Fic: Between a Tornado and a Hurricane.
Title: Between a Tornado and a Hurricane.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Mycroft/Fem!John/Sherlock.
Warnings: PWP, Incest, genderswitch, rimming, double penetration, wrestling, bickering and awkwardness. Otherwise completely consensual.
Word count 7250
Summary: Sherlock thinks he's dating Joan Watson. Mycroft knows he is. Joan is the only one who thinks this might be a potential problem.
A/N: So I thought I was doing this for a prompt, but turns out I screwed up and wrote the wrong guy genderswitched. Also, this hasn't been brit-picked. If you see an error, please tell me.
Once, back in sixth form, Joan's best friend had solemnly warned her, "Never date two blokes at once."
She'd said it with the same sort of wide-eyed, innocent reverence that is usually reserved for truths like, eating uncooked rice will kill you and the ever popular gum takes seven years to digest. "Never date two blokes at once, no matter how hush-hush you keep it, they will find out, and then you'll pay."
Joan remembered her glum reply. "I really don't think that will be a problem, Deidre."
"You never know."
"Yeah, I think I do."
Dating one bloke seemed to be beyond her. Her mates considered her one of the boys, and ordinarily that was okay and all, but the winter formal was coming up and right now it was a bit depressing. Ah well, she told herself, it saved her the price of a dress.
And really, what sort of bloke was into frumpy, nerdy tomboys, who were more likely to be wearing mud than make-up? Not bloody many.
Two at a time? Joan snorted. Oh yeah, because she was beating them off with a stick.
Sixteen years later Joan really was beating them off with a stick. Them being Mycroft and Sherlock. Or to be more accurate, she was beating Sherlock off, because Mycroft had strategically ducked behind a chair and was waiting for her back to be turned before making his move.
And to be even more accurate, the "stick" was an umbrella. An oddly solid feeling umbrella. It was no wonder Mycroft could use it like a cane. Was it made of lead?
"Do be careful with that, my sweet," Mycroft said, worry tingeing his normally implacable voice.
"Worried I might break it?" Joan panted. She was trying, goddamn it, not to smile, but as awfully stupid as this impromptu wrestling match was, she had to admit it had an element of fun.
"Worried you might accidentally kill my brother! There's a gun in there!" Mycroft winced.
Joan dropped the umbrella like it was on fire. "Holy --!" She glared. "You could have sa--."
Sherlock took the moment of distraction to tackle her. His leg swept around hers, his arm found its way around her waist and somehow she ended up being laid gently on the floor in the middle of the sitting room. Sherlock immediately straddled her and sat quite triumphantly down on her hips.
"Talk!" he ordered. "None of this 'just working late at the clinic' lies either."
Joan pressed her lips together, then conceded defeat. "Okay, I admit it," she said.
"How long have you been dating him?"
"Sherlock," groaned Mycroft, "Don't be such a child."
"Six weeks," said Joan. "Not that it should matter. I'm an adult. I can date who I choose."
"Of course you can," said Sherlock. "Just not him."
"Why not?" both Joan and Mycroft said at the same time.
Sherlock's lips curled in a cartoonish way as he fought for something that approached reason. "Because he's Mycroft," he finally managed. "And I don't approve."
"God forbid you not approve," said Joan, grouchily. "I mean, I get it, you detest him because he's your brother and used to hide your toys when you were six - or whatever, I don't want to know!" Joan quickly amended before they both went off about her being dreadfully wrong. "But I don't see where you think your quarrel with him means that I can't go out to an occasional meal with whom I like. I mean, it's not like you and I are dating."
Sherlock stared at her stunned. Then to her utter amazement, his face turned slightly pink.
Joan stared. Her heart skipped a beat. "You thought we were dating?" she said.
"We go out to restaurants," said Sherlock. "We go to crime scenes. We viewed that autopsy together." He said that like it was the most romantic thing he could think of. "How could you not think we were dating?"
Christ, thought Joan. Christ. Christ. Christ and Goddamn it. Thing was, she'd been crushing on Sherlock since the day she'd met him. Had he bothered to mention anything six weeks ago, she'd have been to the moon. But now? Awkward.
And, oh God, the irony. She'd hit on Mycroft as a distraction. She hadn't expected him to actually say "yes". But he did, and whoo boy, dating Mycroft was a bit like dating the eye of a hurricane. All calm in the middle, but take two steps in the wrong direction….
And now Sherlock was saying he thought he was dating her, too. And Mycroft wasn't exactly the type to let go. And she was in the middle of a proper muddle.
Joan remembered Deirdre's words floating back from the past. Suddenly she felt like an utter heel.
"I thought we were friends," she said, her voice high and ghostly. "Those were friend activities."
"We are friends," said Sherlock. "Friends who … are very close. Very close." He was looking around the room now, as though he'd grown bored of looking at her already, but Joan recognized it as chagrin.
Joan felt suddenly put out. This was not her fault. "What happened to 'I'm sorry, terribly flattered for the interest, but best you put any romantic thoughts out of your silly little head.'"
"I did not say that," said Sherlock quite indignant. "I never said anything remotely like that."
"Oh, you have to be kidding me," said Joan. "How exactly was I supposed to have taken 'I'm married to my job'?"
"Well, yes, I said that," Sherlock conceded. "But that doesn't mean I didn't want you. I just didn't want you to … expect … too much." He then glowered, realizing that he wasn't making a very good case for himself.
"So much fuss," said Mycroft, mildly. Joan turned her head, suddenly remembering he was in the room. Mycroft had reclaimed his umbrella and settled comfortably down in Sherlock's favorite chair. He gazed down at her fondly and then over at Sherlock with a smug smirk. "Sherlock, you never were any good with women. You can't expect her to think that your utterly chaste attempts at intimacy should be construed as wooing."
"I really didn't think you were into me that way," agreed Joan. "I mean, Christ. I'm not a mind-reader."
"Well, forgive me for not being more seductive. I figured it would be obvious. And even if it wasn't to Joan, it should very well have been to you!" Sherlock glared at his brother.
"Well, of course, it was." Mycroft examined his nails.
Joan turned her head back and forth. "It was?" And now she was put out with Mycroft, as well. She crossed her arms over her chest. "Why didn't you tell me that Sherlock was interested in me?" she asked.
Mycroft widened his eyes. "Because, my dear, I wanted you. You are a very lovely woman. Intelligent, capable, creative, brave. Grounded. Why should I defer to Sherlock? He hesitated, he lost."
"I did not-"
"And besides, my dear," said Mycroft to her. "You are very attracted to me as well. I noticed it from the moment we first met. You thought I was devastatingly handsome. That's not the usual reaction I get from those I kidnap. I was most delightfully flattered."
Joan groaned and put her hand over her face. She might not be a mind reader, but it could very well be that Mycroft was. He was right, of course. The first time she'd met him, in that smelly underground basement, her first thought hadn't been who the hell is this? or what the hell does he want?. It had been wow, followed shortly by good god, I didn't just get the hots for him, what the hell is wrong with me?
She hadn't breathed a word of it to anyone, ever, and she thought she'd been careful with her expression at the time. How had he figured it out? It wasn't until after she'd learned who he was and she'd met him twice more on friendly terms that her go-for-broke, why-the-hell-not personality led her to ask him out.
What was she to do? She had fallen for Mycroft's smooth manners and handsome face. But she'd also fallen for Sherlock's energy and enthusiasm. And his curls. Oh god, the curls. The eyes, too. But then there was Mycroft's smile, the warmth of his hands. His way of knowing just how far to push to make her come like a freight train. But then there was Sherlock's infectious excitement that made even the most dreadfully unpleasant adventures seem like good times.
And their intelligence - both of them. And the danger -- never a dull moment with either of them. And their voices - which to choose? Sherlock's resonant baratone, or Mycroft's melodious tenor?
Oh god. She wanted them both. She was a greedy cad.
She turned bright red as she realized they were both staring at her with an intentness that Sherlock usually reserved for corpses and Mycroft … well okay, Mycroft's regard was completely normal.
"There is a possible solution to this dilemma," said Mycroft softly.
"A competition?" asked Sherlock.
"Don't be daft, that will make her hate both of us. I was thinking more of cooperation."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Oh?" Then he nodded. "Ah, yes. No." The word was final.
"Suit yourself, but you'd be cutting off your nose," said Mycroft mildly.
"Hello," said Joan, tightening her arms over her chest until her breasts felt painfully squashed. "Hey boys, I'm right here. I can hear you." Suddenly, she was thoroughly tired of Sherlock's weight on her. She bucked her hips up. "Get off," she said.
Almost to her surprise Sherlock did. He stood up and pondered. One long finger touched his chin. "Nonsense, I could -"
"No, you couldn't," said Mycroft. "Not for longer than a week."
"But then -"
"I'd still win," said Mycroft. "I'm simply more socially adept than you." Then Mycroft pouted. "Oh, don't look like that. I'm really being generous here. Sherlock, she wants us both. I'm amenable."
Suddenly Joan realized what Mycroft was proposing. "Wait a second. Wait - wait, a timeshare? I don't think I can handle-" Can I date two people at once? It seemed wrong. And yet… oh god help her. There was a sudden warmth in her thighs and a sweet-painful tingling in her lower belly. The idea of being able to touch Sherlock while not giving up Mycroft. God help her, it was tempting.
"It'll be fine," reassured Mycroft. "Despite your diminutive size, you are a very sturdy woman. I'm quite convinced you can handle both our attentions." As though the problem were endurance - though, there was that, too.
No, no. The problem was more fundamental than that. Deirdre was right. Someone was going to end up hurt.
"Argh. It's not that simple. Infidelity is- is --"
"Exciting?" supplied Mycroft.
"Wrong." She sat up and covered her hot face with her hands. Trust a Holmes to make the most basic relationship rules seem trivial and unimportant.
To her surprise it was Sherlock who spoke up. "Oh, don't be such a sheep. Monogamy is an unnatural construct, created by the Church as a method of social control over the masses. So long as all parties are accepting there is no reason why you can't have two men. At once even."
Mycroft lifted a brow. "Yes, indeed."
"Wait," said Joan. "Did we just move from a timeshare model to a double-teaming one?"
"She picks up quite quickly," said Mycroft.
"Of course she did," scoffed Sherlock. "I just said it explicitly."
"Does this mean you accept?"
Joan drew back her head when she realized Mycroft was asking Sherlock, not her. The hell.
"Tentatively," said Sherlock. "But only so that I can get a better idea of my competition. I will woo her back from you."
"And I agree because then perhaps you'll understand how outclassed you are." Mycroft gave a smug smile. "Though I do encourage you to watch and learn."
It was then that a little voice in Joan's head told her now was the time to flee. One on one, she held her own against either of them. But both them together? Their need to compete seemed to trump anything that resembled good sense. She wasn't sure she wanted to be the rope in a fraternal tug-of-war. It sounded potentially bruising.
Joan picked herself up off the floor, brushed herself off, and casually moved to the edge of their peripheral vision. Now to quietly slip out the door for a nice refreshing walk. She could come back when the Holmes brothers were done measuring their penises. Then they might be ready to discuss how a time-share might work out, on her terms, of course.
She'd gotten no more than three steps towards the door when the Holmes brothers decided they really were more interested in her than each other after all. If she hadn't been so used to them, she would have probably screamed when Sherlock suddenly grabbed her from behind and swung her back to face the sitting room.
"Not so fast, Joan."
Mycroft was standing again, shaking his head sadly. "I told you that competition wouldn't go over." He walked forward until he was within a foot of her. "Forgive me. I shouldn't have allowed myself to be drawn into that."
He leaned down and gave her a peck on the lips that was on it's way to becoming something more when Sherlock interrupted with a hurrumph!
"Can't you wait until we have her in the bedroom at least," said Sherlock. He began shuffling her off in that direction, and Joan found to her annoyance that there was very little she could do about it. Sherlock was thin as a rail and Joan was army trained, but when it came to brute force he had her. Between his absurd strength and his ability to recognize her tells, he countered every move she tried.
"Hey, hey!" she said. "Aren't you two forgetting about something?"
That stopped them. They looked at each other perplexed. "No," said Sherlock.
"I don't believe so," said Mycroft.
"Yes, it's all been ironed out."
"I mean, the little part where the two of you ask me whether I want to be double-teamed."
"We wouldn't be doing this if you didn't," said Sherlock with a huff.
"Ah, no I see," said Mycroft. "Forgive us for putting the cart before the horse. Dear Joan, would you like to make love to both of us? I know you've been eager to touch my brother. It could be quite stimulating."
Joan held still for a second. Then she let out her breath. "Okay. Sure. Yes." Because, damn it, she did.
"You see," said Mycroft, smugness all but oozing out of his words, "Asking and receiving permission is an important part of social contracts, even if the answer is forgone. You would do well to learn that."
As if he hadn't also forgotten. Joan pinched the bridge of her nose.
Then she gave a little yelp as Sherlock swept her up, hooking his arms under her knees and shoulders. Joan stiffened. She'd had this problem at uni, too. Her smaller than average size, combined with her scrappy reputation, somehow made carrying her about irresistible to some of her mates. But simply because she was light enough, didn't mean she liked being hoisted about like a sack of potatoes. She felt horribly off balance.
"Put me down."
"Struggle too much and I might drop you," rumbled Sherlock warningly. He was mounting the steps to her room. Joan tightened her grip around his shoulders and went very quiet and still. She liked the idea of falling down the narrow attic stairs even less than being carried up them.
She let out a sigh of relief when they reached her room. Sherlock placed her on the bed. "What was that about?" she asked with a pant. "And how can I convince you to never do that again?"
"I was being romantic," said Sherlock, defensively. "Or so I was lead to believe from the awful novels you indulge in." He looked down at her with a bit of a frown. "I am trying."
"Well don't," said Joan, half horrified by the notion of Sherlock actually reading her trashy paperbacks. "I'm not sure I'm up to more attempts at romance. Especially not if you are getting your ideas from bodice rippers."
"Excellent," said Sherlock looking hugely relieved. "Then let's just go on to the fucking, shall we. What is your preference? Vaginal sex or sodomy? I'm amenable to either."
"Okay, maybe a little romance wouldn't be amiss, at least on the verbal end of things."
"I'm afraid that Sherlock has already exhausted his romantic repertoire," said Mycroft closing the door behind him. "As for your novels, Sherlock didn't read them. He merely skimmed ahead to the racy bits."
"Wrong," said Sherlock, looking quite pleased at catching Mycroft in an error. "I let the books fall open to where Joan had already distressed the spines through her obsessive rereads."
"As I said, he's only read the racy bits."
"They were only marginally pornographic," quibbled Sherlock. "Unless one has a paraphilia for hyperventilation."
"That's it," said Joan, putting her elbows on her knees. "I absolutely refuse to be embarrassed by you lot anymore. You've caught me. I tickle the pope to ridiculous, unrealistic romances. I'm a silly, dirty girl. Lay your scorn down now."
"Would verbal abuse help prepare you for sexual intercourse?" asked Sherlock curiously.
"No."
"Then what would be the point?"
"Sherlock," said Mycroft. "As amusing as it is to watch your fumbling attempts at seduction, I think it would be far more satisfying to all of us if you let me take the lead."
Joan found herself sighing with relief. "Yes please let's," she said without thinking. Then she realized the implications and tried to go back, "No, wait, I'm in the lea-"
"Let's start with the undressing," said Mycroft over her. "Normally, this would be taken for granted, but with Sherlock I'm afraid we'll need to spell it out like a primer." He settled himself on the bed next to Joan and reached his long arms around her. She couldn't stop herself from leaning into his warmth. There was something exotic about his smell, she could never quite tell if it were cologne or the man himself. Whatever it was it made her thighs feel watery and her nipples pinch up.
He cupped her through all the layers of her clothes, his large hand easily encompassing her right breast. A little pressure, no more than a tease that somehow made little shivers of pleasure run down her belly. She hissed and felt her eyes lidding closed.
"You've been waiting a long time for this," murmured Mycroft. "Both of you. No don't close your eyes, Joan, look at him. You've caught his attention more fiercely than a double homicide. Your modesty intrigues and irritates him. Shall we show him what he's been missing?"
She opened her eyes and saw that Sherlock had been struck dumb. He was merely watching, as Mycroft fitted himself behind her and now lifted her jumper, up, up and over her head. She felt her hair tugged wild, and then she felt cool. Mycroft's hand on her breast was firmer now. The other went to the blouse, one-handedly pulling each plastic lavender button back through its hole. The two sides fell away. Then with both hands, Mycroft pulled the shirt off her shoulders.
The bra released with it's own little pleasure. Her skin had been compressed all day, now seemed to breathe. Her nipples stood jauntily at attention, more from cold than from stimulation. Though almost immediately Mycroft's hands were back, holding them, lifting them, warming them.
Sherlock stumbled forward a step. He was adorable in his awkwardness. A look of hunger on his face, he pushed Mycroft's hands away and took their place with his own. Joan looked down and watched his long fingers slide over the mounds. Now it was his cooler hands lifting her, feeling the weight and softness. The pads of Sherlock's thumbs drew over her nipples, teasing them with their calloused roughness.
Mycroft's hands had already gone lower, seeking and finding the button to her jeans, then drawing down the zip with the ease of familiarity. Joan accommodated, standing up long enough to let Mycroft pull the trousers down, wishing it weren't so much the style to have them tight around her thighs.
Sherlock's hands suddenly joined Mycroft's, then took over. He was kneeling below her, and the sight of him on his knees, head at belly level, made Joan bite her lip. She felt a tremble in her legs.
Golly, I'm turning into one of those simpering things from my novels, she thought. And I'm letting these two get their way. It's a bad precedent. Especially since it meant that she was now entirely naked and they had all their clothes on. Joan felt a stirring of resentfulness.
Mycroft gently tugged her to sit down. His mouth kissed a line down the side of her neck to her shoulder, but Joan was more distracted by who was in front of her than who was behind. Sherlock, dark, handsome, unobtainable Sherlock, had hungrily pressed himself between her naked knees, his ridiculously expensive shirt brushing up against the most delicate parts of her body. And oh yesyesyes, he was touching her now with those long, graceful fingers. Running them over her flesh, the calluses on his fingertips rasping in the most delicious way.
But wait a second. Joan raised a brow. She detected a pattern in the caresses. Sherlock's eyes were wide with utmost fascination as his fingers brushed the matted paleness on her knee from when she'd wiped out on her bike at ten, and then traveled up her thigh to the appendectomy scar sitting slantways on her lower belly. And a number of fainter scars over her forearms that she hadn't even remembered, but Sherlock found them all. Finally he reached the bullet wound on her shoulder and his face took on the look of semi-vacant concentration it had when viewing a corpse.
As nice as it was to know her flaws intrigued him, this was a bit ridiculous. Being reminded of just how hard she rode her body wasn't exactly a turn on when, for once, she was feeling rather feminine and attractive.
Mycroft detected the shift of her attitude and lifted his head to look over her shoulder. "Sherlock…" he warned. "Not erotic."
"Says who," was his reply.
Abruptly Joan made up her mind. The novelty of having Sherlock touching her was nice, but she just wasn't the kind to lay back and let things happen to her. Mycroft was right, Sherlock needed a demonstration of what she liked. It was time she gave it to him.
"My turn."
With no more warning than that, she rocked back and swung her left leg up and over Sherlock's head. She felt one last brush of his hand against her thigh, and she was free of both him and Mycroft. She rolled onto her knees at the foot of the bed out of their reach. The next moment, before either of them could adjust, she attacked.
Her target was a familiar one. Mycroft smiled as she pushed him by his shoulders to lie flat on the bed, then scooted up to straddle him. Unlike Sherlock, Mycroft was absolutely hopeless in a physical fight. Where with Sherlock this would have devolved into a wrestling match for dominance, Mycroft simply conceded defeat, lying, one leg on the ground, the other tucked up on the bed. He raising his hands above his head in well humored surrender.
She caught them, her hand spanning his wrists in what seemed like a token gesture. But the one time he tried to pull free, she'd showed this really interesting hold she could do on a man's fingers, and he'd quickly recognized that passive was the way to go. Since passive was also what he preferred it wasn't really a difficult decision for him. Joan felt a warm tingle between her thighs as she once again reveled in the fact that the person who very may well control half the world was lying under her, captured, waiting for her to tell him what to do.
She leaned forward and began kissing him. Her mouth, pulled at Mycroft's, her tongue darted between his lips to explore his teeth and tongue. Beneith her thighs, she felt him harden appreciatively.
Breaking off her kiss, she looked over to Sherlock who remained kneeling by the bed, watching with a mixture of fascination and wry amusement, a cutting remark beginning to form on his lips.
"Oh, don't think I've forgotten about you," she said, cutting off whatever he might have been thinking of saying. "I'm not going to be the only one naked here. I showed you mine. You show me yours. Strip."
Sherlock's nostrils flared with a silent snort. Raising a brow he stood up, toed off his shoes and began working on his cuffs.
She looked back at Mycroft, "And you too. Here, I'll help." And she let go of his hands to begin undoing the buttons of his waist coat, then those of the shirt beneath. Mycroft simply gazed up at her, letting her do her thing.
That was the thing about Mycroft, he let her do anything her curiosity led her to. Once she'd figured that out - that Mycroft actually liked it when she got creative -- she started looking things up on line just to surprise him with. Just to see where he'd draw that line. It seemed like he honestly was up for just about anything she had to offer. It was a rare occasion that he'd remark afterwards that what they were doing wasn't to his taste. To be truthful, those times it hadn't really been hers either.
She wondered if Sherlock would be so adventuresome. It was hard to tell, though agreeing right off to a threesome with his brother boded rather well. Would he be like his brother when, say, she donned that little black strap on and selected something from her growing collection to place in the circular hole in the front?
She looked at him appraisingly. He'd taken his shirt off. His ghostly pale skin made the tips of her fingers itch with anticipation. She couldn't help but think that she might be the first to explore this territory. And oh golly, was she actually drooling. Joan closed her mouth with a snap.
"You are lucky it takes so little to impress her," said Mycroft, who had finished undressing from the waist up, and was shrugging the tail of his shirt out from under the small of his back. "Is that really the best you can muster? Didn't you strip on stage once for a case?"
"Obviously it takes little to impress Joan," replied Sherlock, working perfunctorily on his belt. "After all, look what she's been settling for. If the flab weren't bad enough I should have thought your spots would give her second thoughts."
Mycroft, every bit as pale as Sherlock, was oddly freckled, especially across the shoulders, though Joan suspected it had been years if not decades since he'd last been shirtless in the sun. Joan found it endearing, and in the warm aftermath of sex, she frequently traced constellations in the pale brown points.
"I don't think either of you are good judges on what I find attractive," she declared with some amusement. "Spots are sexy," she said to Sherlock. "Professional stripping is not," she said to Mycroft.
She then moved off of him to let Mycroft continue undressing, tucking her knees under her chin. She enjoyed the show, enjoying the power that she had to make two of the greatest minds in the world snap to her command. Sherlock finished first, letting his trousers fall and stepping fully out of them before lowering his pants. He was a mass of tight, wirey muscles, just as she expected. Not a bit of fat on him. His ribs stood out like little solders in a line. Mycroft slithered out of his clothes, almost undulating so as to not need to sit or stand up. And once they were off some instinct of his made him gather them up and fold them, then tuck them up on the nightstand.
They both regarded her. Waiting for her to come up with the next step. "I think this is where we kiss," she said after a second. It came out a bit awkward, but then what of this wasn't.
And they were both on her. Fast as that. Mycroft, being closer, claimed her mouth first. His kisses were exactly what she expected, smooth, and delicate. Thoughtful.
Sherlock took over after scarsely a moment, forcing his body between his brother and her. His kisses were rougher, toothier, and much, much hungrier. It seemed as if Sherlock couldn't restrain himself, now that the dam had burst and he actually was allowing himself to be passionate. He suckled her chin, he pinched her cheek between his lips, her earlobe felt the gentle pressure of teeth.
And now Mycroft had her mouth, and Sherlock her neck, working it like a vampire before she could utter out an breathless order of "no hickies please!" That got Sherlock to back off for a moment, while she gasped out, "I have to bring this neck to work tomorrow”. Her hand went up protectively to the spot.
"Wear a scarf," he murmured in her ear.
"My turn," she said, and kissed him in that commanding way that told him whoa boy, relax one moment, kissing didn't have to be like devouring a chicken leg. Her hand found his hair and combed through it. It was a bit stiffer than Mycroft's, whose hair was seemed almost fur. The curls caressed her palm. He moaned into her mouth as she drew her fingertips in circles against his scalp.
"You are sensitive to touch," she said. It made sense. His flinches, his standoffishness, except during those times when he controlled the contact, or when they wrestled and the touches were supposed to be painful.
"Hypersensitivity has always been a problem for him. Mummy had to cut the tags off his clothes as a tot or he'd scream like a little banshee."
"Mycroft," grumbled Sherlock.
"Mmm?" Mycroft murmured into the back her neck.
"Not erotic."
Joan giggled. The three of them squirmed and stroked and slid and moved until they were a mass on the bed. Her leg had somehow become flung over Sherlock's thigh, and her back was caged by Mycroft's knees. Mycroft's hands had found her breasts again and were gently cupping and squeezing. His thumbs flicked over the nipples in a lazy way. Meanwhile, Sherlock found space for himself, half tucked under her. His erection felt hot and heavy against her inner thigh. The foot of height difference made him bend in order to suckle her lips.
Gradually the touches moved, from legs and arms, backs and hair, to more intimate regions. Joan, nuzzled the hardness of Sherlock's chest. The simply was no give to it. It felt like warm marble under her lips. The nipples themselves were brown and small and oh so sensitive. A single lick, a nip, a suck drew out increasingly louder groans.
“Careful,” said Mycroft in her ear. “I'm afraid he might go off too soon if you keep that up. He's not used to this, remember. If you must err, err on the side of less.”
Joan let the nipple go, and looked at the long arc of Sherlock's neck. It was more the tone than Mycroft's words that alerted her to an agenda.
“You have a thought,” she said back.
“I always do.”
“Of what we should do to him.”
She could feel Mycroft's lips curling against the side of her neck. Then his breath was warm in her ear. “We should undo him. Slowly.”
Joan bit her lip. “Both of us?” This is wrong. So very wrong. But how could she resist with Sherlock staring like that at them again. Staring like all his bristly defensive layers had been surgically cut and splayed open, and his soul lay bared to her view. His eyes were glazed and unfocused, as though he'd been drugged. The sharp edges of his intellect seemed to have been dulled. So sensitive.
Mycorfts words caressed her ear. “With my experience and your attractiveness, we'll make a formidable alliance.”
“I'm the brawn, your the brain,” Joan laughed. It was liquid and easy. She was high on endorphins and lust.
“Exactly,” murmured Mycroft lowly against the side of her throat.
A faint spark of reason gleamed in Sherlock's eye. “It's considered poor form to conspire about a person in their presence.”
“Afraid that we'll spoil the surprise?” asked Mycroft.
“I very much doubt you can surprise me.”
Mycroft's hand reached around Joan and grasped Sherlock's cock, giving it a lazy tug. Sherlock gasped and bucked and looked quite surprised indeed.
“Are you sure about that?” Mycroft asked, lightly running his fingers down the shaft in ticklish way before pinching the underside of his cock just below the head. Sherlock grew visibly harder.
Joan felt another shudder go through her. Individually she found the Holmes brothers hot, but together...
Sherlock regained a bit of composure and pulled Mycroft's hand off. “I'm here for her, not you.”
“Ah but she wants it, too,” said Mycroft.
Joan's mind flooded with images of Mycroft intimitely manhandling Sherlock. She felt a gush of wetness between her thighs and her clit seemed to pulse at the thought. She groaned and tried to wrestle her lust back.
“Not if he doesn't,” she made herself say.
“For you, he will,” murmured Mycroft. “For you, I will.”
“Ha,” was the only thing Joan could say. She swallowed. As enticing as the idea was, she'd been enjoying this session being all about her. “Next time. Maybe. Oh god, stop being a tease. One of you fuck me.”
“As you wish. Finger her,” Mycroft ordered. It wasn't a bark, but it was definitely firm and commanding.
Sherlock looked like he might object, but then he saw the expectant look in her eyes. He drew his fingers delecately to her groin, parting the folds, tender and slow, then brushed the pad of a finger over the damp enterence to her vagina. She couldn't resist flexing her hips to push him in, to where her inner muscles already clenched in anticipation. The sensation was much like scratching an itch. She bucked and arched back against Mycroft. Sherlock's thumb brushed up against her clit and she hissed.
“More!” she snapped. “Goddamn it, don't tease.”
“Go down on her,” ordered Mycroft. She felt his hardness twitch against her buttock. Not surprisingly, he was turned on by being able to order his brother about. “Prepare her. Then we'll take her.”
For his part, Sherlock seemed to like the idea. Too unsure, he'd been waiting for someone's permission to act. With a jerk, he slid back to the foot of the bed, then he grasped her hips and pulled her with him, until she was flat on her back with her head pillowed against Mycroft's stomach. Sherlock hooked his arms under her knees and pushed them to her chest, then lowered his head between. She felt the softness of his hair brushing her inner thighs, and then the first light touch of his tongue on her clit.
A powerful burst of pleasure rocked her. It was too much. She was too sensitive for this. She grabbed Mycroft's knees and tried to rock away from Sherlock's mouth, but they held her pinned in place. “Shh,” Mycroft soothed. “Shh.”
By the third lick, she seemed to desensitize just enough to find it bearable. Sherlock ran his tongue over the nub, then flicked it back and forth, working it. Instead of retreating, she tilted her hips to mash her clit against his tongue harder. She gritted her teeth and rode the pleasure to it's peak.
And then it was too much again and she attempted to pull away, but there was no place to go. Not with Mycroft's legs to either side, and Sherlock's arms around her legs.
Sherlock let her oversensitive clit go and instead moved his mouth lower, She felt something hot and thick and moist enter her. It felt good, though not as good as it had on her clit. He thrusted his tongue twice, then moved even lower.
The feel of heat and moisture and delicate pressure on her anus was astonishing. It tickled and soothed and stimulated. She could almost feel herself loosening up. Mycroft had done this for her before, but only after they'd been sleeping together for weeks and she'd gotten up the courage to shyly ask. Sherlock rimmed like it never occurred to him not to.
His tongue breached her now quite loose muscle and she shuddered. This was decadent. Mycroft was starting to fondle her breasts again. She bucked, trying to fuck herself, so needy for more.
“It's time,” said Mycroft. “Help me position her,” he said to Sherlock. “As I'm better endowed, I'll take her vaginally, and you anally. She should find that more comfortable, and you did mention that you were amenable to either.”
Joan shuddered as the heat and wetness left her. She felt cool and empty.
“I find that acceptable, but your reasoning for it's faulty. I'm nearly an inch longer than you. I suggest you have your eyes checked.”
“Oh, come now,” said Mycroft. “Neither of us is blind, girth is the important factor in this case. I have nearly half an inch on you there.”
It wasn't just Joan's arse that was growing cool. “If you two bring out the measuring tape, I'm leaving,” she warned.
Boy, that did the trick. They both began manhandling her with a desperation that tickled her ego to no end. In seconds she'd been turned around and Mycroft had found his way under her.
The two of them grasped her hips, and working together, lifted and positioned her over Mycroft's cock. Then with steady pressure, she sank onto it. She gasped. Yes. This is what her body had been aching for. The fullness, the intimate stretch.
Mycroft's gasped as well. “Yes,” he murmured.
He'd hardly bottomed out when she was pushed forward until she lay across his chest, her head tucked under his chin. She then felt a slick, insistant pressure at her back. Her body shuddered and she felt a prickly shock as Sherlock nudged his way in.
“Slow!” she whispered. “Careful.”
She'd gone from pleasantly full, to overfull. She was being stetched and compressed. She was trapped between them. So much. Too much.
“Keep going,” said Mycroft, and Sherlock advanced again. Joan hitched in a breath. Then another. Her body yielded with a mix of pleasure and pain and sheer intensity of feeling. Her clit throbbed. If they moved she was going to come and she wanted it, and yet for some reason she thought it might be too much.
“Move,” ordered Mycroft.
They both pulled a few inches out and then thrust together. Joan let out a little scream as she came for the second time. Oh, god, she was the one being undone.
She shuddered, while they continued to move together inside her. She felt herself being rubbed mercilessly, front and back. And now their thrusts were syncopated, Mycroft keeping up the slow and steady pace while Sherlock incrementally sped up.
Already she was building towards orgasm again. She lifted herself off of Mycroft with shaking arms, trying to control the angle at which the two of them took her. She began using her thighs to make the vaginal thrusts longer. They both grasped her hips and worked together to raise and lower her.
Sherlock wasn't even trying to be careful anymore. She could hear his breath panting out behind her. His thrusts were even faster now, three of his to one of Mycroft's. She gave up trying to control the pace at all. And then with a moan, he came.
He pulled out leaving her feeling both uncomfortably empty and also curiously relieved. The stimulation was back down to what she could handle, but she was exhausted. Coming a third time seemed like less of a goal than having this end.
Mycroft sensed her tiredness and rolled her over. With her now on her back, he entered her again and this time thrust harder and faster, rolling his hips a bit to mash his pubic bone against her clit. She let out a thin whimper as she came again. She then opened her sweat stinging eyes just in time to make out the smug look on Mycroft's face as he came inside her.
He rolled off and leaving her panting and cold for a moment. Then she reached over to the bedtable and grabbed a handful of tissues. The two of them hadn't bothered with the condoms she kept stocked - and she, in her lust-addled state, hadn't even thought of it. Thank god she'd started taking the pill again. And it was unlikely that Sherlock had any sexual diseases that Mycroft wouldn't know about.
“You know what,” she said, laughing at herself. “You two make me stupid. What are we going to do about this situation? Are we seriously going to do this as a threesome?”
Sherlock, who'd curled up, sated, at the foot of the bed, simply frowned. “Sex has made you stupid if you have to ask that.”
“I would think it would be apparent by the last few minutes, yes,” responded Mycroft, marginally more tactful. He was lying on his side, watching her with his usual post coital smugness.
“You are both alright if I continue to date the other?”
“I can't stop you.”
“It is your choice who you date, Joan,” said Mycroft. “It's always been.”
“Oh, really,” she teased. “And should I choose to date somone totally different. Say, Mike from work?” She raised an eyebrow. “You'd both be okay with that?”
Two people, this possessive, being willing to let her shop around?
“Absolutely,” lied Mycroft with only the tiniest hitch.
Sherlock snorted. “Absolutely if you don't mind this Mike being flooded with tempting job offers from America..”
Mycroft rolled his eyes. “You always suspect the worst of me. I should think the greater likelihood would be ensconsment in jail for some crime.”
Yeah, that's what she thought. It was like dating a hurricane and a tornado at once. Hoo boy.
“Though, Joan my dear, I think this is all quite academic.” Mycroft then gave her a sly smile. “I very much suspect you'll be far, far too busy to cultivate other lovers. At least, that is my goal.”
“On that, I completely agree,” said Sherlock.
Joan shuddered pleasantly. She had no doubt they were right.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Mycroft/Fem!John/Sherlock.
Warnings: PWP, Incest, genderswitch, rimming, double penetration, wrestling, bickering and awkwardness. Otherwise completely consensual.
Word count 7250
Summary: Sherlock thinks he's dating Joan Watson. Mycroft knows he is. Joan is the only one who thinks this might be a potential problem.
A/N: So I thought I was doing this for a prompt, but turns out I screwed up and wrote the wrong guy genderswitched. Also, this hasn't been brit-picked. If you see an error, please tell me.
Once, back in sixth form, Joan's best friend had solemnly warned her, "Never date two blokes at once."
She'd said it with the same sort of wide-eyed, innocent reverence that is usually reserved for truths like, eating uncooked rice will kill you and the ever popular gum takes seven years to digest. "Never date two blokes at once, no matter how hush-hush you keep it, they will find out, and then you'll pay."
Joan remembered her glum reply. "I really don't think that will be a problem, Deidre."
"You never know."
"Yeah, I think I do."
Dating one bloke seemed to be beyond her. Her mates considered her one of the boys, and ordinarily that was okay and all, but the winter formal was coming up and right now it was a bit depressing. Ah well, she told herself, it saved her the price of a dress.
And really, what sort of bloke was into frumpy, nerdy tomboys, who were more likely to be wearing mud than make-up? Not bloody many.
Two at a time? Joan snorted. Oh yeah, because she was beating them off with a stick.
Sixteen years later Joan really was beating them off with a stick. Them being Mycroft and Sherlock. Or to be more accurate, she was beating Sherlock off, because Mycroft had strategically ducked behind a chair and was waiting for her back to be turned before making his move.
And to be even more accurate, the "stick" was an umbrella. An oddly solid feeling umbrella. It was no wonder Mycroft could use it like a cane. Was it made of lead?
"Do be careful with that, my sweet," Mycroft said, worry tingeing his normally implacable voice.
"Worried I might break it?" Joan panted. She was trying, goddamn it, not to smile, but as awfully stupid as this impromptu wrestling match was, she had to admit it had an element of fun.
"Worried you might accidentally kill my brother! There's a gun in there!" Mycroft winced.
Joan dropped the umbrella like it was on fire. "Holy --!" She glared. "You could have sa--."
Sherlock took the moment of distraction to tackle her. His leg swept around hers, his arm found its way around her waist and somehow she ended up being laid gently on the floor in the middle of the sitting room. Sherlock immediately straddled her and sat quite triumphantly down on her hips.
"Talk!" he ordered. "None of this 'just working late at the clinic' lies either."
Joan pressed her lips together, then conceded defeat. "Okay, I admit it," she said.
"How long have you been dating him?"
"Sherlock," groaned Mycroft, "Don't be such a child."
"Six weeks," said Joan. "Not that it should matter. I'm an adult. I can date who I choose."
"Of course you can," said Sherlock. "Just not him."
"Why not?" both Joan and Mycroft said at the same time.
Sherlock's lips curled in a cartoonish way as he fought for something that approached reason. "Because he's Mycroft," he finally managed. "And I don't approve."
"God forbid you not approve," said Joan, grouchily. "I mean, I get it, you detest him because he's your brother and used to hide your toys when you were six - or whatever, I don't want to know!" Joan quickly amended before they both went off about her being dreadfully wrong. "But I don't see where you think your quarrel with him means that I can't go out to an occasional meal with whom I like. I mean, it's not like you and I are dating."
Sherlock stared at her stunned. Then to her utter amazement, his face turned slightly pink.
Joan stared. Her heart skipped a beat. "You thought we were dating?" she said.
"We go out to restaurants," said Sherlock. "We go to crime scenes. We viewed that autopsy together." He said that like it was the most romantic thing he could think of. "How could you not think we were dating?"
Christ, thought Joan. Christ. Christ. Christ and Goddamn it. Thing was, she'd been crushing on Sherlock since the day she'd met him. Had he bothered to mention anything six weeks ago, she'd have been to the moon. But now? Awkward.
And, oh God, the irony. She'd hit on Mycroft as a distraction. She hadn't expected him to actually say "yes". But he did, and whoo boy, dating Mycroft was a bit like dating the eye of a hurricane. All calm in the middle, but take two steps in the wrong direction….
And now Sherlock was saying he thought he was dating her, too. And Mycroft wasn't exactly the type to let go. And she was in the middle of a proper muddle.
Joan remembered Deirdre's words floating back from the past. Suddenly she felt like an utter heel.
"I thought we were friends," she said, her voice high and ghostly. "Those were friend activities."
"We are friends," said Sherlock. "Friends who … are very close. Very close." He was looking around the room now, as though he'd grown bored of looking at her already, but Joan recognized it as chagrin.
Joan felt suddenly put out. This was not her fault. "What happened to 'I'm sorry, terribly flattered for the interest, but best you put any romantic thoughts out of your silly little head.'"
"I did not say that," said Sherlock quite indignant. "I never said anything remotely like that."
"Oh, you have to be kidding me," said Joan. "How exactly was I supposed to have taken 'I'm married to my job'?"
"Well, yes, I said that," Sherlock conceded. "But that doesn't mean I didn't want you. I just didn't want you to … expect … too much." He then glowered, realizing that he wasn't making a very good case for himself.
"So much fuss," said Mycroft, mildly. Joan turned her head, suddenly remembering he was in the room. Mycroft had reclaimed his umbrella and settled comfortably down in Sherlock's favorite chair. He gazed down at her fondly and then over at Sherlock with a smug smirk. "Sherlock, you never were any good with women. You can't expect her to think that your utterly chaste attempts at intimacy should be construed as wooing."
"I really didn't think you were into me that way," agreed Joan. "I mean, Christ. I'm not a mind-reader."
"Well, forgive me for not being more seductive. I figured it would be obvious. And even if it wasn't to Joan, it should very well have been to you!" Sherlock glared at his brother.
"Well, of course, it was." Mycroft examined his nails.
Joan turned her head back and forth. "It was?" And now she was put out with Mycroft, as well. She crossed her arms over her chest. "Why didn't you tell me that Sherlock was interested in me?" she asked.
Mycroft widened his eyes. "Because, my dear, I wanted you. You are a very lovely woman. Intelligent, capable, creative, brave. Grounded. Why should I defer to Sherlock? He hesitated, he lost."
"I did not-"
"And besides, my dear," said Mycroft to her. "You are very attracted to me as well. I noticed it from the moment we first met. You thought I was devastatingly handsome. That's not the usual reaction I get from those I kidnap. I was most delightfully flattered."
Joan groaned and put her hand over her face. She might not be a mind reader, but it could very well be that Mycroft was. He was right, of course. The first time she'd met him, in that smelly underground basement, her first thought hadn't been who the hell is this? or what the hell does he want?. It had been wow, followed shortly by good god, I didn't just get the hots for him, what the hell is wrong with me?
She hadn't breathed a word of it to anyone, ever, and she thought she'd been careful with her expression at the time. How had he figured it out? It wasn't until after she'd learned who he was and she'd met him twice more on friendly terms that her go-for-broke, why-the-hell-not personality led her to ask him out.
What was she to do? She had fallen for Mycroft's smooth manners and handsome face. But she'd also fallen for Sherlock's energy and enthusiasm. And his curls. Oh god, the curls. The eyes, too. But then there was Mycroft's smile, the warmth of his hands. His way of knowing just how far to push to make her come like a freight train. But then there was Sherlock's infectious excitement that made even the most dreadfully unpleasant adventures seem like good times.
And their intelligence - both of them. And the danger -- never a dull moment with either of them. And their voices - which to choose? Sherlock's resonant baratone, or Mycroft's melodious tenor?
Oh god. She wanted them both. She was a greedy cad.
She turned bright red as she realized they were both staring at her with an intentness that Sherlock usually reserved for corpses and Mycroft … well okay, Mycroft's regard was completely normal.
"There is a possible solution to this dilemma," said Mycroft softly.
"A competition?" asked Sherlock.
"Don't be daft, that will make her hate both of us. I was thinking more of cooperation."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Oh?" Then he nodded. "Ah, yes. No." The word was final.
"Suit yourself, but you'd be cutting off your nose," said Mycroft mildly.
"Hello," said Joan, tightening her arms over her chest until her breasts felt painfully squashed. "Hey boys, I'm right here. I can hear you." Suddenly, she was thoroughly tired of Sherlock's weight on her. She bucked her hips up. "Get off," she said.
Almost to her surprise Sherlock did. He stood up and pondered. One long finger touched his chin. "Nonsense, I could -"
"No, you couldn't," said Mycroft. "Not for longer than a week."
"But then -"
"I'd still win," said Mycroft. "I'm simply more socially adept than you." Then Mycroft pouted. "Oh, don't look like that. I'm really being generous here. Sherlock, she wants us both. I'm amenable."
Suddenly Joan realized what Mycroft was proposing. "Wait a second. Wait - wait, a timeshare? I don't think I can handle-" Can I date two people at once? It seemed wrong. And yet… oh god help her. There was a sudden warmth in her thighs and a sweet-painful tingling in her lower belly. The idea of being able to touch Sherlock while not giving up Mycroft. God help her, it was tempting.
"It'll be fine," reassured Mycroft. "Despite your diminutive size, you are a very sturdy woman. I'm quite convinced you can handle both our attentions." As though the problem were endurance - though, there was that, too.
No, no. The problem was more fundamental than that. Deirdre was right. Someone was going to end up hurt.
"Argh. It's not that simple. Infidelity is- is --"
"Exciting?" supplied Mycroft.
"Wrong." She sat up and covered her hot face with her hands. Trust a Holmes to make the most basic relationship rules seem trivial and unimportant.
To her surprise it was Sherlock who spoke up. "Oh, don't be such a sheep. Monogamy is an unnatural construct, created by the Church as a method of social control over the masses. So long as all parties are accepting there is no reason why you can't have two men. At once even."
Mycroft lifted a brow. "Yes, indeed."
"Wait," said Joan. "Did we just move from a timeshare model to a double-teaming one?"
"She picks up quite quickly," said Mycroft.
"Of course she did," scoffed Sherlock. "I just said it explicitly."
"Does this mean you accept?"
Joan drew back her head when she realized Mycroft was asking Sherlock, not her. The hell.
"Tentatively," said Sherlock. "But only so that I can get a better idea of my competition. I will woo her back from you."
"And I agree because then perhaps you'll understand how outclassed you are." Mycroft gave a smug smile. "Though I do encourage you to watch and learn."
It was then that a little voice in Joan's head told her now was the time to flee. One on one, she held her own against either of them. But both them together? Their need to compete seemed to trump anything that resembled good sense. She wasn't sure she wanted to be the rope in a fraternal tug-of-war. It sounded potentially bruising.
Joan picked herself up off the floor, brushed herself off, and casually moved to the edge of their peripheral vision. Now to quietly slip out the door for a nice refreshing walk. She could come back when the Holmes brothers were done measuring their penises. Then they might be ready to discuss how a time-share might work out, on her terms, of course.
She'd gotten no more than three steps towards the door when the Holmes brothers decided they really were more interested in her than each other after all. If she hadn't been so used to them, she would have probably screamed when Sherlock suddenly grabbed her from behind and swung her back to face the sitting room.
"Not so fast, Joan."
Mycroft was standing again, shaking his head sadly. "I told you that competition wouldn't go over." He walked forward until he was within a foot of her. "Forgive me. I shouldn't have allowed myself to be drawn into that."
He leaned down and gave her a peck on the lips that was on it's way to becoming something more when Sherlock interrupted with a hurrumph!
"Can't you wait until we have her in the bedroom at least," said Sherlock. He began shuffling her off in that direction, and Joan found to her annoyance that there was very little she could do about it. Sherlock was thin as a rail and Joan was army trained, but when it came to brute force he had her. Between his absurd strength and his ability to recognize her tells, he countered every move she tried.
"Hey, hey!" she said. "Aren't you two forgetting about something?"
That stopped them. They looked at each other perplexed. "No," said Sherlock.
"I don't believe so," said Mycroft.
"Yes, it's all been ironed out."
"I mean, the little part where the two of you ask me whether I want to be double-teamed."
"We wouldn't be doing this if you didn't," said Sherlock with a huff.
"Ah, no I see," said Mycroft. "Forgive us for putting the cart before the horse. Dear Joan, would you like to make love to both of us? I know you've been eager to touch my brother. It could be quite stimulating."
Joan held still for a second. Then she let out her breath. "Okay. Sure. Yes." Because, damn it, she did.
"You see," said Mycroft, smugness all but oozing out of his words, "Asking and receiving permission is an important part of social contracts, even if the answer is forgone. You would do well to learn that."
As if he hadn't also forgotten. Joan pinched the bridge of her nose.
Then she gave a little yelp as Sherlock swept her up, hooking his arms under her knees and shoulders. Joan stiffened. She'd had this problem at uni, too. Her smaller than average size, combined with her scrappy reputation, somehow made carrying her about irresistible to some of her mates. But simply because she was light enough, didn't mean she liked being hoisted about like a sack of potatoes. She felt horribly off balance.
"Put me down."
"Struggle too much and I might drop you," rumbled Sherlock warningly. He was mounting the steps to her room. Joan tightened her grip around his shoulders and went very quiet and still. She liked the idea of falling down the narrow attic stairs even less than being carried up them.
She let out a sigh of relief when they reached her room. Sherlock placed her on the bed. "What was that about?" she asked with a pant. "And how can I convince you to never do that again?"
"I was being romantic," said Sherlock, defensively. "Or so I was lead to believe from the awful novels you indulge in." He looked down at her with a bit of a frown. "I am trying."
"Well don't," said Joan, half horrified by the notion of Sherlock actually reading her trashy paperbacks. "I'm not sure I'm up to more attempts at romance. Especially not if you are getting your ideas from bodice rippers."
"Excellent," said Sherlock looking hugely relieved. "Then let's just go on to the fucking, shall we. What is your preference? Vaginal sex or sodomy? I'm amenable to either."
"Okay, maybe a little romance wouldn't be amiss, at least on the verbal end of things."
"I'm afraid that Sherlock has already exhausted his romantic repertoire," said Mycroft closing the door behind him. "As for your novels, Sherlock didn't read them. He merely skimmed ahead to the racy bits."
"Wrong," said Sherlock, looking quite pleased at catching Mycroft in an error. "I let the books fall open to where Joan had already distressed the spines through her obsessive rereads."
"As I said, he's only read the racy bits."
"They were only marginally pornographic," quibbled Sherlock. "Unless one has a paraphilia for hyperventilation."
"That's it," said Joan, putting her elbows on her knees. "I absolutely refuse to be embarrassed by you lot anymore. You've caught me. I tickle the pope to ridiculous, unrealistic romances. I'm a silly, dirty girl. Lay your scorn down now."
"Would verbal abuse help prepare you for sexual intercourse?" asked Sherlock curiously.
"No."
"Then what would be the point?"
"Sherlock," said Mycroft. "As amusing as it is to watch your fumbling attempts at seduction, I think it would be far more satisfying to all of us if you let me take the lead."
Joan found herself sighing with relief. "Yes please let's," she said without thinking. Then she realized the implications and tried to go back, "No, wait, I'm in the lea-"
"Let's start with the undressing," said Mycroft over her. "Normally, this would be taken for granted, but with Sherlock I'm afraid we'll need to spell it out like a primer." He settled himself on the bed next to Joan and reached his long arms around her. She couldn't stop herself from leaning into his warmth. There was something exotic about his smell, she could never quite tell if it were cologne or the man himself. Whatever it was it made her thighs feel watery and her nipples pinch up.
He cupped her through all the layers of her clothes, his large hand easily encompassing her right breast. A little pressure, no more than a tease that somehow made little shivers of pleasure run down her belly. She hissed and felt her eyes lidding closed.
"You've been waiting a long time for this," murmured Mycroft. "Both of you. No don't close your eyes, Joan, look at him. You've caught his attention more fiercely than a double homicide. Your modesty intrigues and irritates him. Shall we show him what he's been missing?"
She opened her eyes and saw that Sherlock had been struck dumb. He was merely watching, as Mycroft fitted himself behind her and now lifted her jumper, up, up and over her head. She felt her hair tugged wild, and then she felt cool. Mycroft's hand on her breast was firmer now. The other went to the blouse, one-handedly pulling each plastic lavender button back through its hole. The two sides fell away. Then with both hands, Mycroft pulled the shirt off her shoulders.
The bra released with it's own little pleasure. Her skin had been compressed all day, now seemed to breathe. Her nipples stood jauntily at attention, more from cold than from stimulation. Though almost immediately Mycroft's hands were back, holding them, lifting them, warming them.
Sherlock stumbled forward a step. He was adorable in his awkwardness. A look of hunger on his face, he pushed Mycroft's hands away and took their place with his own. Joan looked down and watched his long fingers slide over the mounds. Now it was his cooler hands lifting her, feeling the weight and softness. The pads of Sherlock's thumbs drew over her nipples, teasing them with their calloused roughness.
Mycroft's hands had already gone lower, seeking and finding the button to her jeans, then drawing down the zip with the ease of familiarity. Joan accommodated, standing up long enough to let Mycroft pull the trousers down, wishing it weren't so much the style to have them tight around her thighs.
Sherlock's hands suddenly joined Mycroft's, then took over. He was kneeling below her, and the sight of him on his knees, head at belly level, made Joan bite her lip. She felt a tremble in her legs.
Golly, I'm turning into one of those simpering things from my novels, she thought. And I'm letting these two get their way. It's a bad precedent. Especially since it meant that she was now entirely naked and they had all their clothes on. Joan felt a stirring of resentfulness.
Mycroft gently tugged her to sit down. His mouth kissed a line down the side of her neck to her shoulder, but Joan was more distracted by who was in front of her than who was behind. Sherlock, dark, handsome, unobtainable Sherlock, had hungrily pressed himself between her naked knees, his ridiculously expensive shirt brushing up against the most delicate parts of her body. And oh yesyesyes, he was touching her now with those long, graceful fingers. Running them over her flesh, the calluses on his fingertips rasping in the most delicious way.
But wait a second. Joan raised a brow. She detected a pattern in the caresses. Sherlock's eyes were wide with utmost fascination as his fingers brushed the matted paleness on her knee from when she'd wiped out on her bike at ten, and then traveled up her thigh to the appendectomy scar sitting slantways on her lower belly. And a number of fainter scars over her forearms that she hadn't even remembered, but Sherlock found them all. Finally he reached the bullet wound on her shoulder and his face took on the look of semi-vacant concentration it had when viewing a corpse.
As nice as it was to know her flaws intrigued him, this was a bit ridiculous. Being reminded of just how hard she rode her body wasn't exactly a turn on when, for once, she was feeling rather feminine and attractive.
Mycroft detected the shift of her attitude and lifted his head to look over her shoulder. "Sherlock…" he warned. "Not erotic."
"Says who," was his reply.
Abruptly Joan made up her mind. The novelty of having Sherlock touching her was nice, but she just wasn't the kind to lay back and let things happen to her. Mycroft was right, Sherlock needed a demonstration of what she liked. It was time she gave it to him.
"My turn."
With no more warning than that, she rocked back and swung her left leg up and over Sherlock's head. She felt one last brush of his hand against her thigh, and she was free of both him and Mycroft. She rolled onto her knees at the foot of the bed out of their reach. The next moment, before either of them could adjust, she attacked.
Her target was a familiar one. Mycroft smiled as she pushed him by his shoulders to lie flat on the bed, then scooted up to straddle him. Unlike Sherlock, Mycroft was absolutely hopeless in a physical fight. Where with Sherlock this would have devolved into a wrestling match for dominance, Mycroft simply conceded defeat, lying, one leg on the ground, the other tucked up on the bed. He raising his hands above his head in well humored surrender.
She caught them, her hand spanning his wrists in what seemed like a token gesture. But the one time he tried to pull free, she'd showed this really interesting hold she could do on a man's fingers, and he'd quickly recognized that passive was the way to go. Since passive was also what he preferred it wasn't really a difficult decision for him. Joan felt a warm tingle between her thighs as she once again reveled in the fact that the person who very may well control half the world was lying under her, captured, waiting for her to tell him what to do.
She leaned forward and began kissing him. Her mouth, pulled at Mycroft's, her tongue darted between his lips to explore his teeth and tongue. Beneith her thighs, she felt him harden appreciatively.
Breaking off her kiss, she looked over to Sherlock who remained kneeling by the bed, watching with a mixture of fascination and wry amusement, a cutting remark beginning to form on his lips.
"Oh, don't think I've forgotten about you," she said, cutting off whatever he might have been thinking of saying. "I'm not going to be the only one naked here. I showed you mine. You show me yours. Strip."
Sherlock's nostrils flared with a silent snort. Raising a brow he stood up, toed off his shoes and began working on his cuffs.
She looked back at Mycroft, "And you too. Here, I'll help." And she let go of his hands to begin undoing the buttons of his waist coat, then those of the shirt beneath. Mycroft simply gazed up at her, letting her do her thing.
That was the thing about Mycroft, he let her do anything her curiosity led her to. Once she'd figured that out - that Mycroft actually liked it when she got creative -- she started looking things up on line just to surprise him with. Just to see where he'd draw that line. It seemed like he honestly was up for just about anything she had to offer. It was a rare occasion that he'd remark afterwards that what they were doing wasn't to his taste. To be truthful, those times it hadn't really been hers either.
She wondered if Sherlock would be so adventuresome. It was hard to tell, though agreeing right off to a threesome with his brother boded rather well. Would he be like his brother when, say, she donned that little black strap on and selected something from her growing collection to place in the circular hole in the front?
She looked at him appraisingly. He'd taken his shirt off. His ghostly pale skin made the tips of her fingers itch with anticipation. She couldn't help but think that she might be the first to explore this territory. And oh golly, was she actually drooling. Joan closed her mouth with a snap.
"You are lucky it takes so little to impress her," said Mycroft, who had finished undressing from the waist up, and was shrugging the tail of his shirt out from under the small of his back. "Is that really the best you can muster? Didn't you strip on stage once for a case?"
"Obviously it takes little to impress Joan," replied Sherlock, working perfunctorily on his belt. "After all, look what she's been settling for. If the flab weren't bad enough I should have thought your spots would give her second thoughts."
Mycroft, every bit as pale as Sherlock, was oddly freckled, especially across the shoulders, though Joan suspected it had been years if not decades since he'd last been shirtless in the sun. Joan found it endearing, and in the warm aftermath of sex, she frequently traced constellations in the pale brown points.
"I don't think either of you are good judges on what I find attractive," she declared with some amusement. "Spots are sexy," she said to Sherlock. "Professional stripping is not," she said to Mycroft.
She then moved off of him to let Mycroft continue undressing, tucking her knees under her chin. She enjoyed the show, enjoying the power that she had to make two of the greatest minds in the world snap to her command. Sherlock finished first, letting his trousers fall and stepping fully out of them before lowering his pants. He was a mass of tight, wirey muscles, just as she expected. Not a bit of fat on him. His ribs stood out like little solders in a line. Mycroft slithered out of his clothes, almost undulating so as to not need to sit or stand up. And once they were off some instinct of his made him gather them up and fold them, then tuck them up on the nightstand.
They both regarded her. Waiting for her to come up with the next step. "I think this is where we kiss," she said after a second. It came out a bit awkward, but then what of this wasn't.
And they were both on her. Fast as that. Mycroft, being closer, claimed her mouth first. His kisses were exactly what she expected, smooth, and delicate. Thoughtful.
Sherlock took over after scarsely a moment, forcing his body between his brother and her. His kisses were rougher, toothier, and much, much hungrier. It seemed as if Sherlock couldn't restrain himself, now that the dam had burst and he actually was allowing himself to be passionate. He suckled her chin, he pinched her cheek between his lips, her earlobe felt the gentle pressure of teeth.
And now Mycroft had her mouth, and Sherlock her neck, working it like a vampire before she could utter out an breathless order of "no hickies please!" That got Sherlock to back off for a moment, while she gasped out, "I have to bring this neck to work tomorrow”. Her hand went up protectively to the spot.
"Wear a scarf," he murmured in her ear.
"My turn," she said, and kissed him in that commanding way that told him whoa boy, relax one moment, kissing didn't have to be like devouring a chicken leg. Her hand found his hair and combed through it. It was a bit stiffer than Mycroft's, whose hair was seemed almost fur. The curls caressed her palm. He moaned into her mouth as she drew her fingertips in circles against his scalp.
"You are sensitive to touch," she said. It made sense. His flinches, his standoffishness, except during those times when he controlled the contact, or when they wrestled and the touches were supposed to be painful.
"Hypersensitivity has always been a problem for him. Mummy had to cut the tags off his clothes as a tot or he'd scream like a little banshee."
"Mycroft," grumbled Sherlock.
"Mmm?" Mycroft murmured into the back her neck.
"Not erotic."
Joan giggled. The three of them squirmed and stroked and slid and moved until they were a mass on the bed. Her leg had somehow become flung over Sherlock's thigh, and her back was caged by Mycroft's knees. Mycroft's hands had found her breasts again and were gently cupping and squeezing. His thumbs flicked over the nipples in a lazy way. Meanwhile, Sherlock found space for himself, half tucked under her. His erection felt hot and heavy against her inner thigh. The foot of height difference made him bend in order to suckle her lips.
Gradually the touches moved, from legs and arms, backs and hair, to more intimate regions. Joan, nuzzled the hardness of Sherlock's chest. The simply was no give to it. It felt like warm marble under her lips. The nipples themselves were brown and small and oh so sensitive. A single lick, a nip, a suck drew out increasingly louder groans.
“Careful,” said Mycroft in her ear. “I'm afraid he might go off too soon if you keep that up. He's not used to this, remember. If you must err, err on the side of less.”
Joan let the nipple go, and looked at the long arc of Sherlock's neck. It was more the tone than Mycroft's words that alerted her to an agenda.
“You have a thought,” she said back.
“I always do.”
“Of what we should do to him.”
She could feel Mycroft's lips curling against the side of her neck. Then his breath was warm in her ear. “We should undo him. Slowly.”
Joan bit her lip. “Both of us?” This is wrong. So very wrong. But how could she resist with Sherlock staring like that at them again. Staring like all his bristly defensive layers had been surgically cut and splayed open, and his soul lay bared to her view. His eyes were glazed and unfocused, as though he'd been drugged. The sharp edges of his intellect seemed to have been dulled. So sensitive.
Mycorfts words caressed her ear. “With my experience and your attractiveness, we'll make a formidable alliance.”
“I'm the brawn, your the brain,” Joan laughed. It was liquid and easy. She was high on endorphins and lust.
“Exactly,” murmured Mycroft lowly against the side of her throat.
A faint spark of reason gleamed in Sherlock's eye. “It's considered poor form to conspire about a person in their presence.”
“Afraid that we'll spoil the surprise?” asked Mycroft.
“I very much doubt you can surprise me.”
Mycroft's hand reached around Joan and grasped Sherlock's cock, giving it a lazy tug. Sherlock gasped and bucked and looked quite surprised indeed.
“Are you sure about that?” Mycroft asked, lightly running his fingers down the shaft in ticklish way before pinching the underside of his cock just below the head. Sherlock grew visibly harder.
Joan felt another shudder go through her. Individually she found the Holmes brothers hot, but together...
Sherlock regained a bit of composure and pulled Mycroft's hand off. “I'm here for her, not you.”
“Ah but she wants it, too,” said Mycroft.
Joan's mind flooded with images of Mycroft intimitely manhandling Sherlock. She felt a gush of wetness between her thighs and her clit seemed to pulse at the thought. She groaned and tried to wrestle her lust back.
“Not if he doesn't,” she made herself say.
“For you, he will,” murmured Mycroft. “For you, I will.”
“Ha,” was the only thing Joan could say. She swallowed. As enticing as the idea was, she'd been enjoying this session being all about her. “Next time. Maybe. Oh god, stop being a tease. One of you fuck me.”
“As you wish. Finger her,” Mycroft ordered. It wasn't a bark, but it was definitely firm and commanding.
Sherlock looked like he might object, but then he saw the expectant look in her eyes. He drew his fingers delecately to her groin, parting the folds, tender and slow, then brushed the pad of a finger over the damp enterence to her vagina. She couldn't resist flexing her hips to push him in, to where her inner muscles already clenched in anticipation. The sensation was much like scratching an itch. She bucked and arched back against Mycroft. Sherlock's thumb brushed up against her clit and she hissed.
“More!” she snapped. “Goddamn it, don't tease.”
“Go down on her,” ordered Mycroft. She felt his hardness twitch against her buttock. Not surprisingly, he was turned on by being able to order his brother about. “Prepare her. Then we'll take her.”
For his part, Sherlock seemed to like the idea. Too unsure, he'd been waiting for someone's permission to act. With a jerk, he slid back to the foot of the bed, then he grasped her hips and pulled her with him, until she was flat on her back with her head pillowed against Mycroft's stomach. Sherlock hooked his arms under her knees and pushed them to her chest, then lowered his head between. She felt the softness of his hair brushing her inner thighs, and then the first light touch of his tongue on her clit.
A powerful burst of pleasure rocked her. It was too much. She was too sensitive for this. She grabbed Mycroft's knees and tried to rock away from Sherlock's mouth, but they held her pinned in place. “Shh,” Mycroft soothed. “Shh.”
By the third lick, she seemed to desensitize just enough to find it bearable. Sherlock ran his tongue over the nub, then flicked it back and forth, working it. Instead of retreating, she tilted her hips to mash her clit against his tongue harder. She gritted her teeth and rode the pleasure to it's peak.
And then it was too much again and she attempted to pull away, but there was no place to go. Not with Mycroft's legs to either side, and Sherlock's arms around her legs.
Sherlock let her oversensitive clit go and instead moved his mouth lower, She felt something hot and thick and moist enter her. It felt good, though not as good as it had on her clit. He thrusted his tongue twice, then moved even lower.
The feel of heat and moisture and delicate pressure on her anus was astonishing. It tickled and soothed and stimulated. She could almost feel herself loosening up. Mycroft had done this for her before, but only after they'd been sleeping together for weeks and she'd gotten up the courage to shyly ask. Sherlock rimmed like it never occurred to him not to.
His tongue breached her now quite loose muscle and she shuddered. This was decadent. Mycroft was starting to fondle her breasts again. She bucked, trying to fuck herself, so needy for more.
“It's time,” said Mycroft. “Help me position her,” he said to Sherlock. “As I'm better endowed, I'll take her vaginally, and you anally. She should find that more comfortable, and you did mention that you were amenable to either.”
Joan shuddered as the heat and wetness left her. She felt cool and empty.
“I find that acceptable, but your reasoning for it's faulty. I'm nearly an inch longer than you. I suggest you have your eyes checked.”
“Oh, come now,” said Mycroft. “Neither of us is blind, girth is the important factor in this case. I have nearly half an inch on you there.”
It wasn't just Joan's arse that was growing cool. “If you two bring out the measuring tape, I'm leaving,” she warned.
Boy, that did the trick. They both began manhandling her with a desperation that tickled her ego to no end. In seconds she'd been turned around and Mycroft had found his way under her.
The two of them grasped her hips, and working together, lifted and positioned her over Mycroft's cock. Then with steady pressure, she sank onto it. She gasped. Yes. This is what her body had been aching for. The fullness, the intimate stretch.
Mycroft's gasped as well. “Yes,” he murmured.
He'd hardly bottomed out when she was pushed forward until she lay across his chest, her head tucked under his chin. She then felt a slick, insistant pressure at her back. Her body shuddered and she felt a prickly shock as Sherlock nudged his way in.
“Slow!” she whispered. “Careful.”
She'd gone from pleasantly full, to overfull. She was being stetched and compressed. She was trapped between them. So much. Too much.
“Keep going,” said Mycroft, and Sherlock advanced again. Joan hitched in a breath. Then another. Her body yielded with a mix of pleasure and pain and sheer intensity of feeling. Her clit throbbed. If they moved she was going to come and she wanted it, and yet for some reason she thought it might be too much.
“Move,” ordered Mycroft.
They both pulled a few inches out and then thrust together. Joan let out a little scream as she came for the second time. Oh, god, she was the one being undone.
She shuddered, while they continued to move together inside her. She felt herself being rubbed mercilessly, front and back. And now their thrusts were syncopated, Mycroft keeping up the slow and steady pace while Sherlock incrementally sped up.
Already she was building towards orgasm again. She lifted herself off of Mycroft with shaking arms, trying to control the angle at which the two of them took her. She began using her thighs to make the vaginal thrusts longer. They both grasped her hips and worked together to raise and lower her.
Sherlock wasn't even trying to be careful anymore. She could hear his breath panting out behind her. His thrusts were even faster now, three of his to one of Mycroft's. She gave up trying to control the pace at all. And then with a moan, he came.
He pulled out leaving her feeling both uncomfortably empty and also curiously relieved. The stimulation was back down to what she could handle, but she was exhausted. Coming a third time seemed like less of a goal than having this end.
Mycroft sensed her tiredness and rolled her over. With her now on her back, he entered her again and this time thrust harder and faster, rolling his hips a bit to mash his pubic bone against her clit. She let out a thin whimper as she came again. She then opened her sweat stinging eyes just in time to make out the smug look on Mycroft's face as he came inside her.
He rolled off and leaving her panting and cold for a moment. Then she reached over to the bedtable and grabbed a handful of tissues. The two of them hadn't bothered with the condoms she kept stocked - and she, in her lust-addled state, hadn't even thought of it. Thank god she'd started taking the pill again. And it was unlikely that Sherlock had any sexual diseases that Mycroft wouldn't know about.
“You know what,” she said, laughing at herself. “You two make me stupid. What are we going to do about this situation? Are we seriously going to do this as a threesome?”
Sherlock, who'd curled up, sated, at the foot of the bed, simply frowned. “Sex has made you stupid if you have to ask that.”
“I would think it would be apparent by the last few minutes, yes,” responded Mycroft, marginally more tactful. He was lying on his side, watching her with his usual post coital smugness.
“You are both alright if I continue to date the other?”
“I can't stop you.”
“It is your choice who you date, Joan,” said Mycroft. “It's always been.”
“Oh, really,” she teased. “And should I choose to date somone totally different. Say, Mike from work?” She raised an eyebrow. “You'd both be okay with that?”
Two people, this possessive, being willing to let her shop around?
“Absolutely,” lied Mycroft with only the tiniest hitch.
Sherlock snorted. “Absolutely if you don't mind this Mike being flooded with tempting job offers from America..”
Mycroft rolled his eyes. “You always suspect the worst of me. I should think the greater likelihood would be ensconsment in jail for some crime.”
Yeah, that's what she thought. It was like dating a hurricane and a tornado at once. Hoo boy.
“Though, Joan my dear, I think this is all quite academic.” Mycroft then gave her a sly smile. “I very much suspect you'll be far, far too busy to cultivate other lovers. At least, that is my goal.”
“On that, I completely agree,” said Sherlock.
Joan shuddered pleasantly. She had no doubt they were right.