
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9606617.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Mycroft_Holmes/Sherlock_Holmes
  Character:
      Mycroft_Holmes, Sherlock_Holmes
  Additional Tags:
      Mycroft_Feels, Bottom_Sherlock_Holmes, Sibling_Incest, Pushy_Bottoms,
      Teenage_Hooker_Sherlock, Implied/Referenced_Drug_Use, First_Time
      Penetration, meaning_it's_mycroft's_first_time_to_penetrate, Angst_and
      Porn, Self-Worth_Issues, Light_BDSM, not_quite_dubious_consent, but
      definitely_some_boundary_issues_and_bad_decision_making
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-02-06 Words: 1854
****** Lambeth Blues ******
by teyla
Summary
     Still waters run deep. That's especially true for the Holmes
     brothers, who hide a past full of shameful mistakes and dark secrets
     behind their closed-off exteriors.
Notes
     Take the summary with a grain of salt; 75% of the intention behind
     this is simply to write some delicious angsty porn. There is a longer
     fic in this, and it's partly written, but I'm not sure it'll ever see
     the light of day. For now, I'm sharing this.
     Sherlock's age isn't specifically defined, but he's older than 16 and
     younger than 18. Mycroft is 7 years older.
     Kudos are great, comments are greater. Enjoy!
“There really is nothing to it, Mycroft.”
They’re in Mycroft’s bedroom. Outside, Lambeth Road is being as noisy as ever,
buses rumbling by and cars honking, the occasional pedestrian shouting about
something or other. Lambeth as it lives and breathes. Mycroft hates it, but
it’s all he can currently afford.
Once he’s proven his usefulness at Vauxhall Cross, it’ll get better. He’ll be
able to afford the other side of the river. Pimlico, at least. Maybe
Westminster. He’ll be able to buy nicer sheets; double the thread count. These
cheap John Lewis knock-offs are incredibly hard on his skin.
Sherlock’s skin, of course, is flawless despite the cheap sheets. Now that he’s
clean, Sherlock always looks flawless. It’s most irritating. Mycroft rolls over
onto his side, props his head up and finds his brother’s watchful eyes. “There
is everything to it, Sherlock. Especially in our most precarious situation.”
“’Our most precarious situation.’” Mockery rings in Sherlock’s words, but it’s
amiable. A fight is not what his brother is looking for. “We’ve always been
extraordinary, Mycroft. That’s the definition of who we are.”
“So that means we can do what we want?”
“Why not?”
Sherlock doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blush. He just looks at Mycroft, those
extraordinary eyes glinting first green, then blue, as the light falling in
through the window changes colour. He reaches out, and Mycroft doesn’t stop him
as he slides a hand over Mycroft’s bare chest.
Sherlock’s the only one (besides Mycroft’s doctor) who has seen him in this
state of undress since he was six years old. That fact alone proves that there
is nothing ordinary about this situation.
Mycroft rolls onto his back with a groan, raising a hand to cover his eyes.
“Sherlock. Please. Stop.”
The mattress shifts, and long fingers wrap around his wrist. He resists the tug
until the weight of Sherlock’s body settles against his side. There’s pressure
against his thigh, bleeding through the thin fabric of his pyjama trousers, and
he knows it’s Sherlock’s cock, warm and not entirely flaccid.
When Mycroft opens his eyes, Sherlock’s face is hovering mere inches away. He
can feel his brother’s breath against his cheek as Sherlock speaks. “This isn’t
rational, Mycroft. We’ve done everything else in the book. Why is this
different?”
Why, indeed. Mycroft’s eyes trace angular lines, high cheekbones and the sharp
ridge of Sherlock’s nose. Full lips that feel soft under his own, so very
familiar after all these months. Just months, not years. It all happened so
quickly after he brought Sherlock back from that back-alley drug den. “Have you
done it before?”
“You know I have.”
“I know you’ve told me you have. But have you really?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes and pushes off, dropping back onto the mattress with a
frustrated thump. “I didn’t lie to you. I’m not a liar.”
“That’s what any liar would say.”
“Fuck you.” The bedding shifts as Sherlock swings his legs over the side. He
steps up to the window, unashamed of his nakedness, a cacophony of coloured
lights painting a pattern on his skin. “You act all wise and knowing, Mycroft,
but really, you don’t know anything. I’m your first, aren’t I?”
The look Sherlock throws him over his shoulder is like a physical weight on
Mycroft’s chest. He pushes the covers aside and gets up as well, jaw working as
he slips bare feet into a pair of slippers. “I’m not going to answer that.”
“You don’t have to.” They stare at each other across the bed, and despite
himself Mycroft can’t help looking—looking at his brother, looking at the young
man standing there with his hair dishevelled, his eyes blazing, and his half-
hard cock hanging between his thighs. Sherlock takes a step towards him, and
his heart skips a beat. “I spent more than a year hooking on Canal Street,
Mycroft. I know what a man looking for his first queer lay looks like. He looks
like you did when you showed up there in your tightest pair of trousers.”
“I wasn’t—“
“Are we really going to do this again?”
Sherlock’s harsh tone cuts him off, and he swallows the rest of his sentence.
They have done this, over and over, and really, Sherlock is right when he’s
implying that it’s becoming ridiculous. He’s right, too, when he says that
Mycroft’s reluctance is not rational. The crossing of the Rubicon occurred the
first time Mycroft saw Sherlock’s eyes glaze over in orgasmic pleasure, it
happened the first time Sherlock went to his knees and did to Mycroft what he’s
done to countless strangers in dark, dingy back-alleys. This last step isn’t
even a step at all. It’s a natural evolution.
Even Mycroft Holmes wouldn’t dare to stand in the way of evolution.
“All right. Get on the bed.” His throat is dry, his voice raspy, but the effect
is immediate. Sherlock’s eyes widen, his back stiffens, and his mouth opens to
deliver a smart retort. Mycroft cocks his head, narrows his eyes. It’s the
smallest movement, but it shuts Sherlock up most efficiently. “Do not talk. Get
on the bed.”
Sherlock’s smart, so Sherlock knows to kneel without Mycroft having to tell
him. He’s facing the headboard. Mycroft walks around to the foot of the bed,
takes in the line of his thighs and the smooth slope of his spine bleeding into
two round, firm arsecheeks.
“How many, Sherlock?” He shakes the slippers off before he gets on the bed as
well, moves up to his brother’s still form and slides his hands down Sherlock’s
sides.
“I don’t know.” Raspy, quiet. Sherlock’s ribcage is contracting and expanding
under Mycroft’s hands, and he can smell the arousal emanating from his pores.
He presses his fingernails into smooth skin and rakes them downwards, hard
enough to hurt. Sherlock flinches.
“Not good enough, brother mine. Did you ‘delete’ them? What on Earth for?” He
leans in closer, brings his lips very close to Sherlock’s ear. “What could be
so important for a drugged-out junkie to remember that he would have to delete
valuable memories of loyal customers?”
“I suppose I didn’t consider them valuable.”
“Mhm.” Mycroft straightens up, runs a nail up Sherlock’s spine. “No. You never
had any business sense.” He grabs the back of Sherlock’s neck, squeezes hard
and pushes. “Get down.”
Sherlock tumbles forward, and Mycroft doesn’t give him a chance to collect
himself. He shoves his brother’s face into the pillows, his other hand hooking
underneath Sherlock’s hips to pull his arse up in the air. Sherlock makes a
protesting noise, and Mycroft yanks on a handful of dark curls. “Do shut up,
brother mine.”
Uncharacteristically compliant, Sherlock remains still, perched on his forearms
and knees. Mycroft reaches around, and sure enough: Sherlock’s cock hangs heavy
between his legs, hard and ready. Mycroft grabs it and elicits a grunt.
“This is your problem, Sherlock,” he says as he begins to stroke; long,
rhythmic, almost mechanical. The fingers of his other hand splay on Sherlock’s
arse. “You have no sense of value. Your intellect is more limited than mine,
but it is still remarkable. And yet, what have you done with it so far?”
Sherlock’s panting harshly into the pillow, and Mycroft delivers a hard slap
against his buttock. The skin turns a satisfying shade of red. “Answer me.”
“I don’t—care. About intellect.”
“No. You don’t. I rest my case.” Mycroft rakes his fingernails over the
stimulated skin until Sherlock lets out a strangled moan. “Be quiet.”
A sheen of sweat is gathering on Sherlock’s back. Ignoring the twinge of
disgust in his gut, Mycroft reaches out and trails his fingertip along his
brother’s spine. Sweat pearls over ridged skin, and he can smell it. It smells
like arousal, like sex. It smells like Sherlock.
For a moment, he wonders what in God’s name he’s doing, and how many circles of
hell might be reserved for people like him. But the upside of working in
intelligence is that he’s learned to ignore questions like that.
His finger reaches Sherlock’s tailbone, and he slides it further downwards. The
nub of Sherlock’s hole feels rough and pliable under his fingertip. He presses
down, experimenting, and Sherlock writhes and moans underneath him.
“So how would you like this, brother mine?” Mycroft angles his finger to apply
direct pressure, wriggles it to tease the tight, dry muscle. “Hard and fast,
over in a minute? That’s what you’re used to, right?”
“Mycroft.” His brother’s voice is thin, a low keen muffled by the pillow.
Mycroft tightens his hand around Sherlock’s cock and leans in closer. “Speak
up.”
“Use—“ Sherlock twists his head, tries to raise his mouth from the pillow.
“Lube. Mycroft. Something.”
“Mhm.” Mycroft straightens back up, scrapes his fingernail against the
tightness of Sherlock’s hole. “Why?”
“Because—“
Mycroft won’t let him finish. He locks the joints of his finger and shoves,
hard, against the tight resistance. Sherlock bucks underneath him and lets out
a yelp. “Please!”
“Are you worth it?” Mycroft’s crotch is pressed right up against Sherlock, and
his cock is painfully, shamefully hard. “The time, the preparation. Do you
think you’re worth it, Sherlock?”
His brother is trembling, shoulders shaking and fingers twisting into the
pillow. His voice is choked as he speaks. “Mycroft, please.”
“Say it.” It takes every last ounce of Mycroft’s self-control to keep his own
voice steady, but it’s enough, even if Sherlock sounds broken as he replies.
“I think I’m worth it.”
“Good.” Mycroft’s chest aches, and that’s the last thing he’s going to get out
past the tightness in his throat, so he doesn’t say anything more.
They keep the lube in the nightstand. It doesn’t take long to prep Sherlock; he
wasn’t lying when he said he’s done this before. Mycroft has to move his hand
off Sherlock’s cock to his own to keep himself in an operative state, but his
fingers are almost steady as he guides himself inside his little brother. He
grips the back of Sherlock’s neck again, keeps him pressed down into the
pillows as he starts to move his hips. The tears in his eyes as he approaches
orgasm are surely a side-effect of the exertion.
He makes sure to time their climaxes simultaneously. Sherlock shudders
underneath him, bucking and gasping. When he’s spent, Mycroft pulls back, cock
slipping out and softening rapidly. He yanks the waistband of his trousers back
into place and moves up to lie on his side of the bed, facing the wall opposite
the window. There are no sounds other than the noise of Lambeth at midnight and
Sherlock’s raspy breathing next to him.
His mind is utterly blank, so he lies there silently, shivering as the sweat
cools on his skin. After a while, a hand on his shoulder makes him jump.
“Mycroft.”
“What is it, Sherlock?”
Sherlock’s voice sounds timid. “Are you okay?”
Mycroft’s throat is parched. “Of course,” he manages. “Why don’t you go and get
cleaned up?”
The silence that follows is loud enough that even Lambeth can’t drown it out.
They really need to move to a better place.
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