it's a fine line between beauty and cruelty ([info]rubydreams) wrote on December 18th, 2010 at 05:40 am
English > Sherlock > "Disease that we crave", Chapter 9
Title: Disease that we crave
Spoilers: Up to Sherlock 1x03 - "The Great Game"
Category/Warnings: Slash, UST, POV jumping ;)
Rating: Mature
Characters/Pairings: the whole bunch, I guess; Mycroft/John, Sherlock/Lestrade
Short Cut: Chapter 9: In which John and Mycroft spend their day getting to know each other better.

for disclaimers and further information please see the first part HERE.


Mycroft felt something was different from his normal mornings when he opened his eyes. The sun was only slowly creeping up, painting the room in a soft orange. He found John lying sprawled out on his back, snoring softly. There was something very peaceful about the picture, Mycroft mused.
But his body demanded other things than him staying in bed and dotting over John. He silently rushed to the bathroom. When he returned John was still asleep and Mycroft quickly slipped into his knee-length night-shirt without bothering with the pyjama bottoms he usually wore with it (and that were currently probably stuffed under some pillow John was resting on anyway) before he crawled under the covers. Although he enjoyed the unhindered view of all John had to offer him, he also had to think about John’s health and wrapped the bedspread back around him.
That woke John up and he smiled a little confused at Mycroft. “Morning,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Good morning,” smiled Mycroft.
John looked at their situation, himself wrapped in the bedspread, Mycroft under the duvet. He grinned, “Is that some kind of chastity thing?”
“I didn’t want to wake you but you couldn’t have been comfortable without a cover.”
“Now that I’m awake, I could come under your blanket and you could warm me up,” he smiled, having turned to Mycroft and running his fingers through his hair. Stubbly, sleepy-eyed Mycroft, hair tousled and all over the place. Then John pulled a face, “First I’ll need the bathroom, though.”
“The door on the left,” Mycroft supplied and watched with a smile and a blush as John got up and hurried into the bathroom. His blush didn’t vanish when John came back a few minutes later and he quickly made room for John to join him under the covers. John slipped in and into Mycroft’s welcoming embrace. He shuddered pleasantly at the sudden warmth.
“Pyjamas,” John stated and picked on the collar of Mycroft’s nightclothes.
“Night shirt,” corrected Mycroft.
“That’s very old school,” chuckled John.
“Usually I wear pyjama bottoms with it,” replied Mycroft and John’s hand sneaked down to Mycroft’s thigh and pulled the fabric up until his fingers met Mycroft’s bare skin. “It has a somewhat ‘Indian flair’ to it, as my mother put it when she gave me the first set.” It was harder to find the words when John’s hand was on the back of his thigh, just below his bottom and an invisible force made Mycroft wrap his leg around John’s, desperate to deepen their touch.
“Nevertheless. You need to get out of it,” John grinned and Mycroft happily helped John’s tugging fingers, although the he felt somewhat self-conscious when John’s hands eagerly ran over his body revealed underneath the fabric.
“Don’t worry,” John reassured him when he felt Mycroft tense unpleasantly under his touch. “I don’t mind if there’s more of you to enjoy. You’re... cuddly, soft and warm.”
Mycroft still couldn’t relax. All his self-confidence from last night had drained from him. He almost blushed when he remembered what they had done.
“I’m not happy with myself.”
With a little hesitation John smiled, “Who is?”
Mycroft’s eyes drifted to the puckered scar on John’s shoulder. He leaned in to kiss it, exploring the texture with his lips and tongue. It would have almost seemed distasteful to do something like that to Mycroft before last night, but now it simply felt natural.
John flinched, his hand instinctively finding its way into Mycroft’s hair. He felt the nearly overwhelming urge to pull Mycroft away, to make him stop.
He remembered the first days after being injured all too well. The bloody, red tissue, swollen and tender. He remembered staring at it every day, for a long time every time, the nurses exasperated sighs when they had found he had worried the bandages off yet again. He knew it was an unhealthy obsession, it was part of why he was sent to therapy. Of course the limp he had developed afterwards was the main reason, but he knew, somewhere in his files, was also a record of his behaviour in hospital.
He remembered how with every passing day, with every bit of tissue re-grown – but faulty, scared – the loathing in his heart sprouted a new root, digging in deep and painfully.
Loathing because he got injured and invalided. Loathing because he was alive and so many of his friends were not. Loathing because he was confined to his bed and loathing because he would return to England any day now and he would leave so many behind who deserved to go more than he did. Loathing because he was in a hospital and could do nothing to make people better. Loathing because he had become useless in his own domain.
According to Ella it was probably this loathing that had left him with a limp that could not be registered on an X-ray or MRI.
The limp was gone. But some of the uneasiness remained and whenever he started to think about his shoulder again he felt it gain a better footing. He expected the world to be as put off by the reminder of his failure as he was himself. Instead Mycroft muttered, “You’re a hero.” between kisses and John flinched.
“Heroes don’t exist,” he said flatly, automatically. “I haven’t suffered this for a reason, not for another human being. This happened because people are stupid.”
“You got injured in the line of duty, in your service for Queen and country.” Mycroft looked up to meet John’s gaze. “You suffered this because you believed in something bigger than yourself, because you believed that what you were doing is right. Bravery might be another word for stupidity, but your sense of duty is very... arousing.”
“Arousing,” whispered John, his breath shaky. Some of Mycroft’s words had been spot on (reminders of that day and that oath, stuffy dress uniform, overwhelming pride and sense of duty, the unmanly sting of tears in his eyes), but John swallowed those feelings quickly.
“Should I get an ‘E.R.’ tattooed on the scar?”
Mycroft chuckled against John's skin. “Maybe it doesn’t need something that drastic. But you really don’t have to mind it that much.”
“And you don’t have to mind your padding that much,” John shot back, emphasising his point by running his hand over Mycroft’s waist. His fingers dug softly into the flesh, a guttural moan rumbling in his throat. He gripped a little harder and Mycroft couldn’t help but moan as well, John’s lust igniting him.

It was probably against every sexual etiquette but for a moment Mycroft couldn’t help but be reminded of how his few nights with Giselle had been. When proposing their arrangement he had communicated his nervousness about sexual contact but had said that he would try to do everything to make it as pleasurable for her as he (in his disinterest) could. Now it seemed almost cruel to him to hide his shame behind detachment and force someone else into the charade. And the more time he spent with John the less he understood how his marriage had seemed like a good idea to him.

With John everything was different. Every touch held meaning, his hands almost as if glued to John's body, attracted by his skin. A faint brush of fingers could bring a moan to his lips, make his breath hitch with anticipation and every kiss sent a warm, humming feeling down to his crotch. Maybe John was right, maybe Mycroft simply was gay – a nice, simple, almost vulgar explanation and excuse for his life and marriage.
But bygones were bygones and Mycroft let the thoughts go, sighing silently. There was a time and place for memories and that time and place was not in bed with the first person he sexually desired.
“What are you thinking about?“ grinned John, on his stomach between Mycroft’s legs, leaning on his elbows on each side of Mycroft’s hips, having stopped kissing his way down from Mycroft’s neck. John still enjoyed the exploring, the new sensations that came with the new territory, with making love to a man rather than just drunk fumbling and handjobs in the seedy clubs that he had experienced back in uni.
“I’m thinking about how this never made me feel so good before,” Mycroft answered truthfully. John’s grin widened to something almost suggestive and now Mycroft felt compelled to say, “I was married after all.”
“If marriage was reason for a good love-life, divorces wouldn’t be so popular.”
“Then let me rephrase: being married is the only point of my reference list, but it is there.”
John was still wearing a wide grin and Mycroft slowly sat up, pulling John with him. John gave in, feeling vaguely excited as Mycroft’s body pressed against his, one arm around his shoulders, the other hand gently forcing his chin up.
“I mean it,” muttered Mycroft between two kisses. “With you I feel...”
“Attractive? Beautiful? Gorgeous? Graceful? Handsome? Lovely? Stunning?” asked John, his eyes closed and he licked his slightly tingling lips. Mycroft took the chance and kissed John again, deep and lingering, his palms hot and possessive on John’s skin.
“You’re a natural talent,” muttered John, shivering slightly and feeling a little weak. “I don’t know about you, but I feel amazing.”
Nevertheless he found some strength after a moment and then pushed Mycroft back into the cushions, licking and nibbling at Mycroft’s ear, one of his very sensitive spots. It took less than a minute before Mycroft was incoherent, writhing mess underneath him, his once firm grip on John’s waist slack. Mycroft wasn’t used to giving up his control, to let anyone lead him. But there was a first time for anything, he thought as he wrapped his arms around John and held him close.

They stayed in bed, making out and exploring each other’s body, until some time around noon when got up John to slip downstairs into the kitchen – raiding fridge and freezer for the promised chicken roast – and Mycroft decided to go to the study to get a little work done. It did take some time for Mycroft to be able to concentrate on his work, though, or even focused enough to get out of bed. The picture of John, in his underwear and shirt and nothing else, padding out of the room and down the stairs on bare feet was just so very present in his mind. A day ago he might not have thought much of it, but now the bare, muscular legs brought back a thousand pleasurable memories. The brush of fingers against his skin, skin under his own fingers, the smooth hardness of John’s erection against his palm, his hip, his thigh or backside. With a sigh Mycroft wrapped himself in his dressing gown, made the bed, picked up the evidence of their coupling and cleaning afterwards and strode over to the study when the bedroom seemed somewhat presentable. He flopped down (uncharacteristically) in his office chair and tried to concentrate on his work, but found his gaze drifting off into the distance more than once – and each time he pulled himself together again and began processing the information on the screen before him anew.

After about an hour John came upstairs to the study and placed himself behind Mycroft, hands on his shoulders and lips on his neck.
“This could be a matter of national security,” muttered Mycroft, but his attention had drifted from the document on his screen from the moment when John had entered the room. It wasn’t all that important anyway, Mycroft thought.
“The chicken’s in the oven, the timer’s set. Let’s get back to bed,” whispered John, pulling Mycroft up and back to the bedroom. They quickly shed their clothes and slipped under the covers and into a curious, exploring and erotic embrace.
“I feel like a horny teenager,” muttered John. “But with a bit more self-restraint.” He was still surprised how much just touching Mycroft could turn him on, how good that heavy, hard and hot prick in his hand felt, how right instead of just convenient.
“I never was a horny teenager,” replied Mycroft, shivering when John applied a little pressure. Their fooling around had left him hard quite a few times that day but they had silently agreed on enjoying the process, not the results. Despite his little experience Mycroft knew the mechanics and that an orgasm would dull the sensation of John’s touch. They weren’t teenagers anymore, they would need some rest, so for the first time in his life getting worked up was better than just getting off – and letting the tension go and drain from him was better than riding those few, short waves of climax before when the shame had used to settled in. The shame of his body’s demands, his needs, that treacherous contentment afterwards.

With John Mycroft felt almost transformed. He was getting bolder, exploring John’s body more consciously, more aware. He could just deduce things about John, but deducing isn’t ‘having seen’, deducing isn't ‘having touched’ and deducing doesn’t give the pleasure seeing and touching does. So Mycroft was on his knees and heels, legs slightly spread and John’s draped over his thighs and each leg on each side of Mycroft’s waist. Mycroft’s hands were slowly coursing over John’s bare skin, his eyes quickly flickering over every inch of exposed skin, taking note of every mole and tiny scar marring the smoothness of John’s skin.
John lay on his back, a warm, buzzing feeling in his stomach and lower even and his heart was beating strong in his chest. There was an excitement in being so open and vulnerable to his lover, Mycroft’s hands on his hips, his belly, his thighs and his chest. John’s breath hitched when Mycroft’s thumb brushed up his inner thigh and traced the long taunt sting of his adductor muscle up to John’s groin. Despite his own words about shame and desires, John felt a little ashamed, a little guilty. He didn’t quite feel ready to admit to anyone how much he enjoyed this. Especially this, the imposing figure of Mycroft over him, being on his back himself and all but writhing, needy and lusty, under his lover. He didn’t think anyone would understand – he didn’t quite understand himself. How he could want Mycroft to pin him down, probe him with his long, graceful fingers and fuck him? He had never tried it, how could he want this so much?
He let his head fall back and moaned as Mycroft’s hands ran up and down his thighs in symmetric patterns, charting the muscles tensing under skin, pushing and fingers digging in softly.
“You’re very handsome,” declared Mycroft, his need a nice, low hum in his abdomen. He let his hands glide up further to John’s smooth, hairless skin. His hands splayed out over John’s hips, the pads of his thumbs pressing softly down on the protruding bones. There was a warm smile on his lips and he let his right hand trail from the hips and along the sensitive juncture of thigh and torso. John giggled and instinctively pulled his leg a bit up. “Don’t! I'm ticklish.”
“You must know the appeal of a ban,” smiled Mycroft, repeating the movement instantly.
This time John was warned, however, and forced himself to relax and endure the contact, the sweet torment of Mycroft’s large but delicate hand. The feathery touches abated and his long fingers tangled in the dirty blond curls between John’s legs. He idly wrapped the hairs around his fingers with a languid, circling movement and John’s breath hitched at the gentle pull, closing his eyes and stretching lazily, letting the arousal flow over him in waves. Mycroft’s thumb strayed up, brushing against the velvety skin of John’s cock, tracing the protruding veins and the outlines of the anatomy underneath, something John ought to know better than him. John moaned, lifted his arms up over his head and arched up. His eyes were closed, his head had rolled to the side and his lips were ajar, only closing ever so often to allow him to swallow. While Mycroft watched, John’s tongue darted to wet his lips, then sucking in his lower lip to chew softly on it. Mycroft wanted to replace John’s teeth with his own, mangling the soft flesh, sucking on it until John would moan into their kiss, gasp and sigh, but Mycroft held himself back. He had a better idea, capturing the coarse curls firmly between his fingers and gave a short, sharp tug. John gasped and moaned deeply, arching up and one leg wrapping around Mycroft’s waist. The older man let go of the hair and wrapped his hand around John’s erection, brushing his thumb over the sensitive, smooth surface, pulled back the foreskin and felt the difference between the textures – the velvety, veined skin on the shaft, the equally smooth, raw looking redness of the tip. Mycroft found it difficult to describe, although he knew the difference from his own body. He had never paid it much heed, he still didn’t find himself very interesting. But on John this was fascinating, enticing.
John sucked in a sharp breath. “Careful,” he whispered. “It’s sensitive.” There was no accusation in his voice although some displeasure. He writhed a little and Mycroft withdrew his thumb from the tender flesh.
“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said.
“No, it’s okay,” mumbled John. “It’s fine, just be a little more... soft there, ‘kay?”
“Yes, of course,” smiled Mycroft, bringing his left hand in, letting it replace his right when it trailed down further, tracing the outline of John’s balls. It drew another moan from John and he had become fully hard in Mycroft’s hand. He felt not exposed at all as Mycroft’s fingers kept working, clearly inspecting him, exploring him. John’s only regret was that the fingertips currently trailing over the slightly ribbed skin along the vertical seam was that there was no way he felt able to tell Mycroft to go on, go deeper. His face flushed and his hips jerked upwards.
“Shhh,” cooed Mycroft, running his left hand up along the faint outline of John’s abs, his sides, splaying out over his ribs.
“Serratus anterior,” gasped John.
Mycroft’s eyebrows rose, “Hm?”
“There’s... a muscle, from the back, to the ribs at the side. It's the serratus anterior. From the other side from where your hand is.” John chuckled and Mycroft kept his hand still. “On a very fit person it can almost look like fingers splayed out under skin. Right now you could... interlock your fingers with them.”
Mycroft smiled, his hand brushing up against the outline of John’s pectoral muscle, applying some pressure to the soft bud of John's nipple, rolling it softly under his fingertip, delightedly noting the moan it drew from John. “You’re thinking too much.”
“Once a doctor always a doctor,” muttered John. “It changes the way you look at people. I look at people’s bodies like you might look at their shoes, instantly deducing where they have been by the mud stains. There were times when all I saw were symptoms and illnesses.”
Mycroft nodded, he knew this all too well, a blessing and a curse in its own way. He grinned, paying further attention to John’s nipple. “What symptoms do I have?”
John lifted his head with some difficulty and eyed Mycroft all over. “I would say you suffer from a parasympathetic reaction, manifesting in your lower abdomen, quite possibly brought on by sensory stimulation.”
“Hm, yes,” muttered Mycroft. “Isn’t the parasympathetic system supposed to relax?”
“Aren’t you feeling relaxed?” John asked and withdrew himself from Mycroft’s grasp, sitting up and moved over to Mycroft’s side, pressing himself against Mycroft’s body. His hand trailed up along the inside of Mycroft’s thigh and then ghosted over his crotch, feathery touches on his balls and erection. Mycroft shivered involuntarily. “See? A very relaxed shiver.”
“Are you sure?” muttered Mycroft, panting softly.
But in answer John simply brushed his lips over Mycroft’s ear, tongue tracing the hard ridges of cartilage under soft skin. Mycroft moaned and running his tongue over his front teeth, hard and trapping the tip between them, then biting his lip. He let out a shuddery breath, fingers digging into his own thighs, desperate to hold on to something.
John noticed and gently brushed his fingers over Mycroft’s. “Breathe,” he whispered. “Breathe and relax.”
Mycroft did as he was told, leaning back into John’s body, warm and inviting, firm and soft at the same time. John had moved in behind Mycroft, arms around the taller man’s waist and rubbing gentle patterns into the skin of his hips and belly.
“Let go,” muttered John and Mycroft let his head roll back onto John’s supporting shoulder. “You’re beautiful. You’re so very, very beautiful right now,” purred John, pressing kissed to Mycroft’s shoulder and neck. His fingers wandered back to Mycroft’s groin, teasing, brushing and caressing.
“Oh God,” Mycroft moaned, his control having slipped, his hands limp by his side, only occasionally brushing against John’s thigh in a uncontrolled twitch.
John let one hand run up Mycroft’s front, over his soft belly, the smooth planes of his ribcage, to his softly defined pectorals, hidden under the thicket that was Mycroft’s chest hair. He found the hard buds of Mycroft’s nipples and rolled them between his fingers, savouring the ragged moans and violent shivers, the movement of the muscles tensing in Mycroft’s back. They were like snakes coiling languidly under his skin and John could feel every twist against his chest. He finally lifted his hand and brought it to his mouth, spitting in his palm.
Mycroft groaned when John’s warm, wet palm wrapped around his erection, gently jerking him off.
“Stop. Oh, stop, please,” he mumbled. “I don’t want to... come alone.”
John chuckled. “Oh, I’m very, very ready to come myself,” he moaned into Mycroft’s ear, tipping his hips forward so his hardness was pressing into the small of Mycroft’s back. An unintelligible curse dropped from Mycroft’s lips, soft and breathless.
“I still want to look at you,” came the equally soft words and for the first time Mycroft moved in John’s embrace, twisting against him and then turning around. His eyes were wide, pupils as small as pinheads and leaving a large plane of stormy grey. John swallowed hard as he stared into Mycroft’s eyes, feeling like he was staring out on the sea on a windy day, before or after a tempest.
Before, John decided as he felt the storm hit him, Mycroft kissing him deeply, eagerly, using his body weight to topple them over.
John felt like waves were washing over him, pulling him down into the deep, largely uncharted sea of the passion. Laughter bubbled from his lips, a strange mixture of desire and relief flooding him.
“You’re so gorgeous,” laughed John, part of him afraid that Mycroft would be confused by his behaviour. But he seemed to understand, kept kissing John, his hips grinding against John’s urgently and eventually a short burst of laughter left his lips as well.
“I want you,” he said, earnest again, his hand grabbing John’s cock firmly but carefully. “I never wanted anyone before you. It’s so hard... to want someone, desire someone. It feels so good, so exhilarating, but it’s also so frightening. God, I wish I...” he broke off with a strangled sound, pressing his forehead against John’s neck.
John quickly grasped Mycroft’s hardness pressed against his hip, stroking him once, twice, ever so gently. “It’s okay,” moaned John and his other hand darting up to Mycroft’s head, gently cupping the back. John was so close himself and, if the broken sounds from the direction of his neck were any indication, Mycroft was just moments from finding his relief. “It’s okay, I’m here. I want you, Mycroft. I want you so much.”
A distant part of John’s brain knew he was rambling, but he was beyond caring. His world had reduced to the fingers curling clumsily around his hard flesh, to where his own fingers were curling around Mycroft’s, the only very jerky motions he was capable of. There was a grunt from Mycroft and he jerked against John’s body, his cum spluttering against John’s belly. John gasped, his head falling back and he arched up against Mycroft, eyes pressed shut so firmly stars were exploding before them. He gasped at his own release, holding on to Mycroft and biting his lip. He was barely aware of the weight of the body on him, only feeling warmth and bliss surrounding him. His arm sneaked around Mycroft’s waist and he sighed contentedly.
Mycroft seemed to take that as a comment on their current situation. “I apologise, I must be crushing you,” he mumbled, rather eloquently, considering their current situation.
John didn’t respond, only whimpering a little when Mycroft rolled off of him and sighing softly as Mycroft wrapped himself around John and pulled the duvet carefully over their interwoven bodies. John muttered a few barely intelligible words.
“Hm? What did you say?” Mycroft asked, holding John close.
John sighed. “I feel sticky. And tired. Don’t go.”
“We can shower later,” muttered Mycroft and nuzzled John’s neck. “But for now I’m tired, too.”
They dozed off together, happy and satisfied.

When John woke a few hours later he carefully unwrapped himself from Mycroft’s embrace, the man out cold, and slipped into the guest room’s bathroom for a shower. Instead of just his briefs and shirt like earlier he put on proper clothes and went back to Mycroft’s bedside.
He began planting soft kisses on the man and chuckled at the instant metaphor of sleeping beauty.
“Hm?” came the surprised, sleepy sound from Mycroft. “Yes?”
“Wake up, love,” he murmured, his fingers brushing through Mycroft’s hair, “I think you should get up, have a shower, get dressed and we’ll have something to eat.”
Mycroft glanced up at John, in a light blue and grey plaid shirt. The two top buttons were undone and Mycroft wanted to read up and brush his thumb over the soft curve of the collarbones.
“Do I have to get out of bed for that?” Mycroft asked, stretching lazily, wincing when the cover slipped away a little and the cool air hit his bare skin.
“You do,” laughed John. “Come on! While you’re getting cleaned up I’ll change the sheets. We made a right mess there.”
With a groan Mycroft rolled out of bed, taking the bathrobe John had picked up for him and padded over to the bathroom. “Sheets are in the cupboard behind the door in the dressing room. The right door.” He made a last gesture towards the door next to the bathroom door and John felt a little adventure coming on. When the bathroom door had closed behind Mycroft John all but lurched towards the other door. Mycroft’s dressing room sounded very interesting.
John found a light switch on the right side of the wall and found himself in a small, windowless room. Immediately to his right was a laundry basked, an enormous wardrobe lining the wall. It was very tempting to look around the wardrobes and cupboards but John had a mission and turned towards the cupboard behind the door, picking out the sheets and bedcovers he would need.
John had just wrestled the sheet onto the mattress when Mycroft emerged from the bathroom and slipped into the dressing room. He took considerably longer to dress than he had to shower so John had already finished the pillows by the time Mycroft appeared again, fully and immaculately dressed. John took a second to regret the presence of clothes before he admired them. Mycroft wore a dark grey suit with a champagne waistcoat over a white shirt, a dark grey tie with light blue and silver diagonal stripes. Mycroft looked incredibly sexy to John, but then he still wanted to get rid of that suit and run his hands over Mycroft’s bare skin.
“Let’s get this done,” Mycroft smiled and John hoped his thoughts hadn't been obvious to the man. Together they changed the bedcover on the duvet and then left the room. Mycroft’s hand brushed against John’s back in a feathery touch, a question ghosting over his features. John smiled up at him and the wispy touch solidified into a warm hand pressing slightly against the curve of John’s lower back. The contact was most welcome to John and his smile widened.

They had spent so much time in bed that instead of lunch they had tea, but neither complained. In fact John had never felt happier, Mycroft had never seemed more relaxed. They sat together in the kitchen, chuckling over jokes and tucking into the simply delicious chicken.
“Or maybe we’re just that starved,” John laughed. “No breakfast, no lunch...”
“I’m really bad at taking care of you, it seems,” observed Mycroft, his eyes twinkling mischievously.
John grinned and took a large gulp of his water. “Well, we had other priorities.”
Mycroft smiled – and John even thought he’d detected a faint blush – and got up to get two glasses of wine and the rest of last night’s bottle.
“How long did you want to stay?” Mycroft asked, pouring them both a generous amount of the wine. His eyebrows had risen in anticipation of John’s answer.
“Depends. How long you’ll have me, I guess.”
“I didn’t think you’d want to move in straight away,” Mycroft answered flatly and John laughed.
John shook his head, “Well, neither did I. But I don’t think I could just leave Sherlock. He would drive Mrs Hudson out of her mind within a fortnight.”
Mycroft smiled, even at the mentioning of his brother and his living arrangements with John. John was unsure how Mycroft was supposed to feel about this, but John reckoned he'd not be too happy if it was his lover living with his brother. He had once dated one of Harry's flatmates and that had been awkward enough.
Mycroft averted his eyes and John knew he had probably read every thought that had crossed John's mind. He still had the courtesy to ask, “What is on your mind?”
“Baker Street. Sherlock. You. Would you... would you prefer me to not live with your brother?”
Would Mycroft see his own brother as a threat? Would Mycroft think John was only with him because Sherlock was taken or to make him jealous? Would Sherlock do something stupid that could convince Mycroft of such a thing?
“No,” Mycroft simply said and John wasn’t sure if that was only an answer to the question he had asked aloud. “I cannot say I am entirely certain of my judgement, but I’m certain that doubting you, doubting the status quo, would not lead to happiness.”
John emptied his wine glass, feeling a little light headed. “Mycroft, I’m here because I want to be here with you, rather than anywhere else. In this... way we are together, at least. My life is in Baker Street and my mind is on the chase with Sherlock, but... my heart is with you. Belongs to you.”
Mycroft smiled softly, his eyes fixed on the remains on his plate, his hands steepled in front of him, his index fingers pressing against his lower lip.
John wondered if he should amend his statement with something “And my body as well” but decided he had been sappy enough already.

They finished their meal in silence, cleaned up in silence and exited the kitchen to the living room.
“Will you join me on the sofa”" Mycroft asked. “For some platonic, physical closeness.”
“Cuddling, you mean?"”
Mycroft’s answer was a simple, sheepish smile and a nod and John shook his head in a loving way but in no way to deny Mycroft his wish. “Of course, I would.”
John made Mycroft lose his jacket and they settled down on the couch. Mycroft’s arm was around John’s shoulder and slowly, surely, the twisted into another position. Mycroft was propped against one armrest, John sitting between his legs, resting his back against Mycroft’s chest, head against his shoulder. They were both utterly comfortable and John felt confident enough to ask a question.
“What about your marriage?”
Mycroft sighed, “My marriage?”
“Tell me about your wife. I want to know how one has to be to endure living with you for a long time. Maybe there’s a trick I can learn...” teased John all in good nature.
There was a chuckle and Mycroft’s fingers combed through John’s hair. “Well, Giselle... she was the daughter of a French diplomat and an English secretary. They met in London in the early seventies, married and Giselle was born back in Paris, in ‘75. She stayed there until her parents could bear to let her attend a British public school. All girls, of course. She finished a year early and started attending university. We met there through some mutual friends of ours and I took a liking to her. She was a nice girl – coquettish in her own way, but growing shyer the closer one got to her, especially with the opposite sex.”
There was a moment of silence and John tried to wrap his mind around the condensed information, “That sounds very confusing. Her behaviour.”
“I felt somewhat lucky even. Although all the boys were ‘over her’ like a bees swarming around a fragrant flower she never let anybody get really close. I gathered that they gradually lost interest in her the closer they got. So I tried my luck.”
“You dated her?” John asked, the whole thing seeming probable, considering Mycroft’s character, though not making any more sense than a minute ago.
“Not in a traditional... well, modern way. I courted her, of course, but I was rather open about my intentions. Now I would say she was just as much of an outcast as I was, brought up to be a respectable girl and afraid to step out of line. In a way we were both hoping the other would take us somewhere we were unsure of getting to, in this relationship. We both sought experience the other didn’t have after all. And in my case I lost the willingness to try to find a way and to learn together very quickly when I... found out we were both inexperienced.”
“I thought you simply wanted children?” John inquired, his heart softening at Mycroft's matter-of-fact but nonetheless intimate report.
Mycroft nodded, unseen by John, “Yes, of course. But there is more to an respectable life than just children. I thought... I thought I would find happiness in this role I had chosen for myself, in this life I thought was worth living. I thought I would be happy once was settled down with my pretty wife, my adorable children, my nice house and respectable work as a civil servant.”
The next question was very much rhetorical, “You weren’t happy, were you?”
“I was content, I was happy with my children. But... Giselle and I were more friends than anything else. I was almost thrilled when she told me she would resume her education. And it was a relief when we decided we were going to get a divorce.”
“And your children?” John eventually asked.
Mycroft’s voice was unusually heavy and soft with emotion as he spoke, “Three. Two girls and a boy, the two younger are twins. Cassiopeia is the eldest and sixteen.”
“Cassiopeia?” John asked, tilting his head upwards to smile at Mycroft.
“You’re speaking to the man called ‘Mycroft’, my dear,” smiled Mycroft and continued, “Minerva and Sherlock are twelve.”
“Sherlock?” laughed John now. “Why ‘Sherlock’?”
“Because I knew it would spite and intrigue my brother. He was eighteen when the twins were on their way, he was wilful and rebellious and the only thing that seemed to calm him was little Cassiopeia. He adored her then and he still loves them now. I hoped that his nephew would remind him of his family ties and maybe, one day, he will grow up enough to appreciate it.”
“You’re hopelessly romantic,” laughed John, tender and soft. Mycroft ran his fingers through John’s hair once more and his hand came to rest on John’s forehead. He tilted John’s head back and turned it until he was able to claim his mouth in a possessive kiss. John moaned happily and arched into the kiss.
Mycroft’s left hand was covering John’s left resting on his stomach, John’s right came up high above his head, tangling in Mycroft’s hair. The kiss deepened slowly and Mycroft’s left began unbuttoning John’s shirt, running his fingertips over the smooth skin.
“How come your chest is so hairless?”
John purred at the fingertips trailing up and down his sternum. “I had a girlfriend once who told me my sparse, blond growth looked pathetic, so I’d better get rid of it all together. It looked rather good when I was still toned and it's become a bit of a habit since then. You like it?”
“I don’t know you any other way, but yes. It’s an interesting texture,” smiled Mycroft, his fingertips now drawing circles. If he wasn’t entirely mistaken the skin felt even smoother than this afternoon, before he had showered.
“Oh god, this is unbelievable,” chuckled John. “Do you know how long we’ve been in bed today?”
“Several hours,” Mycroft answered, “apart from sleeping.”
John grinned into the soft kiss, “It’s been a long, long time since I could do it twice a day.”
Mycroft chuckled softly, his fingers still brushing softly over John’s chest. “I will take that as a compliment and not just evidence of your lacking love life.”
“You can very much take it as a compliment,” muttered John, turning around in Mycroft’s embrace. “My love life only has been lacking since I was wounded, really.”
Mycroft’s hands came to rest on John’s waist and one eyebrow wandered up. “Is it?”
“Has been lacking until last evening,” grinned John.
Mycroft held John close, letting his lover chose the pace of their kiss. John took full advantage of the privilege, alternating between brushing his lips softly against Mycroft’s and deep kisses, quick pecks and drawn-out sensual touches, drawing the tip of his tongue over Mycroft’s lips, nibbling and sucking at them until Mycroft gasped. John continued with this sloppy kisses until they were breathless and content. John pushed himself up a bit and smiled down at Mycroft, running a finger down the side of Mycroft’s face. He loosened Mycroft’s tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt.
Mycroft quickly brought up his hand, wiping over his mouth in almost a petulant manner. John grinned and brushed his thumb over Mycroft’s lips before kissing him a little less messy than before, slow and calm.
“Hm,” purred Mycroft. “Tell me what you want to do now?”
The question had a rather adverse effect on John who tensed in Mycroft’s arms and broke their kiss. He sat up and laughed nervously, Mycroft following his movement and sitting up as well, as if he was tied to John by an invisible elastic band. “What I want to do...” John ran a hand nervously through his hair, laughing again, “I want to give you a blow job.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow and there was a long pause while the thought about his answer. “I don't know what you want me to say. Are you asking for my consent?”
“I don’t know,” mumbled John, his head lowered and rubbing his eyes. He was wondering how the words had even left his lips, where this sudden boldness had come from.
In an unusual display of emotion Mycroft bit his lip nervously for a second before he put a hand on John’s shoulder. “John, I’m happy. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
“But I want to give it a try. I’m just afraid...” John trailed of, giving Mycroft a shy smile.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” replied Mycroft. “If you don’t like it you can simply stop. Besides, it’s only a cock. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before and it doesn’t bite.”
John laughed, relieved now, and Mycroft gave him a brilliant smile. “I still feel stupid.”
“You told me,” said Mycroft and kissed John quickly, “that there is nothing wrong with what I want, that I should give in to my desires. Does that not apply to you as well? There is nothing wrong and nothing stupid about what you want!”
“But,” John continued, “I’ve never wanted this before! I've never considered it!”
“I am sure there is a lot of things you have never considered or wanted and that doesn’t mean that you would not enjoy it if you tried. Just because you want to do something you didn’t want to do before that doesn’t mean it’s stupid to want it.” John felt reminded of last night, of the moment when he’d been entirely sure that he wanted Mycroft to fuck him. “I want you, for example. I’ve known you for some time before I began to want you. Does that sound stupid to you?”
“No,” said John and glanced up at Mycroft who had blushed slightly. It seemed so unreal that John couldn’t quite figure it out for a moment. But then... “You like the idea, don’t you?”
Mycroft swallowed hard, "Would that change how you feel about what I said?"
“No,” John said. “No, really. It wouldn’t. But maybe I wouldn’t feel so stupid if... you told me that you wanted it, too.” He blushed at the statement.
“Technically I don’t. Technically I merely want you to try,” explained Mycroft, the faint blush spreading further over his cheeks. A peculiar mix of shame and arousal – more of the latter than the former, but still a bit of both. “But I don’t want to want anything that you don’t.”
“We seem to have come to a... difficult point here. What are we arguing for here?”
“Yes, logic seems to be overrun by emotion,” nodded Mycroft and brushed his fingers over John’s, over his thigh. “John, I don’t want to like anything that you don’t. I’m mortally terrified of wanting something that you find repulsive.”
“We won’t know before I haven’t tried,” John whispered, his gaze averted. It took a moment before he felt able to look up and when he did he simply stared at Mycroft. “Let me try.”
And Mycroft let him. Let John push him back against the couch, let him fumble with his fly and underwear, let him pull Mycroft's half-hard prick from its textile confinement. If the moment had drawn out any longer Mycroft was sure he would have lost every interest in proceeding with the embarrassment looming overhead.
But John’s lips around the head of his cock, his tongue pressing softly against the underside, let his doubts vanish instantly. Sweet, warm wetness engulfed him and Mycroft was sure he would enjoy this. Some part of him hoped John would share the sentiment.
John on the other hand was focused on the technicalities. Mycroft was of average length and girth, but that didn’t make the task easy per se. Carefully John pulled back and slid back down again, inching a little further every time. There was a limit how far he could go without gagging and an angle, too. His knowledge of anatomy came in handy, he tried to align his mouth with his throat as far as possible to avoid any touch to the sensitive back of his throat. He still couldn’t take Mycroft in all the way, but John was content for the moment, setting a languid pace, savouring the familiar taste, the feeling. It was rather arousing for him, despite the cramp that was slowly forming in his jaw.
His attention was slipping a little and suddenly he found himself half-grunting, half-gagging and losing the suction he had built up as he was gasping for air around Mycroft’s hardness that had mostly slipped from his mouth.
“Are you okay?” Mycroft inquired instantly, his cheeks flushed pink, the same flush that was rising from beneath his collar. “You don’t...”
“It’s okay,” muttered John, wanting to press a kiss against the pale skin stretched over Mycroft’s hipbones and finding himself denied this by clothing. “I misjudged a little.”
John quickly slid a hand down to adjust himself and then leaned back down to Mycroft’s crotch. Mycroft’s head rolled back and he closed his eyes, muttering and whimpering under his breath. His hand found its way into John's hair and that made John moan around Mycroft’s length, the sound translating directly into vibration. John let his hand sneak into Mycroft’s pants, gently fondling his balls. That brought more sounds to Mycroft’s lips, moans and broken words, “God, yes” and “Oh, John”.
John was more than grateful for Mycroft’s lose-cut trousers which were granting him much freedom of movement. His hand was working softly on Mycroft's sensitive flesh wondering how Mycroft would react if he let his fingers dipping lower, towards the tight ring of muscles.
Mycroft’s hips jerked slightly up and John pulled back, breathing soft kisses on Mycroft’s wet erection. John kept stroking Mycroft slowly as he hovered over him, looking up at Mycroft. After a moment in which his breathing evened out Mycroft bit his lip slightly and gave John a questioning gaze.
“It’s not bad,” said John. “In fact, I really liked the sounds you made.”
Mycroft blushed and John thought it was a rather adorable picture. So John moved closer, planting a possessive kiss on Mycroft’s lips, while his hand moved back into Mycroft’s trousers. With a guttural grunt Mycroft grabbed John’s wrist, his grip firm though his hand not entirely steady. There was an audible strain on his voice, the muscles in his neck tense and his breathing laboured. “Give me a moment, please. I’m too close right now.”
John very much wanted to see Mycroft unravelled right now, staining his expensive suit when he lost every control over his lust at John’s hand. But there was also the lovely buzzing under his skin, his own arousal growing more substantial and the first urging towards his own relief.
“Let’s get upstairs?”
“Why don’t you go up and get comfortable. I’ll be right behind. I just need a moment. And I’ll clean up a bit down here.”
John smiled and got up. “Don’t be too long or might have to take matters into my own hands.” Mycroft blushed again, his control slowly slipping. Of course John noticed. He picked up his wine glass and the bottle and smiled at Mycroft, letting his gaze run over his lover’s form. “See you in a moment.”
With that John left Mycroft on the couch and chuckled at his own words. Not only Mycroft was losing control here.
Mycroft smiled at John’s retreating back, then went to the kitchen, to clean up. He put the leftovers in the fridge, dishes in the dishwasher and brought the trash out. His arousal was fading, just enough so he could think of John without moaning. There was quite some relief in that.

Meanwhile John had made himself comfortable on the bed, propped up against the pillows, losing his socks and sipping at his wine. He leaned back and recalled the recent memories of the intimacy shared with Mycroft. The feeling of the coarse hair against the tip of his nose, the hard flesh in his mouth, the slightly bitter and salty taste of pre-cum. John’s hand wandered down to his crotch, adjusting himself at first but then rubbing himself a little through his clothes. His hips jerked up into his own hand and John bit his lip. It took most of his willpower to pull his hand away and to wait patiently for Mycroft.
When Mycroft finally came up to the bedroom he was taking long, confident steps and John felt a twinge of arousal, more focused than the mere manual stimulation had brought on. Mycroft sat down on the edge of the bed, taking the wineglass from John and emptying it in one, long draught. John swallowed hard as his eyes trailed down Mycroft’s incredibly long neck to his collar then back up to his jaw and over his slightly wet lips.
John hardly realised how his hands had come up to Mycroft’s face, his shirt, his waistcoat and pulled him into a sluggish kiss. “You’re so hot,” muttered John, gasping into the kiss.
Mycroft’s finger made short work of the remaining buttons on John’s shirt and then ran over the skin underneath. John whimpered with urgent need, Mycroft’s kiss tasting faintly of wine and making him feel slightly feverish. Mycroft crawled over John and straddled his hips without breaking the kiss. John gasped and Mycroft took advantage, sliding his tongue deep into John’s mouth, against John’s tongue and teeth.
John was surprised by Mycroft’s boldness, but he rather liked this new side to his lover. He was quite happy for a while to just let Mycroft take charge, let him kiss him and run his hands down John’s side.
But then John was getting a little impatient and he wanted more. He pulled on Mycroft’s tie until the knot came undone and got rid of it. Although his fingers were shaking a little and he wanted to just dig his fingers into Mycroft’s skin he managed to unbuttoned his waistcoat and pull his shirt from his waistband. Mycroft shuffled out of the waistcoat and the shirt, grinning against John’s lips.
John moaned silently as his fingers finally met bare skin and dug into Mycroft’s soft flanks. Mycroft winced a little, but then John’s hands wandered a little lower, his fingers sneaking under his waistband, back up a bit and grabbed his buttocks through his trousers.
“God,” panted John when their lips parted for a moment.
“You can call me Mycroft,” mumbled Mycroft against John’s neck, kissing the soft skin there and up to John’s ear to nibble on the lobe.
John was torn between laughing and whimpering. Stars were exploding in front of his eyes and all sense went out of the window as Mycroft’s tongue traced his ear, his lips engulfed the lobe and sucked gently on it. All he could hear was Mycroft’s breath and his own, ragged and irregular panting.
It was almost getting too much and so John pushed Mycroft away a little, having a hard time to focus on his face.
“Mycroft,” he whispered breathlessly, “give me a second.”
Mycroft smiled and kissed his way down John’s neck and his chest, down his stomach to John’s waistband. John sucked in a breath as Mycroft undid the jeans’ button and kissed the skin underneath immediately. He pulled John’s erection free and for a breathless moment John wondered if Mycroft would dare to go down on him. He exhaled when Mycroft merely placed a kiss over John’s hipbone and pulled down his pants and trousers.
John smiled to himself as he felt Mycroft move down his thigh, felt him press his lips to the sensitive skin on the inside of his thigh. John’s hand wandered down to his cock and he gave himself a couple of languid strokes while Mycroft finished undressing him.
Mycroft came back up and kissed John, gently prying John’s fingers away from his erection. “Hm, let me do that,” he whispered.
John grinned, but shook his head. “I guess it’s my turn.”
He undid Mycroft’s belt and his trousers’ button, then gently pulled the waistband of his pants over Mycroft’s hard cock, jerking him gently before shoving down Mycroft’s remaining clothes. John sat up and admired Mycroft’s long, lean legs, rubbing up and down the thigh closer to him.
Mycroft worried his lower lip between his teeth as he watched John, trying hard not to look away in shame.
“You’re beautiful,” John tried to reassure Mycroft. He pulled Mycroft's pants, trousers and socks of and then slid up along those incredibly long legs until he was hovering over Mycroft’s hips. “You are incredibly, incredibly hot!”
Again John lowered his head to Mycroft’s crotch, nuzzling base of his erection, licking along the underside, letting his tongue run over the tip and finally letting Mycroft’s length sliding into his mouth. Mycroft bit back a moan, hips jerking slightly up.
Their earlier endeavours had taken their toll on Mycroft’s endurance and quickly his breath came in short, forced puffs. John was rather proud of this achievement and thought he was possibly developing a taste for – at least Mycroft’s – cock. It sounded so ridiculous in his head, like a line from some old, bad, tiny, grainy porn. But right now he could have cared considerably less.
Mycroft bit his lip, trying to stifle the soft sounds threatening to escape his throat. But then one moan escaped and John felt encouraged, quickening his pace, never minding his aching jaw. It felt exhilarating to have such primal power of Mycroft’s body and his own arousal built up.
“John!” cried Mycroft, sounding urgent and strangled. “So close!”
John wasn’t feeling quite brave enough to keep going and quickly pulled back, sliding up along Mycroft’s body and kissing him, Mycroft claiming John’s lips in turn. John was on his side, propped up on one elbow, one hand jerking Mycroft’s erection until the kiss broke into silent curses, moans and grunts and John felt Mycroft’s hot cum on his fingers. After that John didn’t need much, his messy fingers grasping his own erection and the thought how Mycroft’s climax was lubricating his movement was almost enough to make John come. His climax was accompanied by a loud moan and he all but dropped against Mycroft, shivering and grinning goofily.
“We’re sticky,” muttered Mycroft, his voice a sleepy drawl, and carefully stretched his limbs.
This time John put a hand on Mycroft’s chest and thus kept him from getting up. “I think it’s my turn to get something to clean up.”
Mycroft grinned stupidly and let his eyes fall close. “Towels are under the sink,” Mycroft muttered before he surrendered completely to the contentment. His limbs were growing heavier by the minute and only John’s return and the warm, wet towel on his belly could tear him for a moment from the sleepiness. He pried his eyes open and smiled fondly at John.
“Come here, my dear,” he muttered and managed to stretch his arm out to the side as an offer for John to lie down by his side.
The softly spoken pet name brought a wide smile to John's face. “Let’s get you under the covers first. You’re going to catch your death otherwise. It’d be a shame!”
Mycroft grunted unhappily, but complied and let John help him under the duvet. John followed his lover and curled up against the long body, enjoying Mycroft’s almost clumsy attempts at wrapping John into a soft embrace.
“Thank you,” he muttered. “Being with you... this is the best thing that ever happened to me.”
John smiled, not quite believing Mycroft’s words.
“Good night,” he whispered instead, listening to Mycroft’s heartbeat and letting his eyes slowly fall shut and the darkness pull him into sleep.

<< Chapter 8: Guilty for my life, guilty of being shy :: Previous | Next :: Chapter 10 - >>
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