
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/801044.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Mycroft_Holmes/Sherlock_Holmes
  Additional Tags:
      Rape, Incest, Sibling_Incest, Oral_Sex, Hand_Jobs
  Collections:
      Sherlock_Remix
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-05-12 Words: 2067
****** Things Truly Wicked (start from an innocence remix) ******
by coloredink
Summary
     Sherlock curls his lip into a sneer he practised in the mirror. "You
     said we weren't like other people. You told me to avoid sentiment."
Notes
     Written for Sherlock Remix 2013.
  This work was inspired by
      Things_Truly_Wicked by kirstenlouise
"Sherlock?" Mycroft shuts the door to the parlour behind him. "What did you
want?"
Sherlock made sure to sit on the sofa, where he and Mycroft always sit during
the afternoon tea ritual with Mummy. He might have taken Mummy's chair, which
has a view of the door; the implication would not have gone unnoticed to
Mycroft. But Sherlock didn't want Mycroft unbalanced just yet.
Mycroft is still standing by the door, hands tucked casually into his pockets.
He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt at the station, with a sleeveless jumper
over it and a long coat over that, the very image of a fussy Oxbridge scholar
determined to go far, but he's changed since into a polo shirt and chinos. He's
gained weight, and he's let his hair grow a little long, fashionable but well-
groomed. He looks like a prat.
"You have a lover," says Sherlock.
Mycroft's eyebrows shoot up, but that's the only outward sign of his surprise.
University has made him much better at hiding his reactions--from Sherlock,
too. "I--well, yes. What of it?"
"Lapel pin," says Sherlock, even though Mycroft didn't ask how he knew. Mycroft
never asks; he knows how and why Sherlock knows, because they are both
brilliant. "On your coat. I noticed it at the station."
A gaudy brooch, really, of some kind of great cat, with black gems for spots on
its coat and green gems for eyes. Probably came from a high street shop. Not
Mycroft's thing at all; Mycroft's taste does not run towards trinkets, aside
from the occasional pair of tasteful cufflinks. A gift, then, but not a gift
from just anyone: Mycroft wouldn't wear such a terrible, ill-suited bauble
unless it was a gift from a lover, pinned on at the station and smiled over.
Mycroft probably sat on the train and touched it with his fingers, eyes
distant, a vague, silly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Mummy isn't
observant, at least not anymore, but Sherlock noticed, because he notices
everything.
"Yes, I thought you would," Mycroft says, as if it were nothing at all. He sits
next to Sherlock at last. His easy manner at being caught out makes Sherlock
furious. He wants Mycroft to be uncomfortable, to sweat a little, but Mycroft
still looks at him like he's a little boy, even though he's nearly thirteen.
"Problem?"
Sherlock curls his lip into a sneer he practised in the mirror. "You said we
weren't like other people. You told me to avoid sentiment."
Mycroft heaves a world-weary sigh. Sherlock hates that, too. He hates
everything about Mycroft, these days: how he was home for only a few days last
Christmas holidays; how Mycroft called a great deal at first, and always asked
to speak to Sherlock, but now, in his second year, he doesn't call even once a
week; how Mycroft looks more like their father and takes Mummy's side more
often, these days. His letters home--those, at least, are still regular--are
filled with names that Sherlock doesn't know, and stories that he wasn't there
to share in.
"Yes, I did say that," says Mycroft. "And it's still true. But you see, certain
sacrifices must be made to secure a good position in the future..."
More and more of Mycroft's words these days have to do with the future, a
future that's going to take him to London, to do the big boring things that are
so damned important to him. And now this.
Well, Sherlock is going to show him. He sticks his hand into Mycroft's lap,
fingers splaying over his crotch.
Mycroft freezes just before bursting into a frenzy of motion and flapping
fabric, scooting until he's pressed up against the arm of the sofa, his eyes
wide. The expression is comical, but Sherlock doesn't laugh. "Sherlock! What--"
Sherlock puts on his best Mycroft imitation, eyebrows drawn and voice stern. He
wishes his voice were deeper. "Trousers down. I trust you're capable of doing
it yourself."
Mycroft pales. His jaw goes slack. "What--"
"I can help you, if you want." Sherlock's hands go towards Mycroft's belt, but
Mycroft slaps them away, as if Sherlock just tried to shove his hand in the
fireplace.
"Sherlock!" Mycroft is grey and shaking, fine tremors down his skin making his
fingers tremble. "What are you--"
"What does it look like?" Sherlock hisses. "Now take down your trousers, or
I'll do it for you."
"What--I'm--I'm not--" Mycroft opens and closes his mouth several times and
pushes himself up unsteadily, half on his feet. "Why--what--"
Sherlock's hands go back on his own thighs. He makes his voice level and calm,
as if Mummy's scolding him again. "If you don't, I'll tell Mummy that you raped
me. That you've been raping me. For years."
Mycroft freezes.
"The most commonly reported form of sibling incest is older sibling on younger
sibling." Sherlock doesn't move his hands. He recites the facts, back straight,
without taking his eyes away from Mycroft's increasingly distraught expression.
"Absence of the father is usually a significant factor."
Mycroft gapes at Sherlock. It's an unattractive look on him, but Sherlock
relishes having put it there. "You wouldn't," he chokes out, but even as he
says that Sherlock smiles in triumph. He pushes Mycroft back onto the sofa and
puts his hand on Mycroft's belt. Undoing it backwards is a lot trickier than he
thought it would be, but he doesn't let his frustration show.
"Who do you think she'd believe?" Sherlock says, as he slips the tongue of the
belt free from the buckle and unbuttons Mycroft's trousers next. Mycroft
remains frozen. "The scared little boy or his big brother, the Oxford scholar?
Oh, but you wouldn't be an Oxford scholar anymore, would you, if that got out?
Oh, no." He pitches his voice low and sobbing. "He made me, Mummy. He hurt me.
He said if I told, he'd only hurt me more. Oh, Mummy, I was so scared."
"Stop it," Mycroft chokes out. "I'd never--"
"Liar!" Sherlock has Mycroft's penis in his hands by now. It's small and pink
and soft and fits in Sherlock's hand. He strokes the foreskin, retracting it
over the shiny pink head of Mycroft's cock. Sherlock wonders if his own will
look like that, when he's bigger.
"Please don't," Mycroft whispers, from somewhere just out of Sherlock's view.
Sherlock looks up. Mycroft's head lolls against the back of the sofa, his eyes
closed. The corners of his mouth are turned down, and his brow is a maze of
unhappy wrinkles. Sherlock clenches his jaw and squeezes Mycroft's penis.
Mycroft's eyes fly open with a little cry.
"Look at me," Sherlock demands. "I want you to look at me. You're not going to
pretend it's someone else doing this to you. It's me, yes, it's your brother."
"Ah!" Mycroft's eyes are wide, his pupils blown, his lips trembling; Sherlock
presses his fingers to Mycroft's femoral artery and feels his pulse drumming
away. His big brother is afraid or aroused or both, and that's enough to send
Sherlock's head spinning. He spits into his hand and closes it around Mycroft's
shaft and starts a series of pulls, trying to make Mycroft hard.
"Oh God, don't do this!" Mycroft bursts out, bringing both hands up to his
face.
"Quiet," Sherlock orders. "Do you want someone to hear you? You'd better hurry
up, by the way," he adds. "The servants will be along to lay tea in, oh, maybe
20 minutes. Or 15? I haven't exactly been keeping track of time, you know. I
don't suppose you locked the door behind you?"
Mycroft whimpers and crushes the heel of his hand against his teeth. Sherlock
lets him; he doesn't really have any desire for one of the servants to come
looking to see what all the fuss is about, and Mycroft hasn't taken his eyes
away. Besides, Mycroft is starting to get hard, and that's exciting. He's
getting longer, the foreskin retracting on its own. Sherlock swipes his thumb
over the head, smoothing the precome over the shaft. It doesn't do much to make
the glide easier, so he pauses to spit into his hand again.
After another minute or so, with no sound except for Mycroft's panicked
breathing and the thick slap of skin on skin, Sherlock says, "You'd better
hurry up. This is getting boring."
"I can't," Mycroft croaks.
Sherlock tilts his head to one side, in what he knows very well is a childish
pose of deep thought. He pouts out his bottom lip. It sends a fresh wave of
trembling through Mycroft's body. "I can use my mouth."
"No! No." Mycroft squeezes his eyes shut but hurriedly opens them against
before Sherlock can force his attention back. "Please don't."
"Then you need to come." Sherlock switches to his other hand. "All right, how
about this: I've changed my mind, you can close your eyes. Think of someone
else doing this to you. It doesn't matter, since when you open your eyes, it'll
still be me. Nothing you can do about that."
Mycroft groans, and his head thuds against the back of the sofa. He does close
his eyes. His adam's apple bobs frenetically as he swallows. Sherlock watches
with fascination as the blotchy red on his brother's face spreads down his
neck; as Mycroft's breathing changes and grows more laboured; as his hips begin
to shift and hitch. Strange and fascinating, how the human male body feels
compelled to thrust, even when there's nothing to thrust into, even when
there's no ovum for the seed to invade. Mycroft's penis oozes more freely now,
a sign of increasing arousal--and hopefully impending ejaculation, because this
is getting a bit tedious. Sherlock didn't think it would take this long.
"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock wonders. "Are you thinking about your
lover, back at uni? Does he do this to you? No, I bet he doesn't, I bet you let
him use his mouth. I bet you let him use your arse. I bet he bums you."
"Shut up!" Mycroft grinds out through his teeth. "If you really want this to be
over then you need to shut up."
Sherlock subsides.
After another minute, Mycroft's breaths are coming high and thready, like he's
on the verge of a panic attack. That must mean he's close. "Come on," Sherlock
mutters, and finally he's had enough. He bends down and takes just the head of
his brother's penis into his mouth.
That's apparently enough, because Mycroft gives another shocked little cry and
then his breath freezes altogether. Something foul and salty lands on
Sherlock's tongue, and he sputters and launches himself away so fast that he
almost topples off the sofa altogether. The rest of the mess lands on Mycroft's
trousers, and a bit on the cushion. Mycroft sags back against the sofa arm,
head bowed, while Sherlock spits and sputters. "God, that was foul! Does it
always taste like that?"
Mycroft doesn't answer. He's slumped and shaking, head bowed, one hand over his
face. Sherlock straightens and tosses his head. "Well?"
"Get out," Mycroft says through his fingers.
That was not the expected response. Sherlock puzzles over it for a moment
before concluding that, well, he did just wound Mycroft's pride, and Mycroft is
going to want a moment to recover. But... "You're going to have to go back to
your room to change, anyhow," he points out. "Can't have tea with Mummy looking
like that. It makes much more sense for you to leave."
"Get out!" Mycroft roars, pounding his other hand against the back of the sofa,
though he still doesn't look at Sherlock.
Sherlock's feet move him despite a cerebral knowledge that, in this moment,
Mycroft has no power over him. He tells himself that acceding to this one
request does not make him the loser, since he still has the upper hand overall,
and Mycroft is clearly not going to move right now. But he pauses with his hand
on the doorknob.
"I win," he says, looking over his shoulder. Mycroft twitches. "You'll never
forget. Every time someone touches you, you'll remember me. I'll always be the
more important."
Mycroft doesn't reply, but his shoulders begin to shake.
"Better turn the cushion over, or Mummy will see," Sherlock says, and lets
himself out of the parlour with a smile.
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