Sherlock Fic: The Wisdom of Cats
Title: Wisdom of Cats (The Complementary Remix)
Pairing: Sherlock/Mycroft
Rating: R
Note: Written as part of Remix Madness from jain’s fic A Quiet Evening In
Warning/Content advisory: consensual adult incest, mild pet play (humans pretending to be animals)
Summary: Sherlock could stop any time. He didn't need what Mycroft provided on their evenings together. He could break the script if he wanted. He simply chose not to.
Sherlock had managed to stay away for five months, once. On the evening he'd returned, he'd revelled in the careful, deferential way Mycroft touched him, as if he were afraid Sherlock might get up at any moment and stalk off into the next room without even a look of disdain. Sherlock clung to the memory as evidence that Mycroft needed these encounters much more than Sherlock himself.
After all, Sherlock had always been an independent creature. If he lay now with his head in Mycroft's lap, permitting his head to be scratched and his belly stroked, it was only because he chose to allow himself this indulgence. He surely wasn't dependent on Mycroft for the peace he received from these stolen evenings, relinquishing the burden of his usually whirring mind and taking up the identity of a pet: aloof, capricious, yes, but simple in his priorities.
Mycroft turned a page of his novel, and Sherlock didn't attempt to deduce whether he'd actually been reading or not. Hemingway had written once that, "A cat has absolute emotional honesty: human beings, for one reason or another, may hide their feelings, but a cat does not." Mycroft never read Hemingway, but Sherlock couldn’t deny the freedom he felt on these rare evenings. Even when Sherlock donned one of his disguises on a case, he never allowed himself to disappear: to turn off the internal mechanism that recorded and analysed data inputs, to move beyond the limits of the essential social conventions to which he held himself. Here, Sherlock had no need to excuse his behaviour, no need to conform.
Mycroft's hand shifted to rub behind Sherlock's ear. Sherlock stretched languidly, allowing his limbs to rest at unlikely angles across the length of the couch. A rumble welled up in his throat, reasonable approximation of a purr. Mycroft moved his hand down to rub his fingers down the length of Sherlock's throat, and when he shifted slightly, Sherlock could feel Mycroft's arousal.
Soon, they'd play. Soon, Sherlock would allow himself the release for which he kept returning. He'd savour the expression of stoic pleasure that Mycroft wore as Sherlock licked him relentlessly. He'd abandon himself to the desperation of begging wordlessly for his master's attention, and then the animal joy of being attended to by Mycroft, as was his due. He'd erase any urge to break the spell: to call out his brother's name as he reached completion, to linger curled against him on the couch, to part with an acknowledgment beyond the formal handshake he both detested and insisted on.
No, he wouldn't ruin the tacit understanding that made this room a safe haven for them both. After all, Mycroft needed this very badly, and Sherlock would be cruel to deprive him.
Sherlock rubbed his cheek against Mycroft's inseam, almost as if by accident, and allowed himself not to analyze the subtle intake of breath he received in return. Soon. Sherlock settled, pushing his curly head back into Mycroft's hand to encourage further petting. They had time, still.
For now, Sherlock allowed himself to bask in the simplicity of this: a man and his pet, enjoying a quiet evening in.
Pairing: Sherlock/Mycroft
Rating: R
Note: Written as part of Remix Madness from jain’s fic A Quiet Evening In
Warning/Content advisory: consensual adult incest, mild pet play (humans pretending to be animals)
Summary: Sherlock could stop any time. He didn't need what Mycroft provided on their evenings together. He could break the script if he wanted. He simply chose not to.
Sherlock had managed to stay away for five months, once. On the evening he'd returned, he'd revelled in the careful, deferential way Mycroft touched him, as if he were afraid Sherlock might get up at any moment and stalk off into the next room without even a look of disdain. Sherlock clung to the memory as evidence that Mycroft needed these encounters much more than Sherlock himself.
After all, Sherlock had always been an independent creature. If he lay now with his head in Mycroft's lap, permitting his head to be scratched and his belly stroked, it was only because he chose to allow himself this indulgence. He surely wasn't dependent on Mycroft for the peace he received from these stolen evenings, relinquishing the burden of his usually whirring mind and taking up the identity of a pet: aloof, capricious, yes, but simple in his priorities.
Mycroft turned a page of his novel, and Sherlock didn't attempt to deduce whether he'd actually been reading or not. Hemingway had written once that, "A cat has absolute emotional honesty: human beings, for one reason or another, may hide their feelings, but a cat does not." Mycroft never read Hemingway, but Sherlock couldn’t deny the freedom he felt on these rare evenings. Even when Sherlock donned one of his disguises on a case, he never allowed himself to disappear: to turn off the internal mechanism that recorded and analysed data inputs, to move beyond the limits of the essential social conventions to which he held himself. Here, Sherlock had no need to excuse his behaviour, no need to conform.
Mycroft's hand shifted to rub behind Sherlock's ear. Sherlock stretched languidly, allowing his limbs to rest at unlikely angles across the length of the couch. A rumble welled up in his throat, reasonable approximation of a purr. Mycroft moved his hand down to rub his fingers down the length of Sherlock's throat, and when he shifted slightly, Sherlock could feel Mycroft's arousal.
Soon, they'd play. Soon, Sherlock would allow himself the release for which he kept returning. He'd savour the expression of stoic pleasure that Mycroft wore as Sherlock licked him relentlessly. He'd abandon himself to the desperation of begging wordlessly for his master's attention, and then the animal joy of being attended to by Mycroft, as was his due. He'd erase any urge to break the spell: to call out his brother's name as he reached completion, to linger curled against him on the couch, to part with an acknowledgment beyond the formal handshake he both detested and insisted on.
No, he wouldn't ruin the tacit understanding that made this room a safe haven for them both. After all, Mycroft needed this very badly, and Sherlock would be cruel to deprive him.
Sherlock rubbed his cheek against Mycroft's inseam, almost as if by accident, and allowed himself not to analyze the subtle intake of breath he received in return. Soon. Sherlock settled, pushing his curly head back into Mycroft's hand to encourage further petting. They had time, still.
For now, Sherlock allowed himself to bask in the simplicity of this: a man and his pet, enjoying a quiet evening in.