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John struggled to open the door, weighed down by roughly a dozen bags of varying sizes. He'd spent the whole morning and part of the afternoon running all over town in order to find all of the items on Mycroft's list. He still couldn't see a good reason why Mycroft had would need him, of all people, to run this particular set of errands for him, given how many other people he had working for him, but he'd offered a decent sum of money for the one-time job. John had agreed readily, though it had mostly been because he'd had the strong impression that Mycroft actually just wanted a bit of time to talk to Sherlock alone.
John couldn't imagine a conversation between the two going on that long, but the familiar black car was still parked outside the building when he got back.
John shifted the bags awkwardly to allow himself to climb the stairs. “I still have no idea why you need any of these things,” John said, setting the bags down as soon as he reached the top. “But I was able to get everything you--” John froze, his mind suddenly coming to a screeching halt.
He stared blankly at the scene in front of him, certain at first that he must be having some kind of hallucination. Because, in real life, Sherlock Holmes didn't lie panting in one of their chairs, in the middle of an obvious lust-filled haze. His skin didn't turn that shade of pink on any occasion, and it certainly never flushed from the top of his head all the way down his chest.
And even if, by some fluke, these events somehow managed to take place, they could not in any way involve Mycroft's hand down Sherlock's trousers. Nothing could ever involve Mycroft's hand down Sherlock's trousers, so however much what he was seeing might look like Mycroft's hand shoved down Sherlock's trousers, John knew that--
“John,” Mycroft said shortly. He sounded mildly put off, but not the least like a man who'd just been caught with his hand in his brother's trousers – and then continued moving it afterwards. He lifted his free hand and glanced at his watch. “You're back.”
John just stared stupidly for a moment before realizing he needed to respond. “Um. Sorry. Did I come back too early?” he asked, then immediately wondered why he was the one trying to apologize for anything.
“Oh, there's no need to worry,” Mycroft replied. “You arrived back at precisely the time I expected you would. However, I seem to have slightly underestimated the amount of time we would need.”
“I broke my record,” Sherlock said, voice filled with the smugness it had whenever he made an observation he thought was especially clever, but also with a headiness John wouldn't have thought possible before that moment.
“At times like this I start to think you're completely missing the point of this whole exercise,” Mycroft replied irritably.
“I'm not the one who's missing the point, Mycroft,” Sherlock replied, tone almost mocking.
“Actually, I think I might be the one who's missing the point,” John said. He swallowed. “What is the point, exactly?” he asked, not entirely certain he even wanted to know.
“Sherlock does not have sexual intercourse, he does not masturbate and he goes for extended periods of time without sleep, making the wet dreams which otherwise occur naturally impossible.”
Sherlock shifted in his chair; Mycroft adjusted his grip without looking away from John. “You, as an experienced doctor, should know how very unhealthy this all is.”
“This is definitely very unhealthy. I'll give you that,” John replied, feeling a small headache coming on.
Mycroft seemed to visibly refrain from rolling his eyes. “Left to his own devices, he would never take care of his own needs,” he said firmly.
“So... you... do it for him?” John asked, though the evidence was plain to see. “And neither of you finds anything at all... disturbing, about this?”
“Not really,” Sherlock replied.
Mycroft shrugged. “This is the only arrangement he would agree to.”
John tried not to imagine what the other proposed arrangements might have been. “And how, exactly, did you two come to this... arrangement... in the first place?”
“Many years ago, I confronted him about his lack of healthy sexual activity. The ensuing discussion of the problem led to this solution,” Mycroft replied. “However, while Sherlock has always freely consented to this, he still chooses to spend the entire time stubbornly resisting the natural conclusion of the process. Over the years this has gone from a problem solved in a matter of minutes to an all-day affair.”
“I'm getting better at this,” Sherlock put in. He paused, pretending to think over what he'd just said. “Or is it just that you're getting worse?”
Mycroft gave John an odd smile. “Do excuse me for a moment,” he said, then fully returned his attention to Sherlock. A second hand disappeared into Sherlock's trousers, moving in time with the first. Sherlock gasped, then licked his lips.
John knew that he should probably be seizing that moment to run as far away from the apartment as he possibly could, or at least out of the room. Unfortunately, his feet seemed glued to the floor, and his eyes were firmly locked on Mycroft's hands, however much he wanted to look away. He could feel his own trousers growing uncomfortably tight, a fact he was trying desperately to ignore.
Mycroft's hands were moving in a steady rhythm. Sherlock maintained an expression of careful indifference to the whole thing, as though what his brother was doing didn't warrant even the slightest bit of his attention.
He stayed like this for several moments before his head suddenly tilted back, his mouth open and gasping for air. His hips jerked erratically several times, then froze in place. For one long moment, he looked utterly lost in pleasure – only for his face to suddenly take on a look of complete concentration. His fingers squeezed the arms of the chair as though holding on for dear life.
He fell back down into the chair, still fully aroused. A huge smirk spread over his face.
“Sherlock.” Mycroft's tone was a mixture of exasperation and extreme frustration.
John couldn't blame him; the non-orgasm he'd just witnessed had left him feeling beyond frustrated himself, and he'd only had to witness the one. “You two have been at this all day?” he choked.
Both Sherlock and Mycroft ignored him entirely. “This is futile and you know it, Sherlock. All you've done is render your entire body oversensitive to stimulus.”
“Did not,” Sherlock protested, sounding almost drunk.
“You know very well that--”
“Prove it.”
Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment and pinched his brow. “If you insist,” he said eventually, running his hands over Sherlock's chest. He lightly circled one nipple with his fingers, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face.
Sherlock shuddered and closed his eyes, body pressing up into the touch.
Mycroft moved his hand up Sherlock's neck, then his jaw, before tracing over his bottom lip with one finger. Sherlock's eyes opened just a sliver, focusing directly on Mycroft's.
At which point Mycroft abruptly reached back down into Sherlock's trousers and jerked his hand roughly several times. Sherlock, apparently too distracted to manage whatever trick he'd pulled previously, thrust frantically upward before crying out and collapsing into a messy heap.
Mycroft was already wiping his hands with a handkerchief. “I don't understand why you always insist on making everything so difficult.”
Sherlock only groaned in response.
John was still baffled. Baffled and aroused, but he focused all of his mental energy on the bafflement. “Why haven't you tried...” John began, then stopped. “I mean, you could always... You know there are... faster methods than the one you used, right?” he asked, unconsciously rubbing his mouth with one hand.
Mycroft eyed the hand for a moment, then raised an eyebrow at John. “He's my brother, John,” he replied. “You aren't seriously suggesting that I should--”
John held up both hands in front of him. “No! No,” he said. “I'm not suggesting anything. At all.”
“Good,” Mycroft replied. He picked up his umbrella and walked right past the shopping bags without giving them a second glance, though he did give John one final odd look before disappearing down the stairs.
“Hey, I am not the weird one here,” John protested, too late for Mycroft to hear him. “I'm not,” he told Sherlock instead, making sure to keep his eyes on Sherlock's face and away from the mess below.
“Really?” Sherlock replied, looking directly at the bulge in John's trousers.
“Really,” John replied, fighting the urge to cover that general area with his hands. Sherlock had already seen all he'd needed to; trying to hide it now would just make things worse. “...You know that there are probably people you could pay for this... er... whatever this is, that you're doing. People you are not related to.”
Sherlock looked at him like he'd lost his mind. “Of course I know that,” he replied. “Mycroft would even pay for it if I asked him to.”
“And you don't want that because...?”
“It wouldn't inconvenience him enough.”
John rubbed his face. “Right. Obviously.”
“Of course, if you are interested in that sort of thing, I could probably get him to--”
“I think it's best for everyone if you didn't finish that sentence,” John interrupted. He started backing away toward his room, careful not to trip over any of the shopping bags at his feet. “I also think that we should all just forget that any of this ever happened.”