining control, Sherlock thought. Oh, his brother wished. “One phone call from me and there will be plenty of opportunities for you to work in a respectable field within the arts and not this primitive mutilation of bodies.”

Sherlock was gearing up for a cutting reply when the ultimate weapon appeared around the corner.

“Everything okay, Sherlock?” Victor Trevor asked with his light New Zealand accent, looking curiously between Sherlock and Mycroft.

“Oh yes,” Sherlock said, his smile a touch brighter than strictly necessary. “My brother just decided to spring a surprise visit on me.”

“You have a brother?” Victor asked, looking Mycroft up and down.

“I see you omitted my existence again, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, sounding just a touch disgruntled. Sherlock settled for a shrug while Victor offered his hand over the counter.

“Victor Trevor,” he said, friendly smile in place. Victor had the kind of smile most would describe as warm enough to melt ice, but it didn't even touch upon the glacier that was his brother. Mycroft took his hand only long enough so as not to appear impolite. It was clear he had no desire to touch anybody who looked like Victor.

Victor was the very antithesis of Mycroft. He kept his dark hair in dreadlocks that fell all the way down to his knees, just barely tamed by a thick hairband.His skin was tan and nearly every visible inch of skin covered in tattoos (some Sherlock’s own work). Victor’s goatee was longer than what the likes of Mycroft would deem acceptable and his brother easily could have stuck the tip of his umbrella through the tunnels in Victor’s ears. The back, washed-out t-shirt he wore sported the band logo of a Swedish Death Metal band. Today, Victor had even gone for a touch of eyeliner. Sherlock wanted to thank him for the accidental foresight.

While Mycroft was forced to shake hands with what he considered barely a step above the dirt on his hand-sewn Italian shoes, Sherlock trailed an arm around Victor's waist and let his fingertips rest on the thin sliver of skin visible between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his shorts.

Victor tensed for a moment, looking at Mycroft with a certain amount of wariness. He was observant enough to pick up on Mycroft's disdain, or at least felt unsure about how to behave around the older brother who looked so prim and proper in the classical grey three-piece-suit. At the seeming lack of negative reaction, he relaxed and put a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back.

What Sherlock saw was anything but a lack of reaction. A storm was brewing under the surface. Mycroft wore that look that said: I will end you and eradicate every proof of your existence.

Sherlock almost felt bad about using Victor to rile up his brother, but it was too much fun to pass up. He actually found Victor tolerable, might even like him, but they had only recently embarked upon this relationship thing and hadn’t even laid down ground rules. Sherlock was certain though he would never breathe a word of him and Mycroft to Victor (or anyone else, for that matter). Explaining it went beyond the limited horizon of most people who were all too concerned with arbitrary taboos and morals.

“Victor is an excellent teacher. I learned a lot from him,” Sherlock elaborated and allowed his fingers to trace circles on Victor’s hipbone. He could see the strain on Mycroft’s face who tried very hard not to stare at Sherlock’s fingers. “And an extraordinary artist. It’s impressive what he’s done on my arm, isn’t it, Mycroft?”

That did it. Something snapped behind Mycroft’s cool facade and Sherlock could almost taste it.

“Indeed,” Mycroft said in a voice cold enough to freeze a penguin.

Victor had been allowed to permanently mark Sherlock. Had laid a claim to Sherlock and Sherlock had let him.

“Thank you,” Victor said and patted Sherlock’s behind. “I have to get back, I bet the client’s getting impatient.”

“Mhm,” Sherlock hummed and, not quite finished yet with Mycroft, pressed a kiss to Victor’s lips to send him off. If Victor was surprised by Sherlock’s obvious displays of affection, he didn’t let it on much.

“Nice to meet you, Mr Holmes,” Victor offered as he disappeared back around the corner. Mycroft didn’t even nod.

Sherlock knew he looked smug. Not that he bothered to hide it -- it was rare that he got to play Mycroft like his violin. He had to enjoy it while it lasted.

“Well, I’m obviously doing fine, I'm in employment and not living under a bridge, so if you will excuse me, the supply cupboard needs cleaning.” It didn’t, but Sherlock trusted Mycroft to see a taunt when it was dangled in front of him.

The open door to the cupboard was right behind him and Sherlock felt Mycroft approach before he saw him. His brother could be fast if he wanted to be. He pushed Sherlock through the door, locked it behind himself and all but threw Sherlock against the nearest wall.

The force of it knocked the air out of Sherlock and Mycroft’s hands were clawing into his abdomen, skirting the line between pain and pleasure.

“You insolent little brat,” Mycroft growled under his breath, pushing between Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock just barely suppressed a groan. Mycroft’s possessive impulses made his uptight brother lose his composure in the most delectable ways.

Mycroft’s leg rubbed against Sherlock’s rapidly growing erection. God, it had been too long since he had seen his brother, he didn’t stand a chance of playing it cool.

“When I come back to my hotel room after my dinner reservation at eight, I expect you to be there.” Mycroft hissed. On my bed, naked remained unspoken.

“And if I’m not?” Sherlock gasped, the erection pressing into Mycroft’s thigh contradicting the challenge. But he never went down without a fight. Mycroft wouldn't expect any less of him.

“I will fetch you,” Mycroft threatened, moving his leg just enough to allow for a second of delicious friction that sent a shudder down Sherlock’s spine.

“I’d like to see you try,” Sherlock gasped.

"And I suggest you be prepared," Mycroft said, sounding amused.

He tried to untangle himself from Sherlock's thighs, but Sherlock caught his elbow in a firm grip and pulled him back against his chest.

"Are you certain you want me like this? Imagine this awful thing," Sherlock whispered in his ear, "on your cock."

He licked a stripe up Mycroft’s neck, from the starched collar to the jawbone -- slow enough to be almost torturous, dragging the titanium ball on his tongue along the sensitive skin with a hint of pressure. It made Mycroft's knees buckle for a moment before his brother tried to gather himself again.

"Horrible, isn't it?" Sherlock teased a little further. "It almost brought you to your knees."

Mycroft swallowed to find his voice, but he found it as the resolve came back into his posture and straightened his spine.

“Don't be so cocky, little brother,” Mycroft said and and grabbed his chin. Even in the dark, Sherlock could see Mycroft's eyes bore into him. "I guarantee you will be the one desperate to get on their knees and beg."

With a last brush against Sherlock’s crotch, unlocked the door and slipped out of the dark room with perfect composure, leaving behind a panting Sherlock.

He wasn’t so sure anymore that he had won this round. Or stood any chance of winning the next.