FIC: Fair Play to the Queen 1/1 (Sherlock BBC)
Title: Fair Play to the Queen
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, Mycroft
Spoilers: For Scandal in Belgravia
Word Count: 3000
Summary: A bit of a rewrite for the infamous sheet scene.
Warnings: Voyeurism. (I see you looking at the pairings. There is NO incest here.)
~~*~~
Finding Sherlock mostly naked wasn't quite what John would call a regular occurrence, although it was somewhat more common once the two of them started sharing a bed. Once John had persuaded him that pyjamas didn't need to be worn every night, anyway, and if his persuasion had involved a great deal of tongue and rhythmic motion, creaking beds and lovely little moans, well, it wasn't like Sherlock had complained about it.
Much.
Finding him mostly naked in Buckingham Palace, on the other hand, was enough of an oddity to shoot right to the top of his Sherlock scale of bizarre until it toppled the thing over and into the Thames, drowning all normalcies with it. He supposed it was lucky Sherlock had deigned to add a sheet to his current wardrobe, or lack thereof, and sitting on a sofa with his mostly naked roommate, giggling like children, was definitely going to make it onto his blog, somehow.
John managed to stifle his chuckles down enough to ask, finally, as though the question hadn't been in the forefront of his mind since a helicopter had nicked him from a crime scene, "What are we doing here, Sherlock, seriously, what?"
"I don't know," Sherlock replied, laughter still in his voice, and perhaps if John hadn't been looking around, he might have seen the slyness rise up his face. That he didn't hear it, John had no excuses. "I do know what we could be doing."
"What do you-oof!" John grunted, a perfectly reasonable reaction to being abruptly confronted with ten stone of gangly naked man wrapped in a sheet. The sheet was horribly tangled but it did make for a good handhold as John desperately tried to get a grip on Sherlock, who could be astonishingly eely for such a tall man.
In a perfect world, John would scold Sherlock for being so…so…well, he'd scold him anyway, push him back on his side of the sofa, and wait patiently to find out why they were at the bloody palace of all places.
John was having a hard time convincing himself that any world where Sherlock's tongue was sleek and warm in his mouth wasn't a perfect one. Soft lips against his, Sherlock's open mouth wet and sweet, tasting of morning tea, and the shoulders beneath John's hands were sliding into bareness, the sheet peeling away like the skin of a particularly exotic fruit.
He was already weakening, yielding, dimly listening to the softly encouraging sounds rising from Sherlock when John heard a throat discreetly cleared, followed by familiar, cool voice.
"That sofa is an antique worth thousands of pounds. If you two wouldn't mind controlling your baser impulses?"
Sherlock didn't raise his head and John swallowed hard, unable to move with one rangy and even closer to naked consulting detective pinning him against a sofa that apparently was worth more than the entire contents of John's banking account. He felt Sherlock's lips move against his neck, "If it's that old, then we're surely not the first to be shagging on it."
Before Mycroft even formed a proper response, John had gotten a foot on the rug and gained just enough leverage to topple Sherlock to the floor, sheet trailing behind him, "We are not shagging anywhere in Buckingham Palace, so get that right out of your head!"
Sherlock looked up at him with what could only be called a pout, his lower lip a quivering exercise in temptation, "I'm sure I could find a broom closet."
"And I could make arrangements for an actual bedroom but that is neither here nor there at the moment, so if you would please put your trousers on!" Mycroft snapped. He visibly composed himself, his expression sliding back into blandness. "Some things are better left to either security cameras or the imagination."
"I'm not interested, Mycroft--" Sherlock began at the same moment John perked up with, "Really? A bedroom?"
"I'd even make an allotment for maid service." Mycroft replied to John but raised an eyebrow at his brother, still sprawled on the floor with his sheet strategically placed. His bare toes curled in annoyance from where they poked out of the end.
John forced himself not to give Sherlock a pleading look. No. No, no, he would not force Sherlock to pander to his brother if he didn't want to, not even for the chance at getting off with Sherlock in Buckingham Palace. In a bedroom. With maid service. No, he really wasn't.
And really, he should have known he didn't need to. Sherlock clicked his tongue and sighed, leaning up on an elbow. "What do you want, then, brother, dear?"
"At the present moment, putting your trousers on would be sufficient. Surely conversation can wait until then?" He tucked his hands in his pockets and looked down his long nose at both of them. John thought he rather looked like a father sorely disappointed with his recalcitrant sons.
Sherlock promptly spoiled the illusion by sitting up and leaning against John's legs so that he could tip his head back into his lap. The long, pale line of his throat was blemished by a blurred reddish patch, from John's teeth, most likely. John's face felt scalding hot and his hands hovered uncertainly, trying to choose a course of action. Shoving Sherlock off of him would likely end poorly, rather like trying to shove a cat into a bathtub.
But just sitting here with Sherlock gazing up at him lustfully in front of his brother was not quite on either.
To his credit, Mycroft didn't seem entirely pleased by the course of this particular adventure, either. He made a disgusted sound in his throat and rolled his eyes heavenward as he said, "Honestly, Sherlock, if you wanted to put on a display, you could find a more appropriate venue."
To John's slowly growing horror, he felt warm fingertips sliding under the cuff of his trousers, seeking and finding the bare skin of his ankle. A ticklish little caress that echoed in Sherlock's eyes and John looked away sharply, tried to pull his foot loose. Only to find the true purpose of those fingertips as Sherlock's hand tightened around his ankle, holding him still.
"I find this venue to be perfectly adequate," Sherlock said slowly and from the corner of his eye, John watched him wet his lower lip, leaving it damp and shining in the low light. Jesus.
"Oh, certainly, then, don’t let me interrupt," Mycroft said bitingly and John blinked at him in shock as the other man settled on the sofa across from them, folding his hands across his middle as though relaxing at a garden tea party. His pale eyes regarded them dispassionately.
"Now, see here," John started, apprehensively. Sherlock had his hands on both John's ankles now, holding him still, and it was one thing to be passionately shagging Sherlock Holmes. It was quite another to shag Sherlock Holmes with his brother watching like it was a particularly amusing amateur play.
"We can't…just…" John trailed off and swallowed hard, flexing his hands slowly as he tried to find a spot to put them. No place helpful came to mind. Sherlock was mostly bare beneath him, his head pressing firmly in John's lap in a way that was starting to grow uncomfortable and he couldn't just settle them on the back of the sofa, no, he rather needed his hands close by to fend off anything untoward.
A delicate clearing of the throat snapped John's head back up to Mycroft, who waved an imperious hand towards them, "Do get on with it, Sherlock, I haven't all day to cater to your particular little whims."
"John," Sherlock's voice was practical a growl and John jerked, dropped startled eyes back down to the man currently occupying his lap. His pale eyes were narrowed, lips pinched into a thin line before he said, darkly, "Don't look at him."
"I was only-" John began, a bit weakly, and Sherlock twisted around to his knees. The sheet was clinging to his waist with little more than luck and suspended gravity and John cringed back into the sofa as Sherlock leaned into him, all flushed skin and heated eyes.
"I said, don't look at him," Sherlock said, the low tenor of his voice like a caress of its own and had John heard it anywhere else, he would have already been moaning. But not looking at Mycroft didn't mean John wasn't aware of him, pale eyes so like Sherlock's watching them impassively as Sherlock lowered his head to John's lap, rubbing his face against the hard bulge at the front of his denims where his head had so recently been pressing.
"Don't look, right," John mumbled breathlessly. "Don't look. Don't look…" He caught his eyes wandering even as he repeated it, his attention lost to where Sherlock was rubbing him through his trousers, tugging John's hips down a bit so that he was sprawled against the cushions. His thumb was a blissful sort of torture, dragging over the tightly confined length of his cock and then back up to press unerringly at the head.
John bit back a moan, breathing heavily, loudly, through his nose, as he forced himself to think what he could no longer say, don't look, don't look, don't. Don't. Don't look, Christ, Sherlock was biting him through the denim, his teeth a hard edge to push up against desperately. Don't look, Sherlock was tonguing the fabric, darkening it with spit and John could feel the heat of his breath against the cloth. Don't look, the tips of Sherlock's nimble fingers were at the flies, don't look, flicking open the top button and sliding the zip down. Don't, don't.
Like a tongue drawn to a sore tooth, John's narrowed gaze flicked over to Mycroft at the precise moment Sherlock drew him free of his pants, his gorgeous mouth a slick, hot wealth of loveliness drawing him in as John met Mycroft's eyes with his own.
Mycroft hadn't so much as shifted in his seat, legs crossed in a mockery of casualness, his hands still clasped lightly. His eyes were cool, serene, as though his brother wasn't on his knees in one of the many parlours of Buckingham Palace, sucking cock with the enthusiasm of a gutter rentboy. One elegant eyebrow rose as John stared helplessly, and John didn’t think the mocking in it was his imagination at all.
Teeth grazed him, dragging his attention back to where it belonged and perversely, John let a loud moan fall free, echoing softly around him as he slid his hands into the soft darkness of Sherlock's hair. Something about the cool contempt he could see in Mycroft's eyes prickled at him, as irritating as a gnat buzzing in his ear. As though this entire act was a mildly amusingly little burlesque show put on for his Majesty.
Probably it was.
John moaned again and if it was more show than heartfelt, it certainly didn't seem that way. Certainly not to Sherlock, his mouth was always a glory, as fantastic closed around him as it was at spouting deductions but the wet, hot clasp of it around him felt different of a sudden, weirdly, wildly better, perfect suction coupled with the sweet pressure at the head as Sherlock swallowed against him.
"Fuck," John gasped, his hands tightening convulsively in Sherlock's hair. He made a soft, pleased sound and the vibration carried from his throat right up John's prick and felt like it settled into his balls, followed promptly by Sherlock's hand, cupping him with warm familiarity. Everything about Sherlock, even sex, revolved around technique and if he wanted to coax John into coming in front of his brother, he was damn well close at the moment.
"Oh, oh, Christ," John heaved it out a breathy, desperate moan as Sherlock's fingers slipped further back, teasing slightly against his arse. Not nearly slippery enough to push inside, he only circled gently, mimicking John's sudden, urgent jerk of his hips up into the slickness of Sherlock's eager mouth, riding along as John twitched and juddered between him and the sofa, coming so hard he felt it ache in his temples, the hard clench of his eyes as red light welled behind them and little helpless cries dropped from his lips like emphatic praise.
John collapsed back into the sofa, uncomfortably clammy inside his clothes and his legs still sprawled apart. He was sticky at the crotch, weak at the knees, and hadn't felt so good in longer than he cared to remember. Sherlock released him with a last, gentle kiss, nuzzling softly at his belly and John was so lost in his post-orgasmic daze that the wrongness of a hand petting through his sweaty hair didn't register for far too a long moment.
It was the words that made him freeze, stiffening as long fingers carded gently through his short hair, finely manicured nails scratching lightly at his scalp, "Hm, yes, you do seem to have resolved a few of your trust issues, haven't you, Doctor Watson."
"Mycroft," Sherlock's tone was a knife-blade warning, his eyes locked over John's shoulder where John hadn't dared to look.
That hand withdrew instantly, fine shoes clicking softly as Mycroft walked back into John's line of vision. His expression had changed subtly, cool amusement visible as he tucked his hands back into his pockets fearlessly. John checked, almost involuntarily, and he didn't seem aroused, not an iota of interest.
"You, on the other hand, haven't changed a bit, brother mine," Mycroft shook his head in a charade of sadness, "Always so possessive of your toys." He clicked his tongue lightly and shook his head, tsking his brother's selfishness as though he'd stolen all the biscuits at tea before he strode back towards the hallway.
"I'll just give you a moment, shall I?" Mycroft called softly over his shoulder. "Sorry as I am to see that my previous offer is now redundant, perhaps I can think of something else to…pique your interest. Five minutes until tea."
With that, he walked out, humming tonelessly under his breath.
John watched him, blinking rather too much, until Sherlock pinched the inside of his thigh hard enough for John to yelp. Still on his knees, Sherlock was glaring at him with simmering temper shining so brilliantly, it was a wonder John wasn't blinded by it.
"Oh, stop, it's not like that at all," John complained, rubbing at his leg. There was a bruise to find in the morning. "I was just wondering if you two really are aliens of some sort, I…ouch! Stop that!" He slapped Sherlock's hand away and pulled up his trousers for good measure. "I honestly think that was the strangest moment of my life."
"You're young yet, John, give me time," Sherlock turned away to inspect the pile of clothing on the small table, seemingly oblivious to John's sudden stare and hopefully, hopefully oblivious to the way his cock twitched eagerly at the thought.
With an inward groan, John set about composing himself even as he wondered dismally how he was supposed to sit here and drink tea with Mycroft Bloody Holmes after…after whatever the hell that was. Wondering what was going on behind those cool eyes, speculating at every quirk of his mouth, every twitch of his eyebrows.
Glancing at Sherlock, who had dropped his sheet and was now bare-arsed as he stepped into a pair of silk pants, did not help in the least. John settled onto the sofa as far away from the opposite side as he could, thanked Christ that he had short hair and resolutely did not think about the faint pink swollenness to Sherlock's lower lip, certainly didn't remember the feel of Mycroft's hand imperiously stroking his head like a generous reward for a well-behaved pet.
One thing he did know for certain, he'd changed his mind about mentioning this in his blog.
Ever.
Sherlock promptly fastened the last button just as John heard the squeak of a teacart wheel around the corner. With an effort, John schooled his expression to blandness, focused on the detachment of the military bearing he'd worn for years and instead considered just what sort of tea they served at the palace.
Distantly, though, he thought it was quite a shame that they wouldn't get to use one of those bedrooms after all. Sherlock would probably look like a prince himself against the sheets of an antique four-poster bed and fucking sweet, soft noises out of him with the portraits of kings looking down on them was an experience John was sad to be missing out on.
A finely-shod foot nudged against his own more practical boots and John slanted a glance at Sherlock, where he found a gaze as hot as his brother's was cool resting on him. Volcanic heat burned out of Sherlock's eyes, settling low in John's belly and he swallowed, glancing back towards the murmuring sound of approaching voices.
"I've got time," John murmured, low, just as Mycroft returned, speaking quietly to a man John hadn't yet met.
"Good," Sherlock replied, silkily, and his expression shifted to one that wouldn't melt a single pat of butter as he turned that exquisite attention on his brother. "Now, tell me, Mycroft, exactly why are we here?"
John didn't hear a word of his reply. He shook hands and made the appropriate sounds of greeting, accepted his cup of tea with gratitude. John listened and questioned, glanced at photographs and watched Sherlock's interest pique, and did not, not even once, look at Mycroft.
-finis
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, Mycroft
Spoilers: For Scandal in Belgravia
Word Count: 3000
Summary: A bit of a rewrite for the infamous sheet scene.
Warnings: Voyeurism. (I see you looking at the pairings. There is NO incest here.)
~~*~~
Finding Sherlock mostly naked wasn't quite what John would call a regular occurrence, although it was somewhat more common once the two of them started sharing a bed. Once John had persuaded him that pyjamas didn't need to be worn every night, anyway, and if his persuasion had involved a great deal of tongue and rhythmic motion, creaking beds and lovely little moans, well, it wasn't like Sherlock had complained about it.
Much.
Finding him mostly naked in Buckingham Palace, on the other hand, was enough of an oddity to shoot right to the top of his Sherlock scale of bizarre until it toppled the thing over and into the Thames, drowning all normalcies with it. He supposed it was lucky Sherlock had deigned to add a sheet to his current wardrobe, or lack thereof, and sitting on a sofa with his mostly naked roommate, giggling like children, was definitely going to make it onto his blog, somehow.
John managed to stifle his chuckles down enough to ask, finally, as though the question hadn't been in the forefront of his mind since a helicopter had nicked him from a crime scene, "What are we doing here, Sherlock, seriously, what?"
"I don't know," Sherlock replied, laughter still in his voice, and perhaps if John hadn't been looking around, he might have seen the slyness rise up his face. That he didn't hear it, John had no excuses. "I do know what we could be doing."
"What do you-oof!" John grunted, a perfectly reasonable reaction to being abruptly confronted with ten stone of gangly naked man wrapped in a sheet. The sheet was horribly tangled but it did make for a good handhold as John desperately tried to get a grip on Sherlock, who could be astonishingly eely for such a tall man.
In a perfect world, John would scold Sherlock for being so…so…well, he'd scold him anyway, push him back on his side of the sofa, and wait patiently to find out why they were at the bloody palace of all places.
John was having a hard time convincing himself that any world where Sherlock's tongue was sleek and warm in his mouth wasn't a perfect one. Soft lips against his, Sherlock's open mouth wet and sweet, tasting of morning tea, and the shoulders beneath John's hands were sliding into bareness, the sheet peeling away like the skin of a particularly exotic fruit.
He was already weakening, yielding, dimly listening to the softly encouraging sounds rising from Sherlock when John heard a throat discreetly cleared, followed by familiar, cool voice.
"That sofa is an antique worth thousands of pounds. If you two wouldn't mind controlling your baser impulses?"
Sherlock didn't raise his head and John swallowed hard, unable to move with one rangy and even closer to naked consulting detective pinning him against a sofa that apparently was worth more than the entire contents of John's banking account. He felt Sherlock's lips move against his neck, "If it's that old, then we're surely not the first to be shagging on it."
Before Mycroft even formed a proper response, John had gotten a foot on the rug and gained just enough leverage to topple Sherlock to the floor, sheet trailing behind him, "We are not shagging anywhere in Buckingham Palace, so get that right out of your head!"
Sherlock looked up at him with what could only be called a pout, his lower lip a quivering exercise in temptation, "I'm sure I could find a broom closet."
"And I could make arrangements for an actual bedroom but that is neither here nor there at the moment, so if you would please put your trousers on!" Mycroft snapped. He visibly composed himself, his expression sliding back into blandness. "Some things are better left to either security cameras or the imagination."
"I'm not interested, Mycroft--" Sherlock began at the same moment John perked up with, "Really? A bedroom?"
"I'd even make an allotment for maid service." Mycroft replied to John but raised an eyebrow at his brother, still sprawled on the floor with his sheet strategically placed. His bare toes curled in annoyance from where they poked out of the end.
John forced himself not to give Sherlock a pleading look. No. No, no, he would not force Sherlock to pander to his brother if he didn't want to, not even for the chance at getting off with Sherlock in Buckingham Palace. In a bedroom. With maid service. No, he really wasn't.
And really, he should have known he didn't need to. Sherlock clicked his tongue and sighed, leaning up on an elbow. "What do you want, then, brother, dear?"
"At the present moment, putting your trousers on would be sufficient. Surely conversation can wait until then?" He tucked his hands in his pockets and looked down his long nose at both of them. John thought he rather looked like a father sorely disappointed with his recalcitrant sons.
Sherlock promptly spoiled the illusion by sitting up and leaning against John's legs so that he could tip his head back into his lap. The long, pale line of his throat was blemished by a blurred reddish patch, from John's teeth, most likely. John's face felt scalding hot and his hands hovered uncertainly, trying to choose a course of action. Shoving Sherlock off of him would likely end poorly, rather like trying to shove a cat into a bathtub.
But just sitting here with Sherlock gazing up at him lustfully in front of his brother was not quite on either.
To his credit, Mycroft didn't seem entirely pleased by the course of this particular adventure, either. He made a disgusted sound in his throat and rolled his eyes heavenward as he said, "Honestly, Sherlock, if you wanted to put on a display, you could find a more appropriate venue."
To John's slowly growing horror, he felt warm fingertips sliding under the cuff of his trousers, seeking and finding the bare skin of his ankle. A ticklish little caress that echoed in Sherlock's eyes and John looked away sharply, tried to pull his foot loose. Only to find the true purpose of those fingertips as Sherlock's hand tightened around his ankle, holding him still.
"I find this venue to be perfectly adequate," Sherlock said slowly and from the corner of his eye, John watched him wet his lower lip, leaving it damp and shining in the low light. Jesus.
"Oh, certainly, then, don’t let me interrupt," Mycroft said bitingly and John blinked at him in shock as the other man settled on the sofa across from them, folding his hands across his middle as though relaxing at a garden tea party. His pale eyes regarded them dispassionately.
"Now, see here," John started, apprehensively. Sherlock had his hands on both John's ankles now, holding him still, and it was one thing to be passionately shagging Sherlock Holmes. It was quite another to shag Sherlock Holmes with his brother watching like it was a particularly amusing amateur play.
"We can't…just…" John trailed off and swallowed hard, flexing his hands slowly as he tried to find a spot to put them. No place helpful came to mind. Sherlock was mostly bare beneath him, his head pressing firmly in John's lap in a way that was starting to grow uncomfortable and he couldn't just settle them on the back of the sofa, no, he rather needed his hands close by to fend off anything untoward.
A delicate clearing of the throat snapped John's head back up to Mycroft, who waved an imperious hand towards them, "Do get on with it, Sherlock, I haven't all day to cater to your particular little whims."
"John," Sherlock's voice was practical a growl and John jerked, dropped startled eyes back down to the man currently occupying his lap. His pale eyes were narrowed, lips pinched into a thin line before he said, darkly, "Don't look at him."
"I was only-" John began, a bit weakly, and Sherlock twisted around to his knees. The sheet was clinging to his waist with little more than luck and suspended gravity and John cringed back into the sofa as Sherlock leaned into him, all flushed skin and heated eyes.
"I said, don't look at him," Sherlock said, the low tenor of his voice like a caress of its own and had John heard it anywhere else, he would have already been moaning. But not looking at Mycroft didn't mean John wasn't aware of him, pale eyes so like Sherlock's watching them impassively as Sherlock lowered his head to John's lap, rubbing his face against the hard bulge at the front of his denims where his head had so recently been pressing.
"Don't look, right," John mumbled breathlessly. "Don't look. Don't look…" He caught his eyes wandering even as he repeated it, his attention lost to where Sherlock was rubbing him through his trousers, tugging John's hips down a bit so that he was sprawled against the cushions. His thumb was a blissful sort of torture, dragging over the tightly confined length of his cock and then back up to press unerringly at the head.
John bit back a moan, breathing heavily, loudly, through his nose, as he forced himself to think what he could no longer say, don't look, don't look, don't. Don't. Don't look, Christ, Sherlock was biting him through the denim, his teeth a hard edge to push up against desperately. Don't look, Sherlock was tonguing the fabric, darkening it with spit and John could feel the heat of his breath against the cloth. Don't look, the tips of Sherlock's nimble fingers were at the flies, don't look, flicking open the top button and sliding the zip down. Don't, don't.
Like a tongue drawn to a sore tooth, John's narrowed gaze flicked over to Mycroft at the precise moment Sherlock drew him free of his pants, his gorgeous mouth a slick, hot wealth of loveliness drawing him in as John met Mycroft's eyes with his own.
Mycroft hadn't so much as shifted in his seat, legs crossed in a mockery of casualness, his hands still clasped lightly. His eyes were cool, serene, as though his brother wasn't on his knees in one of the many parlours of Buckingham Palace, sucking cock with the enthusiasm of a gutter rentboy. One elegant eyebrow rose as John stared helplessly, and John didn’t think the mocking in it was his imagination at all.
Teeth grazed him, dragging his attention back to where it belonged and perversely, John let a loud moan fall free, echoing softly around him as he slid his hands into the soft darkness of Sherlock's hair. Something about the cool contempt he could see in Mycroft's eyes prickled at him, as irritating as a gnat buzzing in his ear. As though this entire act was a mildly amusingly little burlesque show put on for his Majesty.
Probably it was.
John moaned again and if it was more show than heartfelt, it certainly didn't seem that way. Certainly not to Sherlock, his mouth was always a glory, as fantastic closed around him as it was at spouting deductions but the wet, hot clasp of it around him felt different of a sudden, weirdly, wildly better, perfect suction coupled with the sweet pressure at the head as Sherlock swallowed against him.
"Fuck," John gasped, his hands tightening convulsively in Sherlock's hair. He made a soft, pleased sound and the vibration carried from his throat right up John's prick and felt like it settled into his balls, followed promptly by Sherlock's hand, cupping him with warm familiarity. Everything about Sherlock, even sex, revolved around technique and if he wanted to coax John into coming in front of his brother, he was damn well close at the moment.
"Oh, oh, Christ," John heaved it out a breathy, desperate moan as Sherlock's fingers slipped further back, teasing slightly against his arse. Not nearly slippery enough to push inside, he only circled gently, mimicking John's sudden, urgent jerk of his hips up into the slickness of Sherlock's eager mouth, riding along as John twitched and juddered between him and the sofa, coming so hard he felt it ache in his temples, the hard clench of his eyes as red light welled behind them and little helpless cries dropped from his lips like emphatic praise.
John collapsed back into the sofa, uncomfortably clammy inside his clothes and his legs still sprawled apart. He was sticky at the crotch, weak at the knees, and hadn't felt so good in longer than he cared to remember. Sherlock released him with a last, gentle kiss, nuzzling softly at his belly and John was so lost in his post-orgasmic daze that the wrongness of a hand petting through his sweaty hair didn't register for far too a long moment.
It was the words that made him freeze, stiffening as long fingers carded gently through his short hair, finely manicured nails scratching lightly at his scalp, "Hm, yes, you do seem to have resolved a few of your trust issues, haven't you, Doctor Watson."
"Mycroft," Sherlock's tone was a knife-blade warning, his eyes locked over John's shoulder where John hadn't dared to look.
That hand withdrew instantly, fine shoes clicking softly as Mycroft walked back into John's line of vision. His expression had changed subtly, cool amusement visible as he tucked his hands back into his pockets fearlessly. John checked, almost involuntarily, and he didn't seem aroused, not an iota of interest.
"You, on the other hand, haven't changed a bit, brother mine," Mycroft shook his head in a charade of sadness, "Always so possessive of your toys." He clicked his tongue lightly and shook his head, tsking his brother's selfishness as though he'd stolen all the biscuits at tea before he strode back towards the hallway.
"I'll just give you a moment, shall I?" Mycroft called softly over his shoulder. "Sorry as I am to see that my previous offer is now redundant, perhaps I can think of something else to…pique your interest. Five minutes until tea."
With that, he walked out, humming tonelessly under his breath.
John watched him, blinking rather too much, until Sherlock pinched the inside of his thigh hard enough for John to yelp. Still on his knees, Sherlock was glaring at him with simmering temper shining so brilliantly, it was a wonder John wasn't blinded by it.
"Oh, stop, it's not like that at all," John complained, rubbing at his leg. There was a bruise to find in the morning. "I was just wondering if you two really are aliens of some sort, I…ouch! Stop that!" He slapped Sherlock's hand away and pulled up his trousers for good measure. "I honestly think that was the strangest moment of my life."
"You're young yet, John, give me time," Sherlock turned away to inspect the pile of clothing on the small table, seemingly oblivious to John's sudden stare and hopefully, hopefully oblivious to the way his cock twitched eagerly at the thought.
With an inward groan, John set about composing himself even as he wondered dismally how he was supposed to sit here and drink tea with Mycroft Bloody Holmes after…after whatever the hell that was. Wondering what was going on behind those cool eyes, speculating at every quirk of his mouth, every twitch of his eyebrows.
Glancing at Sherlock, who had dropped his sheet and was now bare-arsed as he stepped into a pair of silk pants, did not help in the least. John settled onto the sofa as far away from the opposite side as he could, thanked Christ that he had short hair and resolutely did not think about the faint pink swollenness to Sherlock's lower lip, certainly didn't remember the feel of Mycroft's hand imperiously stroking his head like a generous reward for a well-behaved pet.
One thing he did know for certain, he'd changed his mind about mentioning this in his blog.
Ever.
Sherlock promptly fastened the last button just as John heard the squeak of a teacart wheel around the corner. With an effort, John schooled his expression to blandness, focused on the detachment of the military bearing he'd worn for years and instead considered just what sort of tea they served at the palace.
Distantly, though, he thought it was quite a shame that they wouldn't get to use one of those bedrooms after all. Sherlock would probably look like a prince himself against the sheets of an antique four-poster bed and fucking sweet, soft noises out of him with the portraits of kings looking down on them was an experience John was sad to be missing out on.
A finely-shod foot nudged against his own more practical boots and John slanted a glance at Sherlock, where he found a gaze as hot as his brother's was cool resting on him. Volcanic heat burned out of Sherlock's eyes, settling low in John's belly and he swallowed, glancing back towards the murmuring sound of approaching voices.
"I've got time," John murmured, low, just as Mycroft returned, speaking quietly to a man John hadn't yet met.
"Good," Sherlock replied, silkily, and his expression shifted to one that wouldn't melt a single pat of butter as he turned that exquisite attention on his brother. "Now, tell me, Mycroft, exactly why are we here?"
John didn't hear a word of his reply. He shook hands and made the appropriate sounds of greeting, accepted his cup of tea with gratitude. John listened and questioned, glanced at photographs and watched Sherlock's interest pique, and did not, not even once, look at Mycroft.
-finis