Because sometimes I swear, I forget I’m not
It was hardly surprising that Mycroft wouldn’t be able to make it home for his party. That didn’t lessen the sting. Sherlock’s face was stony and cold, control lasting for a few seconds before the vase went flying, storming up to his room. and slamming the door shut, the noise ringing through his head.
That had been weeks ago.
And now Mycroft had
finallydecided to come home. The younger Holmes was sitting in one of the sitting rooms upstairs, crouched beneath the window watching, eyes narrowed in a glare. Stupid. So stupid. As if exams could ever be more interesting than him.
Well, it were hardly as if he had actually missed him. Quite the contrary, actually. He’d loved the way the house was quiet now.
So very quiet the silence was maddening, splitting his mind into fractals. No matter what he did, how loudly he played the violin or ran through the halls, banged his experiments around, it was deafening. Loathsome.It was easier to think now. Too easy, thoughts tumbling and spiraling out of control, no focal point, a cacophony of stimulus.He had his experiments. Boring.And his violin, free reign to do whatever he so pleased, Mummy didn’t care if he kept a bird carcass under the bed in the guest room.
Pale silver eyes narrowed further as he saw the car slide up the drive, Mycroft step out. Fat. He’d gotten fatter, put on, oh, about eight pounds? His shirt was tighter fractionally, any more cakes and he’d need a new one. Sherlock’s features slipped into a scowl as the other disappeared out of sight. He could hear the door open and close, Mummy rushing to greet him. Sherlock stayed precisely where he was, sitting with his knees drawn to his chest below the window, drew his chemistry book (NOT the old chemistry text book Mycroft had given him, a different one) onto his lap and pretended as if he had been too engrossed to notice his brother’s return.
Mycroft entered the house, immediately gasping for air as his mother swept him up into a bone crushing hug. “Oh, My’, you’re finally home. Oh Sherlock has been absolutely devastated by your absence!” She tutted about, letting his stow his suitcases in the hall, before offering him a cookie which she had brought from the kitchen. He grinned at his mother, she always did know his weakness for sweets. He took a bite, savoring the sweetness.
"And where is my brother dearest?" He looked around searching for brother. His mother simply waved her hand, "Oh Mycroft, you know Sherlock, he can’t be bothered to show his feelings. I’m sure he’s upstairs pouting, as usual." Mycroft tried not to raise an eyebrow at his mothers uninterested voice. He wondered how tired his mother must be to be tiring of her favorite son.
"Has school been going well for him Mummy?" He asked curiously, his sixth sense kicking in, something felt off now that he was finally home. Mummy worried her bottom lip, a sure sign that she didn’t want to worry her oldest son. "Of course not, Mycroft."
He looked down at her, aware of his height more than usual due to her short stature, he had gained nearly a foot on her. “Mummy, be truthful. What is it.” He lifted his hand, stroking her cheek lovingly, “I will always take care of Sherlock, you know that.”
She looked down, a flitting expression of shame crossing her features. “He’s been withdrawn lately… I think he’s been bullied. He comes home with scrapes and bruises, but I - I can’t help him Mycroft. I don’t know how to help him. I just tell him to ignore them, it will get better.” Mycroft could sense her impending panic attack.
"Mummy, go make us some tea, I’ll talk to Sherlock. Everything will be fine." She kissed his hand before turning around and walking towards the kitchen leaving him there, a soft expression touching his lips. Poor Sherlock, he thought sympathetically. Life could be very hard for a child, especially a child of Sherlock’s nature.
He walked towards Sherlock door, entering quietly. Sherlock was sitting, reading his book, his new book Mycroft noticed, and trying for all the world to ignore his presence. “Ah, not even going to compliment me on my weight gain, Sherlock?”
Mycroft sat in front of his higher ups desk doing his best not to pout. He was 26 and rapidly rising up in the governments intelligence ladder. More than capable of handling a small inner crime circle on his own. Instead he was sitting here waiting on his new ‘partner’ if they could even be called that he thought haughtily. There was no one more intelligent than him, his higher up has already clarified, but the authorities wanted their own inside man, or woman, he corrected himself. As of this moment he still didn’t know anything about his mysterious partner. He had showed up quite early hoping to talk his way around this hassle but his boss was steadfast, he would have a new partner.
He hoped this would end sooner, rather than later, he didn’t have time to pick up others peoples slack. And if this person ruined his opportunity at another promotion he would find them, and he would personally ruin their life. Footsteps sounded in the hall behind him, from the soft steps he assumed female, light in weight, slightly anxious, of course, he couldn’t be sure until she was right in front of him. He stood up, not yet turning around, waiting for the new recruit to enter the room. His boss, sensing an escape, rose as well, “Well I’ll leave you two to it.”
I’m updating all my threads tonight! I can’t write while my roommates are being loud. they’re too distracting.
Sherlock finally put down the phone rolling his eyes. “Not really.” He muttered, looking up at him. “We haven’t that is all for good reason.” He blatantly said. It was true, they both had their reasons. Their excuse was work.
Mycroft gave his brother a flippant smile understanding Sherlock’s frustration. “I know we’re busy Sherlock, but Mummy wouldn’t like us fighting. Christmas dinner is coming up, I know you haven’t forgotten.” He smirked in Sherlock’s direction, aware his brother, like himself, forgot nothing. “You’ll go won’t you?”
Mycroft looked over surprised to see John. “Hello Doctor Watson, I didn’t expect you so soon. I’m fine thank you, take a seat would you?”
John walked into the room and sitting on the sofa then look at him “glad to hear that. So please tell me. Why am here? Sherlock is fine. Nothing’s wrong.” He look at Mycroft with a little smile
He grinned, his teeth showing slightly; he knew it made him appear like a predator, searching for it’s prey. And John, oh poor John Watson, the loyal doctor, the good man, well, he was the easiest prey of all. Twisting his umbrella absentmindedly Mycroft sat forward slightly, “Must I need a reason to revel in your company? Surely Sherlock needn’t go to such special measures…”
ooc: hey your ask box is turned off, probably because it’s a new rp account, turn it on so we can plot out where this is going somemore? :)
Sherlock heard his brother come upstairs and enter his room, taking a moment to wait out his discovery of the state of his room. After he had waited for a few minutes, however, he looked down at himself and suddenly felt a surge of boldness. This was his home too. There was no reason he should have to hide now. Mycroft had seen him dressed up and had seen him in the knickers the night before. He lived here, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to dress as he pleased while traversing his own home.
Tossing off the robe, Sherlock removed the stockings and garter belt he had put on before, leaving only the simple lace kickers and matching bra. He stood in front of the mirror once more, wondering if he should be concerned with how much time he spent looking at himself.
Shrugging it off, he left the bedroom and went to Mycroft’s door. Should he knock? Should he enter? Perhaps not. He could be upset about Sherlock touching his things, and given that he still had drugs in his system, he wasn’t eager to incurr additional wrath.
Turning away then, the younger Holmes headed downstairs. His intention was to give Mycroft time to cool off, though he assumed it would be from anger, not from arousal. Entirely oblivious to the thoughts Mycroft was entertaining upstairs, Sherlock made himself comfortable in the kitchen, beginning to prepare some tea for himself. As a last minute thought and effort at a peace offering of sorts, he shot off a text.
[SMS] Making tea; shall I bring some up for you? -SH
His eyes vaguely looked up at his brother. “They’re all..meaningless. You could get the local cops to do them.” Sherlock noted, looking back at his video game. “Besides, you should know by now that I don’t do your work.”
Mycroft huffed slightly, rubbing his umbrellas handle absent-mindedly, “Well, since I’ve already made the trip here is there anything in particular you’d like to discuss?” He took a seat across from Sherlock not particularly caring whether he was wanted, “We haven’t spoken in ages Brother Dear.”
Sherlock didn’t wake the next morning until he was alone in the house, the familiar heavy silence filling the space around him. He wasn’t eager to get out of bed at first, comfortable and warm under a rather soft blanket- a blanket he didn’t remember putting over himself before going to sleep. Sitting up finally, he spotted the intials in an instant. A subtle warmth flooded his cheeks as he realized his brother had been in his room, removing the sheet and no doubt seeing the lace knickers he had on. There was obviously nothing to be done about it now, but still he felt a combination of combination of embarrassment and just the slightest hint of curiosity as to what he had thought.
Pushing the thought from his head, Sherlock got up and showered, dressing in a more street-friendly manner again. Mycroft’s gesture of caring wasn’t going to dissuade him; if anything, the elder Holmes had only done so while under the influence of alcohol and in a weakened emotional state, if he had to guess. Knowing but not caring that there would be operatives and security people watching his every move, Sherlock headed out of the house, calling a cab to take him into town.
Nearly four hours later, Sherlock was back in front of the mirror, dressed in one of his new lingerie ensembles and watching as he touched bare patches of skin and took in how much more sensitive his nerves were. It was incredible, and to think that all it took was a neat little line of powder, the remainder of which he had hid well so as to keep his brother from finding it. He could do this for hours, and maybe he had. Watching and touching and feeling. Not even in a sexual manner, just exploring.
Then his attention was quite suddenly diverted as he felt the desire to walk around and explore the house as well in his new state of simultaneous awareness and relaxation. He headed out into the hall, stocking-clad feet grateful for the carpet. But oh, the stairs were wood, weren’t they. What if he slipped and fell? Or what if his stocking caught and got a tear in it? He didn’t want that, no. Mycroft’s room was just across the hall though, and offered a wealth of unexplored territory without any risk of injury to body or clothing. Grinning widely, he slipped into the bedroom. He giggled to himself, a sound he found very undignified, but hadn’t the ability to care to correct it at the moment. Focus- exploring.
After a rather boring exposition of all the shoes from his closet and a rousing game of re-arrange-all-the-pairs-of-socks, Sherlock turned to the bed, even more bored than ever. He collapsed onto it, groaning in frustration. There was nothing interesting to do. Absent-mindedly, he pulled the drawer out of the bedside table, intending to dump out the contents for no particular reason, when he spotted something that caught his eye. Turning it over, he noticed something not sitting quite right- the drawer had a false bottom. Intrigued now, Sherlock’s eyes lit up, and he pulled the compartment open, pulling out an envelope with the previous day’s date on it. Upon seeing the contents, however, he inhaled sharply.
In crystal clear resolution, he saw himself laying across his bed in his brand-new lingerie, blissful and entirely encompassed in his own world. Just then, he heard the door downstairs open, and cursed under his breath. It had been longer than he thought, it seemed. He quickly stuffed the pictures back in the envelope and back in the compartment with clumsy hands, running back across to his own room and pulling on a robe over his garments.
Mycroft shut the door with slightly more force than he’d meant to. Waking up with a vomit inducing hangover was a clear reminder of why he only partook of alcohol on occasion and in small doses. His suit was too tight, his stomach was growling uneasily from lack of sustenance but he didn’t have the heart to try and keep anything down. He was uncomfortable, irritable, downright nasty today. He had, in a span of an hour, threatened to fire three people, deduced that two others were having an illicit illegal sex on their higher up’s desk just to get rid of them outside of his office, and nearly broken down his trained p.a. into tears. If he was being quite honest with himself, he honestly didn’t get a fuck, he thought rather crudely. After his adventure yesterday and his drinking last night, he doubted today would get any better once he returned home to Sherlock who had no doubt turned to something illegal today if the texts from the men tracking him were true. If it had been a less trying day he might have stopped him before he could buy them but instead he took a passive approach. Let the boy crash and burn he thought vindictively. He couldn’t be sure if his attitude was in response to his new ‘feelings’ or Sherlock’s atrocious behavior.
He made his way up the stairs dead to the world around him. It had been ages since his mind had simply went quiet due to exhaustion. His lack of sleep was wearing on his cognitive focus as he heavy heartedly walked upstairs. The stairs creaked under his weight a sure sign that, if Sherlock was home, Mycroft was in no mood to exchange quips. Mycroft never made noise if he could help it, it was almost a game he played with himself, just to see how quiet he could be. He stopped short near his door, looking across to Sherlock’s room. His door, neatly closed this morning was slightly ajar; Sherlock’s door was closed, an unusual occurrence as he liked to take up as much space as physically possible. Mycroft swallowed, opening his door the rest of his way he fully expected to see his personal items destroyed or dumped into the floor. Off hand he could see that most of the objects had been carelessly trifled with; his shoes were slightly misaligned, his socks obviously mussed around, his bed suffered an indention and the comforter now featured wrinkles.
Mycroft felt a slight excitement run through his veins, he wasn’t proud but he couldn’t help his impulses, could he? Sherlock was laying in his bed. Was he dressed? Was he scandalously dressed in his fetish clothing? Did he vengefully wank on his covers just to torture him during his sleep tonight? He ignored the rest of the room, taking his coat off immediately, and untucking his button up shirt, tie now loosened. He walked towards the bed warily scanning the sheet for more clues, for more wanking material he thought. He knew he a disgusting animal, but it had been years since someone had captured his attention; years since anyone was worthy of his attention. He and Sherlock were their own elite league; only they could and would ever understand each other. Mycroft laid down on the bed, imagining Sherlock above, straddling his waist - oh for gods sake, i should be in a mad house. i’m a sick fuck. As he tried to wipe the image from his mind, he rummaged in his drawer trying to find his daily itinerary for tomorrow. He turned his neck towards the drawer, still reclining in the bed, his eyes immediately taking in the broken seal on the envelope carelessly placed back into the false bottom.
He took it out quickly, examining the contents. The crystal clear contents causing his body to react, a sudden tightness in his lower extremities. Oh god, did Sherlock see? Did he actually open there? No, it doesn’t matter. I’ll simply say they’re from surveillance and his extracurricular activities are of no matter to me. Yes, surely that’ll work. The new senarios flashed through his mind, if Sherlock felt safe with Mycroft knowing would he start wearing it through out the day, in front of him? He couldn’t imagine hiding his attraction then. He quietly replaced the envelope and laid, hands crossed over his midsection, his head gazing upwards towards the ceiling. He could hear Sherlock outside now; he wondered if his brother would come in.