Work Text:
It is a familiar scene. A routine they have fallen into over years of covert meetings and double lives and second skins they step into and out of at the touch of the other’s hand. The elder drives, sometimes for hours, the younger goes by taxi and train, until they are far enough away that no one will recognise them, and no one will question and no one will even spare a second glance as Sherlock approached his brother’s car and slides himself inside. He shuts the door against the wind and rain that has been present, almost following him, since he left London. He pushes the lock down with his elbow, ensuring their privacy, mumbles out a hello to Mycroft’s curt, polite greeting. He turns to face his brother.
Mycroft cups Sherlock’s face in his hands and kisses him. Sherlock exhales against his brother’s lips and the ever -present shouting, rushing, clamouring in his head quietens. When Mycroft kisses him again, deeper this time, parting his younger siblings lips, it pauses momentarily. Sherlock feels the beginning of relief wash over him and allows his eyes to slip closed. When Mycroft kisses his closed eyelids, so gently that it’s little more than a breath against his lashes, it stops completely. The constant noise in Sherlock’s skull stops altogether and he’s left with, not silence, just hush and he wonders if this is what it feels like to be normal, to have a normal mind. But there is the undercut of raw, dangerous desire and he knows without caring that this is very far from normal.
Mycroft sees the moment when his brother relaxes, the tension leaving his face, and he can’t help but smile also. He pulls back, trying to sit upwards in his seat, but hands grip suddenly at the back of his suit jacket. Sherlock lets out a whimper that’s too close to a sob for Mycroft’s liking. He isn’t yet ready for them to part, scared that his brain may begin to work at its normal speed again and he’s not ready for it. That horrible rushing knowledge, the ache of having so much inside his brain and no place to channel it, no work or project or experiment. And although it has stopped now, and memory should serve to tell him it won’t return while need takes its place, he clings on to his older brother and refuses to move. Mycroft relents and finally moves his arms from Sherlock’s face to wrap around his shoulders. He kisses a slow, deliberate trail down Sherlock’s neck, tugging lightly at the collar of his brother’s shirt when it gets in the way. Sherlock himself undoes the top two buttons on his own shirt and wriggles one shoulder free to allow better access.
For a minute or so, Mycroft allows himself to indulge, to nibble and suck at the pale, perfect skin presented to him. It is when he starts to bite harder and Sherlock's quiet noises of appreciation change to a yowl, almost like that of a cat, that Mycroft forces himself to be slowdown. Be the sensible one of the two. He licks his tongue over the now ever so slightly bruised flesh, and then moves his lips back to his brother's. Four soft, almost chaste, kisses; one over the same spot he has just bitten, one to the side of Sherlock's neck, his chin, and finally his lips. This time when he pulls away Sherlock protests, but doesn't cling on. He grumbles about his brother's 'frigidity' which is a term Mycroft is pretty sure does not apply in this situation, but chooses not to comment. He placates Sherlock with promises of 'later' and 'better', and eventually Sherlock allows him to sit back in his seat. The brother's fasten their seat belts with almost comic unison -at which neither of them laugh - and Mycroft drives the final short distance to the hotel they have chosen.
Sherlock is tense and stares out the slightly fogged up window at the dreary weather. He is impatient, wants Mycroft to get there faster, but knows it will be pointless to voice this. He does not turn to look at his brother, but it is the small, reassuring touches that get him through the journey. Mycroft's hand brushes against Sherlock's knee as he shifts gears. When they stop at traffic lights, Mycroft takes a hand off the wheel and brushes his fingertips over Sherlock’s side where his shirt has ridden up. Sherlock jumps, Mycroft’s hand warm against his cool skin, and nearly pulls away. But then Mycroft moves his hand in a steady, gentle trail backwards and forwards, over his ribs, and Sherlock thinks better of it. Mycroft’s hands are farm from rough, but against his brother’s sensitive, so infrequently touched, flesh Sherlock can feel every single line and finger print. Mycroft, reluctantly, removes his hand, but Sherlock doesn’t rearrange his shirt, and at the next time they pause in traffic, his hand can take up its previous position. By the time they stop in the hotel car park, Sherlock’s skin is tingling.
The hotel is a small, out of season guest house on the coast. It is a great deal smaller, and more run down than Mycroft would have liked, personally, but a concession to the fact that they are far less likely to be recognised or draw attention here. Mycroft takes a moment to rearrange his suit, and Sherlock wishes he had brought his favourite scarf with him, to cover the bite mark on his neck.
They attract barely a second glance from the hotel owner when they enter reception. Sherlock counts the keys behind the desk as Mycroft signs a fake name in the register, and feels satisfied in their choice of venue to note that there is only one other current occupant of the hotel. One other occupant is good. They are not so alone that they are conspicuous by it. He follows Mycroft up to their room on the top floor; a special request from Mycroft, to be further undisturbed. The room is small, and the weather outside making it dark, but as soon as they are inside, Mycroft pins Sherlock against the door and kisses him, and Sherlock cannot think of anywhere he would rather be.
******
They have spoken before, about the impracticalities of such a relationship, one which calls for such secrecy. In fact, Mycroft had talked. Sherlock had sat staring into space and pretended not to be listening. But it had crept inside his brain and now, momentarily alone whilst Mycroft was down at the car collecting the bags, it came back to him. He had thought about it-increasingly so recently. It had been so much easier in the early days. It had been so much easier to push it aside during the normal days of merely functioning. The work had helped, at first, another outlet, to channel his thoughts and deductions upon during his brother’s increasing, ever lengthening, absences and keep the boredom at bay. But as time wore on Sherlock began to realise that the relief he got from The Work was far more short lived. It merely quietened the roar, not silenced it completely.
He is well aware of the wrongness of this solution, the illegality of it. If this must be his outlet, then surely he could find another participant to replace his brother? Anyone else. Only he knows it is not that simple. He’s not sure it would work with anyone else.
He wishes Mycroft would come back. He doesn’t like being alone in the hotel room.
He runs himself a bath, with shaking hands, and is reminded, unwillingly, of the aftereffects of a drug high. He should know. He has had come downs before, hang overs, addictions and this really is just a different kind of drug.
Mycroft takes far longer than Sherlock expected, and then takes him by surprise, walking in on him in the bath. For a moment, Sherlock is so far gone into his mind palace that he forgets where he is, thinks he’s still in Baker Street, and nearly yells at Mycroft to keep up appearances. Then he feels foolish, even more so when he realises that he is still, slightly embarrassed to be found in such a compromising situation, even if it is by Mycroft. Maybe, especially because it is Mycroft.
If this were a normal relationship, he thinks that Mycroft might have joined him in the bath. He is grateful that he doesn’t. Mycroft retreats to the bedroom, turns on the TV and sits on the edge of the bed, waiting for Sherlock. When Sherlock goes to him, it is as though he is being drawn like a magnet. He fits their bodies together, and presses them both down onto the mattress, water from his hair, still dripping, falling onto his brother’s face.
****
Mycroft wakes in the middle of the night, cold, and stretches out a hand for Sherlock. His hand works its way across the pillow and the other side of the bed only to find it empty, with the sheets pushed back. He allows his eyes to adjust. Sherlock stands silhouetted against the window. He is standing so close to the glass, but isn’t looking out, nor is he looking back at the bed, at Mycroft. He is simply there, and staring at nothing. Not for the first time Mycroft finds himself wondering if perhaps his brother is not quite well. He calls to Sherlock, but his voice alone is not enough. He approaches Sherlock slowly, as though he may attack at any moment. A stupid thought, which could not be further from the truth, he is sure. He wraps Sherlock in his arms and finds he is shaking. Shivering.
Sherlock’s mind begins to cool, to return to the reality of that room, and Mycroft, and himself. And Mycroft has cooled the storm which had somehow moved to inside Sherlock’s head.
***
They mostly stay in the room. They have created their own little world, outside the normal one, and neither wishes to break the divisions that hold their world in place. Sherlock borrows Mycroft’s shirts, having brought very little of his own. Mycroft sends messages back to his office from his phone, and Sherlock, for once, does not text John. He has not told him where he is going, has not invented some fictional case he is needed on. It is far easier to pretend he really is uncaring. Just as it is easier to pretend he hates his brother.
***
One day, they go for a walk along the beach. Sherlock’s hair tangles when Mycroft runs his fingers through it and his lips taste like salt when Mycroft kisses him. Sherlock pulls away, and faces into the wind and laughs. It is with jealous pride that Mycroft realises he is the only one to hear Sherlock laugh in quite that way, for no reason other than because he wants to laugh. It is with bitter sadness that he knows that the times he will hear that laugh are limited, and he knows that, when he is the sensible one, and has to return to work, and make sure Sherlock does the same, Sherlock will not laugh. And he wishes he would not have to wait the tortuous months before their next meeting, to hear that laugh again.