22 September 2010 @ 10:30 pm
English > Sherlock > "Disease that we crave", Chapter 8  
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 8: In which there's not of different emotions.

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



GUILTY FOR MY LIFE, GUILTY OF BEING SHY

On Thursday John was still musing on whether Sherlock would find his new purchase, so he almost didn't notice Sarah standing in the door to his office around noon. She was nursing a cup of coffee and smiled knowingly.
“Am I interrupting your daydreaming?”
“Oh, not at all,” smiled John. Maybe it was a lie. But he hadn't thought of Mycroft specifically.
“Are you gonna join me for a coffee and some biscuits or are you going out for lunch?”
“Lunch?” John asked and realised that it was past twelve already. “No, not today. I thought I'd stay in and just have... actually I forgot about lunch altogether.”
“Coffee and biscuits then,” grinned Sarah and John followed her to the small kitchen.
Sarah was biting her lip until John was safely seated at the table, had a cup of coffee and nibbled on shortbread. “So, you're in love.”
“Am I?” John asked, blushing slightly.
“You're grinning this stupid grin whenever you think nobody's watching and you're missing lunch. You're sneaking about and you seem... happy?”
“Happy,” mused John and he remembered the moments when Mycroft had touched him – soft, careful touches, warm hands. “I guess... yeah.”
“So, who's the lucky girl?”
Now John almost chocked on the biscuit, almost sprayed coffee from his nose. Sarah noticed his furious blush, his embarrassment.
“No girl,” she stated.
“No,” mumbled John into his coffee.
“You got yourself a boyfriend. Should I be surprised or insulted?”
John sighed, “It's not about you. It's just him. He's just... just...” He was lost for words. Mycroft was not easy to describe, especially not with just one word.
“Then tell me about him. What does he look like?”
“Tall. I guess,” mumbled John, still hiding behind his coffee, hiding his blush.
Now Sarah chuckled. “Taller than you?”
“Dark hair, blue eyes, a bit more on the... solid side. Civil servant.”
“Prim suits and working 9-to-5? That sounds astonishingly normal. Almost boring.”
“Only almost,” replied John. “He's Sherlock's brother.”
“You're kidding me,” deadpanned Sarah. “Tell me that's a joke.”
“It's not. It's crazy, right?” Now John was looking up at her with an adorable, helpless expression.
“Maybe,” she smiled. “But maybe that's just how you you work. So, I can figure how you met, but... how'd you figure you were into each other?”
“He started dating me. I didn't notice for a long time. Then... I did. I didn't know what to do about it for a while.”
“Now you do.”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Is he the first guy you're dating?”
“Dating... yes,” replied John.
“And did you get to spend the night on his sofa, yet?”
John couldn't tell if that obvious stab at their failed relationship had come out of hurt or was simply the dismissive comment it sounded like. “As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Just the sofa? No chance to inspect his... other qualities yet?”
“Are you asking me if I slept with him? Is this what women usually talk about? Because if it is I'm utterly and totally terrified of you now,” John back-paddled.
“Come on, John,” she teased. “I'm a doctor, you can tell me.”
Somehow John found himself reminded of Sherlock's inquisitive nature. “No. We didn't.”
“So, the big boy got some virtues. Dropped the blushing maiden off on the doorstep with only a chaste good night kiss.”
“Not even that,” mumbled John and he distantly thought he should be somewhat disturbed by Sarah's 'blushing maiden' metaphor. But then he should also be disturbed by the contents of the bottom drawer of his bedside table.
“You haven't kissed yet?” she asked, genuinely surprised. “You've been dating how long?”
“I've been aware for a little more than month.”
“You're such a tease!” she grinned and shook her head. “Or is it him?”
“A combination of both, I think. I'm not sure how I feel and he is...” he trailed off.
Tall, yes. Dark haired, yes. Inquisitive, blue eyes that went right through John, seemingly a little slanted and their thin, but nevertheless sensual, amber lashes accentuating that shape. High and straight eyebrows, appearing fine and a bit frayed. His wide, thin-lipped mouth with the corners always seeming to curl in amusement or disdain, sardonically or benevolently. His fine, dark hair, receding hairline. Long, straight nose. Incredibly long neck that John wanted to cover in kisses and love bites. His elegant hands that felt so right on his body. His silken drawl that sent shivers down John's spine when Mycroft even just used the plainest terms of endearment.
“Sherlock's brother,” Sarah helpfully supplied. “But you're in love with him.”
“You said so,” replied John. “We've only been seriously seeing each other for a week or so.”
“Then it's just a matter of time until you'll use your charms to seduce him.”
John blushed. “I'm not sure. Maybe. It's still so confusing.”
“I think you'll find a way,” grinned Sarah and got up. “Have another biscuit. Butterflies and love alone make a rather lacking lunch.”

By Friday morning John was missing Mycroft more than anything and his talk with Sarah the previous day hadn't actually helped that. Sherlock on the other hand was actively driving him up the wall – even more than he usually was. One could be the result of the other, John mused, or maybe it was a coincidence. Nevertheless, something had to be done about it.
He was staring at his phone for almost three hours, mostly in passing by, before he found the strength to pick it up and dial the number.
“Hi, it's me. John.” This shouldn't be so hard with someone he probably loved.
The voice on the other end seemed concerned, “Hello, John. Is something wrong?”
“No, not really. It's actually pretty stupid now that I think about it...”
“I'm used to the average idiocy imposed on me by the world. Just tell me.”
“I just need some time off, would you mind if I stayed with you for a night?”
“Not at all,” came the reply from Mycroft's end of the line. “I will be home around nine. Make yourself at home until then. I will make sure there will be food in case you want dinner.”
“I'll be fine. I just want to see you. And a nice, quiet night, if possible.”
There was a slight pause before Mycroft finished, “I'm looking forward to see you.”

Mycroft arrived at five past nine and found John lying on the couch, listening to Mycroft's favourite Beethoven CD. He had his eyes closed, hands behind his head, legs crossed and lying over one armrest and one foot swaying softly with the music.
“Have you been waiting long?” Mycroft stood in the doorway, fondly smiling at John.
John jumped up immediately and rushed over to greet Mycroft, a wide smile on his face. He took one of Mycroft's hands in his and gave him an adoring look. “It's good to see you.”
Mycroft was insecure, looking down at his hand in John's warm grasp. “I've missed you,” he admitted quietly. He was silently drinking in the sight of John, in a dark blue shirt and dark blue jeans. He looked good like this and Mycroft found himself wondering what he might find under...
“I... I am just going to slip into something more comfortable,” he announced quickly.
“Okay. I could make some tea if you want to.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Mycroft tensed a little, placing his hand on John's shoulder. “I'll be back in a minute.”
John let go of Mycroft's hand. “Sure, take your time.”
Both of them went in different directions, Mycroft upstairs and John to the kitchen. With each step upstairs doubt surfaced in Mycroft. Walking down the hall he gazed into the open guest room and saw a small, unopened bag on the bed. A smile played on his lips but an uncertain fear gripped him. He went on to his bedroom, carefully putting his jacket on a clothes hanger and picking up his dressing gown. With a sigh he put it on, staring at himself in the mirror in the adjacent bathroom, his reflection eerily framed by the door frame and its own limits – a pale face, receding hairline, obviously, if he were an actor, he would play the character parts, the villains, not the charming and eligible lovers. For a moment Mycroft closed his eyes to block out the almost painful sight. He quickly turned and went downstairs before this doubt could consume him.
John smiled when he caught sight of Mycroft, “Is that something more comfortable?”
“Yes, it is,” replied Mycroft, “Why?”
John walked over to Mycroft, loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons. “That's better,” he grinned and Mycroft couldn't help but smile in return. “Tea's ready in a minute.”
While John went to get the tea Mycroft sat down at the small table, staring out into the night.
John returned from the kitchen with a tea tray. He poured Mycroft and himself tea before he sat down, smiling widely.
Mycroft sipped at his cup, pleasantly surprised, “This is tea is excellent.”
“Mrs Hudson taught me,” John explained. “She makes the best tea I've ever had.”
Mycroft slowly pushed his right hand in the direction of John's left. John noticed and moved his own hand to meet Mycroft's, their fingers interlocking. He brushed over Mycroft's thumb with his own before looking back up at Mycroft. “So, how was your day?”
“As usual,” Mycroft replied, still looking down at their joined hands. He tore his eyes away from them and looked up at John's face, “Not much to do, no wars to start.”
“Sherlock will be happy to hear that.”
“How is he?” Mycroft asked more out of impulse than interest.
“Fine, I guess. Less annoyed with me since I stopped brooding.”
John kept caressing Mycroft's hand with his thumb and tilted his head to the side. “One thing always confused me... this ring. Why are you wearing a wedding ring?”
“Simply,” Mycroft stated and sipped at his tea again. “I was married for almost fifteen years.”
“You?” John gasped, quickly averting his eyes. “Well... that was unexpected.” He did note the past tense with some relief, but on the other hand had somehow, foolishly, seen himself in the role of the experienced, open, albeit broken, lover. Teaching, leading and reassuring Mycroft about love.
“I couldn't let my personal disinterest in a relationship interfere with the proliferation of my genes. Giselle was a nice girl from an all girls college, barely twenty and not uninterested in what I had to offer. We would produce offspring and stay together as long as the circumstances were tolerable.”
This came as a shock to John. “You basically married your unborn children's nanny?”
Inwardly Mycroft cringed at how John hat put it. “No. It was very clear, in the case of a divorce I would pay child support as well as tuition. She was free to chose whatever path in education she wanted to pursue while we were married so there would be no need for her support after we split. She got a degree in French and German and is now teaching at her old university.”
“How convenient!” John huffed, not letting go of Mycroft's hand but turning his head away.
Mycroft chose a very soft tone to continue, “John, I always knew I would never be able to marry a woman for good. Yet I could not bear to see the gifts given to me by nature go to waste by the celibate life of one unable to love whom he should and unable to be with whom he loved. If there had ever been anyone by that time.”
John raised an eyebrow. “She was a beard then.” He should be angry, he realised, he should be angry at Mycroft at how he had used another human being! Instead he was merely irritated.
Mycroft was confused, tilting his head slightly, “A... beard?”
“You're gay and she was your evidence you weren't,” John explained. His voice was a little colder than it had been before, but it felt unnecessary to get worked up about things gone by.
“A very fertile evidence, if you must. But in the end it doesn't matter what my sexual preferences are. I have insured my genes have reached the next generation and can now go to enjoy life in any way I chose to. I probably wouldn't have acted any differently were I not... gay.” Mycroft hated those quaint labels. They came in handy with ordinary people, but in his home he didn't feel a need to categorise himself. “I find it difficult to be with people in general. I didn't want to wait for a possible love-of-my-life situation. It's unrealistic and illogical. A lot of people settle for... less than they want or what they deserve for life. This is not all that different.”
John drew a conclusion, “It's all just transport, isn't it? For your brain.”
“No,” Mycroft admitted. “Not everything is transport. And I'm not heartless. I do... love my children. And I care very much for you. However it is... difficult for me to express all this. I could have pretended to love Giselle – or anyone else for that matter – if it was all the same to me. But it wasn't. And it isn't.”
There was silence and John felt nothing but cold. Something primal, something ugly took hold of him and forced the next words out of his mouth, “Sherlock doesn't think you – or I, for that matter - were supposed to care. He said we should just go through with it so we'd could focus again.”
For someone ruling the country Mycroft felt he lacked a meaning now, “Get through with it?”
“We should have sex. Get rid of the sexual tension. He might have a point, sex is a good stress relieve. Hormones are released, social needs fulfilled.” John knew very well he was babbling – cruelly – by now but only could stop when Mycroft put his second hand over John's.
“As I said, not everything is transport to me. I know how to enjoy certain aspects of life, some even a little too much. However, intimacy and... sex were never one of them.” Mycroft was tense and stared out of the window into the black of the night.
John was surprised at Mycroft's openness even in the face of John's bitter side. Watching Mycroft's schooled features mellowed the aggressive beast at the back of his mind. He couldn't quite keep his thoughts to himself, though.“Only the most necessary to ensure your genes would go on?”
Now Mycroft turned his head again, an empty smile playing around his lips, the tension not leaving him, “More a chore than a pleasure. Although, there were certain moments with a certain pleasure. Just not... the proceedings itself. Always so mechanical and technical.”
They were staring at each other for a moment. “I'm sorry, I guess I'm just a little... afraid to wake up one morning to find out... this is all just a joke. That it's all just pretend.”
Now Mycroft was looking at him earnestly, giving John's hand a squeeze. “I never pretend.”
John lowered his head, shaking it slightly. “I wish I'd never asked. I wish we could start this evening over.”
“There is no use in regretting this now,” smiled Mycroft, his voice soft and coaxing. “Let's not look back, let us go forward.” And with a fond memory of John's weight against his side he suggested, “Let's go to the sofa.”
John nodded, ashamed of himself. But Mycroft would have none of it, directing John to the sofa and sat him down. Within just seconds Mycroft gave in to his instincts, cradling John in his arms and resting his chin on the other's head.
“I know who you are,” he whispered gently and John's arms sneaked around Mycroft under his dressing gown. Solid, warm Mycroft. Steady Mycroft.
John smiled into the fabric of Mycroft's shirt. The warmth was soothing his demons and his fears.
He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”
“Hm?” Mycroft asked, John's words lost somewhere against Mycroft's chest.
“Thank you,” John repeated when he dared to look up. “I hope you will still have me staying...”
“Of course I do,” smiled Mycroft and when he repeated “I know you. I know who you are.” John for once felt safe and understood. Time went by and Mycroft finally wanted to ease the tension and change the topic, “Maybe we can go out for lunch tomorrow.”
John didn't want to leave Mycroft's embrace, let alone the house. Even the prospect of doing so the next day felt wrong. “Or we could have lunch here. I make a wicked good chicken roast.”
Now Mycroft was surprised and felt somewhat guilty. For John to do something as domestic as cooking... “Well, if you want to...”
“I would like to cook for you,” John repeated his intention, oblivious to Mycroft's reservations.
“Does that mean your therapist is wrong about your trust issues?”
John chuckled and parted slightly from Mycroft. “My therapist never met one of the Holmes' brothers. She'd understand me if she had.”
“It's easy to trust us?” The question was somewhere between surprise and self-mocking.
“It's hard not to trust you. Trust is never an issue with you, there's no talking about trust. There are no promises made but they are always kept.”
Those words brought a blush to Mycroft's cheeks and he seemed to push himself away a little.
Despite the trust, John thought, closeness was another issue. But John finally knew he wanted to be close to Mycroft. So he leaned in again and instinctively Mycroft's arms came around John again. That wasn't enough for John, though, and he arranged Mycroft's hands on him. It wasn't that much of a coincidence when one hand ran down and Mycroft's fingers slipped into the back of John's jeans. Mycroft flinched a little and pulled his fingers up, but then smile at John. “Sorry.”
“No, it's okay,” smiled John innocently. “I'm really enjoying myself – and I like your touch. I just forgot you're new to this.”
There was the faintest blush creeping onto Mycroft's pale cheeks, “Yes, but I did not neglect to broaden my knowledge on the subject.”
“Broaden your knowledge. Textbooks or... visual aids?” John's cheeks flared up as he thought of the bottom drawer of his bedside table, of his browser history, last night where he'd been alone in bed but had imagined Mycroft's hand to be over his as it had roamed his own body, taking time bringing himself close and then Mycroft's hot breath as he whispered in John's ear as he came.
Mycroft smiled slyly. “Well, as I've been repeatedly told, 'The internet is for porn.'”
John laughed out loud, trying to hide his own embarrassment, “You've been researching porn then?”
“I must say the stories were very predictable but the acts were very... imaginative, resourceful, even. There are a few things that, despite everything else, would be even interesting for purely scientific reasons.”
“Want me to wear a lab-coat?” joked John, but sobered just seconds later. “Shit, sorry. This is ridiculous. This is not how it should be...”
“If you want to... stop, that would be fine,” Mycroft assured him, not sure although if they had already started something that could or needed to be explicitly stopped.
John winced, “I don't want to stop, actually. I'm just... this isn't how it should be. It should be romantic, it should be meaningful. This is more like a joke...”
Mycroft lifted his hand and cupped John's cheek. “Don't ever think this isn't meaningful, John.”
John's heart was beating fast as he was staring into Mycroft's earnest eyes. He was slightly leaning towards Mycroft and after almost painful seconds Mycroft met him in a careful kiss. They were perfectly still for a moment, but John's instincts and experience kicked in and his lips fell ajar, running the tip of his tongue over Mycroft's lips and seizing the opportunity to slip in between when they parted to let out a desperate whimper. John's hands couldn't stay still either, reaching up and fingers tangling in expensive fabrics, brushing over Mycroft's jaw and neck, running up from the back of Mycroft's neck up to the back of his head, spreading apart, combing though his hair, so soft and warm to the touch.
Even with his limited experience, John thought, Mycroft was not at all a bad kisser. He was a bit reluctant at first but he responded to John's caress in like, his tongue exploring and teasing. When they parted John was panting and chuckling at the same time.
“Well, this was definitely hot,” he whispered, fingers of one hand still drawing tiny circles on the back of Mycroft's skull, the other arm had sneaked around his waist, the hand resting on Mycroft's back. Mycroft's hands in turn were on John's cheek and hip.
“As far as I remember 'hot' wasn't part of your list.”
“I was just giving you an example of things that matter to me,” chuckled John, eyes closed.
“And was it as meaningful as you wanted it to be?”
“It was you,” smiled John, not sure what he actually meant. But it seemed to work as Mycroft smiled and closed his eyes, leaning forward and carefully brushing his lips over John's.
A quick learner, John thought as Mycroft's touch sent shivers up and down his spine and a hot ball of need right down to his groin. So, this was how Mycroft's kisses felt, how they made him feel. Shivering with lust and desire, safe at the same time.
“What now?” Mycroft asked, his voice a low purr, eyes half-closed, forehead resting against John's and fingers tangled in the dark shirt, having it almost pulled all the way out of John's trousers.
John didn't want to move, didn't want to say anything. He just wanted to enjoy the warm body in his arms. “Maybe we should just... get a bottle of wine. Get comfortable. Talk...”
“Talk?” smirked Mycroft, lowering his head to nibble on John's throat.
“Among other things, maybe,” whispered John, shivering a little. Mycroft noted how pleasantly John's throat vibrated with the words under his lips.
“What would you say,” he began, “when I told you that there's wine waiting upstairs by my bed?”
“What are we waiting for?” He quickly rose and Mycroft followed his example, eventually leading John up the stairs and down the hall to his own bedroom.
John stopped at the door and took the whole room while Mycroft walked over, opening the bottle and pouring a generous amount in the two glasses on his bedside table. But John was more amazed by the rather dark room, an old, heavy bed with a solid, ornate frame of dark wood, the dark green, stripped wallpaper, two doors on John's right side – one ajar and showing a glimpse of a bathroom.
Eventually Mycroft was standing on the far side of the bed – a navy and hunter green comforter, pristine white and perfectly fluffed up pillows resting against the headboard.
John covered the distance between himself and Mycroft and peeled him out his dressing gown and tie. The doctor dropped back on the bed and Mycroft sat down beside him on the bed. The taller man wrapped his arms around John and leaned back against the pillows, pulling a willing doctor with him. John pulled him into a soft kiss that deepened quickly.
John began fumbling on Mycroft's waistcoat and after a moment nimble fingers joined his own, manicured and soft. They helped him with the pocket watch, pulling the precious – most certainly antique – accessory out of the pocket, putting it down on the bedside table. Then John brushed Mycroft's fingers away, and slowly unbuttoned the waistcoat and the first few buttons of his shirt, his lips never leaving Mycroft's. John smiled when his fingers met a thick patch of coarse hair underneath the shirt. He ran his hand under the fabric, feeling Mycroft's heartbeat under his breastbone, letting it slide further, fingertips brushing against a hardening nipple.
“You are very eager,” said Mycroft, inching away a little. “But maybe we could... take it slow.”
“Of course,” muttered John, suddenly self-conscious and scrambling somewhat upright. He reached over to the night stand for one of the wine glasses. However when he had it in his grasp he lost balance. In a moment of clouded judgement Mycroft was distracted by a patch of skin revealed by John's shirt slipping out of his waistband and pressed his mouth to the sensitive part over John's hip. John was surprised and ticklish, squealing rather girlishly and spilling the wine all over Mycroft.
“Oh, bloody hell, sorry!” exclaimed John as they both jumped out of the bed, Mycroft's shirt and waistcoat soaked with wine, his skin glittering with the liquid. John couldn't deny a sudden urge to want to kiss and lick him clean.
“It's fine,” assured him Mycroft, looking a bit sheepish. “I'll just have a quick shower. Five minutes at the most.” Without another word he disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. John sighed when he heard the water running a minute later. He went back to inspect the bed and found the sheets dry. After a moment he sat down and pulled off his socks, then lay down, hands folded and staring up at the ceiling. The water stopped, then started again. Finally it stopped for good and after a while the door to the bathroom opened and John turned his head to see.
Mycroft looked different, wrapped in a dark green bathrobe that went down to his knees. He came over to the bed and lay down, on his back but head turned to John. His hair was slightly damp, his skin a little flushed from the hot water, his eyes wide with curiosity.
John enjoyed the sight. He turned on his side and brushed a stray strand of hair away from Mycroft's forehead, letting his fingers go on and finally come to a rest on Mycroft's neck.
“Why did you take off your socks?”
“Because those are always the worst to get off... I want to be prepared.”
Mycroft felt particularly bold and turned to John, kissing him more possessively than ever before. Instead of just clawing at the clothes as he had done before he let his fingers wander under John's shirt, fingers trailing the groove of his spine and upwards where it turned into bumps. In turn this time John only dug his fingers into the thick fabric of Mycroft's bathrobe, his feet rubbing against Mycroft's, one then lazily drawing up Mycroft's leg.
When the need for oxygen got too much they parted, but faces not more than an inch apart. Despite their pause one of Mycroft's hands was drawing lazy circles on John's back, the other undoing the shirt buttons, then roaming the smooth skin underneath. “Am I doing it right?” Mycroft enquired, his eyes closed. John's skin felt so hot under his touch, so soft, so right.
“Right?” John smiled. “There's nothing to do wrong. Just... go with whatever you're feeling.”
“Shame,” came the unexpected reply. “And fear.”
“You don't have to be ashamed. And not afraid. Just let go and trust you instincts.”
“That... might be the problem. I'm ashamed of what I want to do and I'm afraid that you won't like it... that you won't like me anymore.”
John whispered, “Do you trust me?”
“Strangely enough... yes.”
“Then trust me on this. You'll be fine. And I'll probably like whatever you want to do.”
“But what if I won't? What if I can't please you?”
“Don't worry about that,” whispered John, “I feel very pleased so far.”
“You are?” Mycroft asked, almost surprised.
So John took his hand and guided it down between them until Mycroft's palm was gently pressing against the front of John's jeans. “Aren't you?” he asked while guiding Mycroft's hand along the outline of hardening flesh.
There was silence from Mycroft, only his heavy breathing audible in the room. He withdrew his hands and framed John's face with them. “Yes, I think I am,” he muttered and engaged John in another, lingering kiss.
“This is a lot less confusing than the evening so far,” muttered John, smiling stupidly against Mycroft's lips. He used the moment to slip out of his shirt and Mycroft gave an approving grunt, one hand wandering down to John's hip. This was the first time John had ever had witnessed Mycroft so unravelled, so speechless. It was settling as a warm, pleasant feeling in his gut.
“May I...?” whispered Mycroft. “I want to... I need to see you. Feel you.”
It wasn't like this would not work in John's favour so he nodded. Also, Mycroft's heavy drawl, soaked with emotion did funny things to John. In a sudden need for more space he undid his jeans' button and zipper. This was going rather well so far.
Softly Mycroft pushed John on his back and then crawled over him – kissing, then nibbling on his jaw and a bit later on his earlobe. John gave a low growl of approval and while Mycroft was working down his neck, John sneaked a hand between the two of them and pulled on the bathrobe's belt. The knot became undone and the robe fell open. Mycroft took a moment to gaze up at John's very self-satisfied expression.
Mycroft turned back to his work, meticulously inspecting John's body from his scalp down to the waistband of his underwear. When his fingers, mouth and nose had done their work on the front he murmured a low “Turn around” and John complied. He was breathing heavily by now, hands over his head, grabbing the pillows. He felt some of Mycroft's weight on him, holding him down, and a hand sneaking down from his side to his hips, then under him and finally gently rubbing John's erection through his underwear.
He moaned loudly, hips first moving forward to meet Mycroft's hand, then back to give him space for movement. Mycroft pressed even more against John then and was almost covering him completely now. To his own surprise John liked that very much – he felt somewhat secure, like he was wrapped in a thick blanket and shielded from the world. Now Mycroft's left hand ran up John's side, under his chest and came out next to John's face. John didn't think long, kissed each fingertip and began to suck on Mycroft's ring finger. Mycroft let out a moan and buried his face between John's neck and his right arm, grinding his hips against John's bottom.
John felt Mycroft's hardness press against his butt, moaning involuntarily and grasping Mycroft's wrists to keep them in place. Yet there was something he needed to say.
“I've never done that,” he whispered. “This is not the first time I've been intimate with a man, but I've never... done that.”
“That doesn't matter, right now,” whispered Mycroft and gave John's balls a gentle squeeze before withdrawing his hand and turning John on his back. “It doesn't matter.”
John raised his hand to Mycroft's face, brushing his thumb over his lips before letting it come to rest on the back of his head and pulling him into a kiss.
Mycroft broke their kiss to pull John's jeans and pants down and John shook them off while pushing the bathrobe over Mycroft's shoulders. That revealed pale, freckled shoulders and John began to kiss them. Mycroft stayed perfectly still, shivering with tension and withheld panting.
“Shhhh,” hushed John. “It's all right.”
“It is,” stated Mycroft. “But I'm a bit... excited.”
So John reversed their roles, now Mycroft leaning against the pillows and John over him. He did feel a little self-conscious and unreal, though. He was naked and aroused, kneeling over the most powerful man he had ever known. Someone who could make people vanish, for their own sake or for the sake of others. Someone who could venture anywhere, despite never doing so. Someone who currently had his hands on John's hips and ran them down the sides of his thighs. After a moment of hesitation John actually looked at Mycroft.
His shoulders were wide and almost bony, his chest covered in a thick patch of coarse, amber hair, although the rest of his body was sparsely haired at all. Only a small path led down from his chest, over his belly button, to the curly nest of his prick. A nice example of the male appendage, John mused. His experience on the matter was limited, but he liked what he saw. A fully erect shaft of average length; thick and of a slightly red colour; leaning a little to the right and the head glistering with the first few droplets of the end. John felt a sudden urge to skid back and lean down, to kiss and lick at Mycroft's manhood. He mentally postponed it and promised himself that he had not just chickened out of giving his lover a blow-job.
All of Mycroft's extra padding seemed to go around the middle, although John thought that either Mycroft's diet was going rather well or Sherlock's jabs had been over the top. Of course, Mycroft was probably far from being an underwear model, but John didn't find that unattractive. Despite whatever lost pounds Mycroft argued, John had gone a bit flabby himself after he had left the service. Running all across London with Sherlock and dinner at Angelo's every other day weren't the same as regular exercise and a balanced diet.
“You're beautiful,” John breathed, finally kissing down that long neck he had admired for so long now. He found several sensitive spots on the way down, mouth then ghosting over nipples, licking and gently sucking. The hair felt funny against his lips and tongue, but it smelled nicely, of soap and, John told himself, maybe something else underneath. Something simply Mycroft.
One of Mycroft's hands had long since found it's way into John's hair as he was arching up into the touch, whimpering and moaning, pleading for more. Finally John straightened up, every sound and sensation having gone straight to his own prick, and he knew he wouldn't last long now.
John straddled Mycroft's lap and slid forward until he and Mycroft were hip to hip. Instantly Mycroft's hands found their way down to John's waist, his hips, his bottom.
Time seemed to stand still as a sensation hit John like a wave breaking on the shore. His legs were parted, Mycroft's hands slightly massaging his buttocks. He was spread open and theoretically all he would have to do was slip a bit more forward and he would be over Mycroft and he could be... would be... Mycroft would slide into him and it would be glorious, it would be so much better than that curious, experimental finger John had used this once jerking off, because it would be Mycroft. In him. Fucking him.
John quickly needed something, anything to distract him from that thought, from the fantasy. His gaze fell down to their shafts, lying side by side. “Look, they fit perfectly. Almost as if they're cuddling. I think they want to be friends,” he grinned and Mycroft let out a short laugh.
“I think...,” Mycroft whispered and looked up.
“If you're thinking we're doing something wrong,” interrupted John and leaned into the hand cupping his face now.
“That's the point. I think I won't be thinking for much longer. Or anything else, for that matter.”
“Then let's finish this,” whispered John affectionately and leaned in for a gentle kiss. He tried to take both their erections in one hand and failed miserably. “Okay... I'll do yours, you'll do mine?”
Mycroft nodded, letting his hand slip from John's face and he gently, carefully wrapped it around John's member. John began setting a slow rhythm that, between their synchronous movements, quickly picked up speed. With his left Mycroft gently forced John to keep looking at him. A small cry followed by a deep moan escaped Mycroft and hot liquid seeped through John's fingers. Mycroft's hand tensed involuntarily around John's erection and the doctor quickly covered the hand with his, guiding the last few strokes that took him over the edge.
The tension drained from John and he dropped against Mycroft.
“I know, we'll probably stick together till the end of our days... but I don't want to move and clean up,” muttered John, face buried against Mycroft's neck and arms wrapped around his torso. Instinctively Mycroft's arms came up and worriedly he realised how cool John's sweaty back was to the touch.
“Lay back and let me do it,” muttered Mycroft, trying to press a kiss against John's head but failing.
With a disapproving grunt John let go of Mycroft and rolled on his back, eyelids heavy and threatening to fall shut.
Mycroft quickly got up and went over to the bathroom. Water started running.
Despite the tiredness John lazily picked up his sticky hand and contemplated it for a moment before carefully licking at the pearly, glistering liquid.
He couldn't quite describe the taste. It was a bit salty, a bit bitter. It wasn't what he would file under tasty, but it wasn't disgusting either. The water running in the bathroom stopped and John dropped his hand over his chest.
Mycroft returned with a wet towel and began to clean John. An approving “hm” escaped John when the towel carefully rubbed over his chest and stomach, eventually cleaning John's fingers, too. When he was finally done Mycroft simply dropped the towel over the edge of the bed and switched off the light. He lay on his side supporting himself on one elbow and tentatively placed his hand on John's chest. John cracked an eye open and grinned satisfied. Mycroft's expression was insecure and he blushed. But John seemed so relaxed and placid that it was bordering on smugness.
“C'm here,” muttered John and pulled Mycroft completely down. “That was fantastic.”
Slowly a smiled crept on Mycroft's face. John turned to him and they lay facing each other then.
A thought came to John. “So the third date is the sex date.”
“The third?” Mycroft chuckled. “We have met more often than that.” His eyes were searching John's face, drinking in every detail.
John sneaked an arm around Mycroft. “Yes, we did, but I only figured they were dates when we were at the theatre. First date. On the second date you gave me the key – unusual, usually it's a kiss or making out. Now, this is our third date.” He emphasised his point with a quick kiss.
Mycroft chuckled. “Have it your way, then.”
“You're beautiful like this,” whispered John. “Just you, nothing else.”
He pulled him a bit closer until Mycroft's pride and doubt gave way and he curled up against John, head against shoulder, his free arm and leg draped over the shorter man. In return John reached over Mycroft and pulled the comforter around them. Wrapped in a tight cocoon of warm fabric and John it took only minutes for the older Holmes brother to fall into a blissful sleep.

<< Chapter 7: It's all coming back to me now :: Previous | Next :: Chapter 9 - The sound of my trembling, faceless thoughts>>
 
 
Chris de Burgh - Tender Hands
 
 
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