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The Secret Office

Chapter 3: Balcony: an epilogue

Summary:

A balcony scene follow-up, a gift to LadyGlinda and queenellis, who asked for it!

Chapter Text

"What took you so bloody long?!" came the angry demand, the second Mycroft Holmes walked through the door to the flat at St. James’s. 

He took it in his stride and calmly hung up his coat. There was no other available strategy.

"Work, what do you think?" he said, calmly.

"Ugh."

"Don't huff at me, please."

"I'll huff all I like!” exclaimed Sherlock, irritably. “You invited me to stay, you're supposed to be a gracious host."

He was heartily sick of being left on his own all day.

"I am exceedingly gracious, considering I have to deal with the world's most aggravating guest," said Mycroft, placidly.

"I'll go back to Baker Street if you're not going to make the effort! At least John’s there most of the time,” griped Sherlock.

Mycroft frowned at this threat, empty though he knew it to be.

“Presumably there are additional incentives to waiting for me? Unless there’s something you’re not telling me about the good Doctor? Do I have to have him removed?”

“Don’t be absurd, Mycroft. And don’t be jealous, it’s not attractive.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. Only yesterday his brother had been begging to be reassured about his own fidelity - as if it were ever necessary to do so. 

"I am making the effort, Sherlock. I am home now. We both have to work. At least you can work from here. I, sadly, have to sit in meetings with idiots all day. I suffer far more than you."

"Good. You deserve to," grunted Sherlock, scowling deeply.

"Thank you, dear."

Mycroft sighed and prepared for a trying evening.

Last night they had lain together in harmony, cuddling up to each other, restoring closeness and mutual care. Today, however, would be different. Sherlock was always tetchy and brittle the day after a disciplinary session, regardless of whether he had company or not. He felt the need to reassert his manhood after such a display of vulnerability, to offset the uncomfortable admission of fault.

Mycroft quite understood it, and had perfected various strategies to deal with it in his own devious way. He knew better than to take too seriously his brother's posturing, but allowed him space to do a bit of ego-boosting. A Sherlock after he had been condignly punished was volatile, and required careful handling. Fortunately, Mycroft was a careful handler, though he too loved to skate on thin ice, and would test Sherlock's patience a little for his own amusement. It was an elder brother's prerogative.

Though Mycroft often dreaded stepping on a Sherlockian landmine, he feared boring him more, and went out of his way not to do so. The boy required constant stimulation, and Mycroft gave it to him willingly. 

However, there was a fine line between toleration and overindulgence, and between flirtatious provocation and genuine offensiveness. Either strategy could backfire. Sherlock had been known to get up and leave in the middle of actual sex just because he'd thought of something that had offended him during the day - some throwaway comment or a look taken amiss.

But it never signified much. The Holmes brothers were addicted to their little game of cat and mouse, each knowing there was no better player than the other.

"You know, you might at least seem mildly pleased to have me home, for all your protestations. You could have met me at the door with a drink and my slippers, like a good little house pet."

"Right, that's it. I'm leaving," said Sherlock in disgust.

Mycroft shrugged.

"If you must. I think that would be rather a shame, myself, but I don't wish to stand in the way of a dramatic exit, if it's what you truly desire. I'm sure if you stayed we could have a very convivial evening."

Sherlock stopped at the door and turned back with his hands on his slim hips. "You think so, do you?"

"Mm. I do. But if you must flounce, far be it from me to stop you."

Mycroft turned away, smiling to himself.

"No, no,” sighed Sherlock, oozing mature tolerance. “If I leave you'll only spend the night sobbing into your pillow like a spurned teenager. I have no wish to reduce you to such a pitiful state. Again.”

He slinked back into the room.

"So kind."

"What about my balcony fuck? You promised!"

Mycroft sighed in revulsion at the language and the whining.

"You're not going the right way about putting me in the mood."

"I don't care about your mood. I want my balcony fuck!" demanded Sherlock.

"So I gather. I regret promising it. You caught me at a weak moment," said Mycroft, sighing at his own susceptibility.

"All your moments are weak moments when it comes to me."

Wasn’t that the truth, thought Mycroft, with self-knowing despair.

"No comment. I do hate to disappoint you..."

"I hate you to disappoint me! So don't."

Mycroft came to stand in front of the antsy detective.

"Darling, I'm not sure it's entirely secure," he said, as gently as possible.  

Sherlock scoffed.

"You can make everything secure if you want to. You're just determined to spoil my fun. I've already done a recce of the park and the surrounding buildings."

Mycroft expected as much and made a calculated decision.

"Well, as it happens... I called in a quarter of an hour ago for the sweep. We're clear on that front. Building cameras disabled too, and CCTV within a five miles radius. Criminals intent on evildoing would be wise to do their evil in St James's tonight."

"OK. So...?"  A look of excited expectation flashed across the detective’s imperious face.

"I suppose we may safely be un-looked upon,” confessed Mycroft, unwilling and unable to put him off.

“Nothing is ever perfect of course, but... With the reach of the signal jammers and electrical scramblers, even drones would be hard pressed to operate anywhere near enough to get an eyeful. I don't suppose anyone could get close enough for a decent picture, even on a telephoto lens, assuming someone were staking out my balcony for reasons known only to themselves."

The younger Holmes grinned with joy and almost clapped his hands.

"Right! What are you waiting for, then?"

Sherlock started unbuttoning his shirt with an overt eagerness that it pleased his brother to see. Still, Mycroft felt the need to play just a little hard to get. Let the anticipation build.

"A little decorum, perhaps? A drink, a conversation? Some mildly seductive prelude? Dare I suggest, foreplay?"

Mycroft leaned in to peck his brother’s cheek, and Sherlock returned the gesture, prepared to offer affection now it seemed he was going to get his own way after all.

"Mycroft, there's no need to be old-fashioned," he drawled, ironically. He flopped onto the couch now he could relax, safe in the knowledge he would not be neglected.

"There is always a need to be old-fashioned. Contemporary sexual mores are simply ghastly."

"What would you know of contemporary sexual mores? You're only fucking me. Or you'd better be, because if I ever hear otherwise I will eviscerate them and..."

"Make my life a living hell, yes, so you've said.  I won't dignify that with an answer, seeing as jealousy is such an unattractive quality... I am at least partially aware of the prevailing culture, I'll have you know. I don't live in a cave, unlike half the population, apparently. These knuckle-dragging men nowadays. All haste and no finesse. No style at all."

Sherlock snorted with insolent scepticism.

"And you're so stylish, are you? I seem to recall you being rather hasty when you gave me that dressing down in your secret office."

"I seem to recall you begging for it. But then, you always do, don't you?"

"Pfft. I don't beg. I urgently request. Either way, it didn't last long, did it?"

"I beg your pardon, but your sore backside made haste rather a necessity. I don't like to cause undue distress when you're already being such a crybaby..."

"I am not a crybaby!” exclaimed Sherlock, sitting up indignantly. “And you caused my sore backside!"

"I'm sorry, who caused your sore backside?" said Mycroft, fixing his brother with a meaningful glare.

Sherlock knew better than to argue with that one.

"Erm... Well, me. Still, you're a monster and a brute, and I loathe you."

His eyes twinkled at his brother even though his mouth turned down in a convincing sulk.

Mycroft smiled pleasantly in return. "Yes, dear, I know. How is that poor punished bottom of yours today?"

Sherlock reddened to hear it so described.

“It’s fine, thank you. Well, it’s striped and a bit purple round the edges. Sitting’s a bugger, but it’s nothing I haven’t endured before.”

“Quite.”

Mycroft adored how resilient his little brother was; how he never really dwelled upon discomfort, though he was capable of playacting it. He bounced back so quickly from distress, and from punishment, even though it did funny things to his emotions; never resented Mycroft for his role and never truly held it against him, despite any fuss he might make about it. He was simply incorrigible, which was both positive and negative. But as long as his elder brother was there to supply the salutary lessons, he could run freely, knowing the price would be extracted from him if he went too far. Because that's simply how it worked between them.

"So what about this foreplay, then?" sighed Sherlock, sounding very put-upon.

Mycroft moved to the kitchen and pulled out two glass tumblers.

"How about a drink to start with, or is that too civilised for you, you little barbarian? I'll mix you something."

"Whatever. I don't need booze to get me going," said Sherlock derisively. 

"You don't need to be conscious to get going. No matter how many times we do the deed, I always wake up with you humping my leg. I don't know where you find the energy," he said absently, as he poured whiskey into the glasses.

Sherlock made an obnoxious noise with his tongue.

"'Do the deed'. It's unbelievable how stuffy you are when you’re not in a passion. So bourgeois."

Mycroft shook his head and tutted theatrically. "Sherlock Holmes, your manners are atrocious, I don't know where we went wrong with you."

"Rotten discipline. Your own fault."

"Mm, but I'm making up for it in later life, aren't I?"

It was, after all, only the truth. Sherlock thought it wiser not to respond.

"First things first,” said Mycroft, sliding a glass of amber liquid across to his brother’s waiting hand. “There you are. An Old Fashioned."

Sherlock chuckled in spite of himself.

"Poser."

"Ingrate.”

The brothers toasted each other amiably, and drank, letting the fiery liquid warm their blood and settle any residual tension.

Sherlock necked his drink, trying to compel Mycroft to action.

“Right, finished. Fuck me,” he demanded.

Mycroft glared disapprovingly. "Always want it on your own terms, don't you?"

"Because I'm a high-functioning sociopath,"  retorted Sherlock with considerable pride.

Mycroft raised a sardonic eyebrow. "So you like to tell people. Very convenient for you, pretending that you don't know when your behaviour is wrong. But it doesn't wash with me, baby brother."

Sherlock was highly displeased. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know that, fortunately, you do have a conscience. You just wish you didn't. Much more glamourous for you that way, isn't it?"

"I'm sociopathic - a danger to society!" insisted the detective, appalled at being so contradicted on the matter.

"You're a danger to yourself, and me, frankly,” said Mycroft, levelly. “But otherwise, you're simply an asocial genius with a danger complex and a borderline narcissistic view of the world."

"Don't be horrid!" Sherlock exclaimed, unable to believe what he was hearing, especially because he knew it was all true. Bloody Mycroft, stating these things out loud just to annoy him.

"Anyway, there's nothing wrong with you that a smacked bottom can't sort out," said the elder Holmes pleasantly, as he finished his cocktail.

Sherlock was horrified. "Mycroft!"

"I speak only the truth."

"What are you, then?"

"Officially Remarkable, as you well know, brother mine," he stated, with intolerable superiority.

"Megalomaniac with an ego the size of continental Europe!"

"Justified."

"More arrogant than the entire Houses of Parliament put together."

"Almost a compliment."

"A... A..."

Sherlock faltered at his brother’s hot glare. The atmosphere in the room thickened. Mycroft’s eyes were dilated, his grey irises crowded out by black pupils. Sherlock recognised the look all too well, and swallowed drily. Mycie was finally ready to get serious.

"Come here," he ordered, quietly.

Sherlock eyed his brother with suspicion.

"Why, what are you going to do?"

"Don't be silly, come here to me," he repeated, with superb calm.

"No." Sherlock tossed his head and folded his arms resolutely.

"Lock, are you being difficult...?" asked Mycroft, smirking and prowling up to his recalcitrant brother.

Sherlock chuckled and fidgeted, feeling deliciously like prey. "Yes," he confirmed.

"Oh, good." Mycroft grinned evilly, and caught his brother in an embrace. He kissed him properly on the mouth in belated greeting.

Sherlock put up a rudimentary struggle and then relented, going limp and pliant in his arms.

Their tongues met and intertwined, licking round each other’s open mouths, renewing their intimacy now they’d provoked each other enough to save face and satisfy their need for linguistic foreplay.

They tasted strong alcohol, but underneath that, each man revelled in the unique, familiar flavour of his most beloved brother.

"Hello, Lock, how are you?" said Mycroft, suavely, as though he’d only just entered the room.

Sherlock's long nose wrinkled in befuddlement, his brow creased as he tried to give an honest answer to the question.

"All..."

"I know, darling. All edgy and prickly, and in need of a Good. Hard. Balcony. Fuck. Hm?" said Mycroft, between seductive kisses to the shell of Sherlock's ear, his neck, and his jaw.

Sherlock quivered a little under the assault. "Oooh... Yep. Yesss…"

"Oh, brother mine, how I've missed you today...," whispered Mycroft, grinning in self-satisfaction at how easily victory was won. "The thoughts in my head through all those awful meetings. So obscene, so completely depraved..."

"Tell me," panted Sherlock, unable to help himself reacting to that particular tone of voice his brother used as it reverberated low and soft in his ear.

"Kept seeing you in my mind's eye, naked and wanting. Tied to my balcony, helpless. Desperate for me to come home and touch you. So in need of my prick to undo you completely..."

They were both hard now, straining in their underwear. They moved to press their groins together, and rubbed against each other, stimulating their cocks through their clothes.

"Mycrooooft...,” moaned Sherlock, going a bit weak at the knees at the sound, and smell, and feel of his lover.

"Bent over for me, just as you were the other day, spreading your legs wide and letting me see your pretty hole. God, it is so precious..."

Sherlock was beyond words now, and simply moaned, going dizzy with the proximity of Mycroft and his wicked, taunting tongue.

"Tight and edible, and so very, very fuckable. You know I love making it wet, making it open for me. Love tickling it with my tongue, and licking it loose... Pulling it apart with my thumbs, forcing it wider to take me. Such a perfect fit, my darling. Engineered just for your big brother, weren't you? Hm? Fashioned to please me. And I to satisfy you. Isn't that right?"

"Yes, yesss... Fuck!"

"Out onto the balcony with you, you horrid little monster," husked Mycroft, with an alluring smile. He turned his brother away and smacked his backside, eliciting a yelp and an indignant, heated glare from over his shoulder.

Mycroft maintained intense eye contact, wiped whiskey and spit from his mouth, then whipped off his suit jacket and began unbuttoning his waistcoat.

Sherlock whimpered and dashed for the double doors which led to the balcony.

Outside was an unseasonably warm autumn evening; twinkling lights around St. James’s Park, and a view of the Palace illuminated against the dark sky.

Mycroft’s grace-and-favour penthouse, which took up the entire top floor of the large, exclusive 1920s mansion block, was the only flat to have a balcony. It offered a stunning prospect of Westminster. The building was virtually unoccupied, except for a few rather senile and mercifully deaf Lords on the lower floors. Mycroft had ensured the dwellings immediately below were left empty for additional privacy, though they were monitored constantly in case of untoward activity.

Mycroft followed his brother outside, shirt and trousers already undone. Sherlock was in the same state, both men understanding that to be fully naked out here was probably inadvisable, even with all their precautions.

Sherlock leaned over the wrought iron balcony rail, and looked out over London – their beautiful, historic, mad and maddening city. He sighed, almost as in love with it as he was with Mycroft. He turned at his brother’s approach and bestowed a winsome grin.

Mycroft’s pale eyes twinkled as he beheld his Lock under a moonlit sky, set against a picture-perfect backdrop of the capital city of his home nation. He had pledged himself to both of them decades ago, and he would keep both safe for as long as he lived.

Mycroft came up behind his brother, leaning against him and sighing with contentment in the mild night air. He kissed his neck, pulling the shirt collar away with one hand, and running the other underneath to caress the smooth skin of his back.

Sherlock hummed in pleasure as his brother’s cool hand snaked round his waist and slipped into his underwear. He gasped as finally, finally, his heavy cock was handled and massaged to full erection. He suppressed the very loud moan he would ordinarily have let out, and tipped his head back to nuzzle into his brother’s jawline.

“I think I’ll fuck you looking out over London, hm? Grip the rail with both hands for me,” commanded Mycroft, softly, and rather smugly.

The elder Holmes leaned his head round to press their lips together once more, as he pushed his hardness up against his brother’s firm backside, so recently marred by his disciplinary attentions. He pulled his own trousers and pants down to unleash himself, and his prick bobbed up. He rubbed it up and down Sherlock’s cleft, and exhaled shakily at the pleasure of it.

Sherlock groaned and pushed his own clothing down, revealing his smooth bottom cheeks and the fast-fading welts, so lovingly delivered, which still decorated his creamy flesh.

“Brother mine…,” groaned Mycroft, directly into the shell of Sherlock’s ear. His voice was thick with desire, and Sherlock knew this was the point at which his brother let his guard down. This, therefore, was also the point at which to act.

Quick as a flash he slipped away, removed something from his trouser pocket, and secured his brother's arm in an iron grip. Mycroft’s eyes flew wide open at the unexpected move, but it was too late to stop it. A metallic clink and a wicked little chuckle secured his fate – and his wrist – to the balcony rail.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Sherlock!” he complained, not bothering to struggle, because he was an intelligent man and knew it was futile. “Handcuffs? Really?”

Sherlock stood back and enjoyed his moment. A very dishevelled and randy Mycroft, attached by one wrist to his own balcony, and manfully attempting not to seem furious.

“Handcuffs,” he confirmed. “Really. You must pay for your dreadful neglect of me today. And possibly for abusing my bum so appallingly yesterday. So we are going to have a balcony fuck. But my way.”

Mycroft frowned deeply and grunted at being overthrown.

“Oh, don’t worry, brother, dear," said Sherlock, soothingly. "I don’t mean I want your arse. Not tonight. Though later, if you don’t mind?”

“I never mind, dear boy, I just have no desire to be restrained out here. Especially not by you! You're not to be trusted with handcuffs!”

“Tut tut, don’t be rude. I can still swallow the key, and then what will you tell your hired goons when they come bursting in here looking for you tomorrow?”

“Don’t you dare, Sherlock Holmes! Yesterday will seem like a bloody picnic compared to what I’ll do to you if you keep me out here! I shall flog that little arse of yours until you have double vision!”

“Yes, yes. I’m terrified and you’re very impressive, etc. Listen, you ridiculous Mycroft. I will only abandon you if you behave badly. All I require is cooperation. Just as you’re always preaching to me.”

“Oh, God…,” groaned Mycroft, appalled at having to listen to this self-aggrandising monologue. “Fine. Have your fun. I only hope it will be my fun too?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“So selfishly concerned with your own orgasm. Not very gallant or old fashioned of you. Listen to your little brother for a change, hm? Here’s the deal. You’re going to face in towards the flat, bare arse towards the Palace, mooning the Queen. Give the old girl a thrill, eh?”

“You impudent scamp!”

Sherlock chuckled delightedly. “Think of it as a precaution, just in case anyone is watching after all. You hold the rail with your other hand, but it’s free to pet me and make me feel good. I will require that. And I will take what I want from you. I’m only sorry I couldn’t nick two sets of cuffs from the Yard, but Lestrade nearly caught me red-handed.”

“When I am released from this vile bondage, I shall catch you red-handed, you egregious boy…”

“Yes, yes. Shut up and enjoy yourself, My.”

“Fine. So stop talking and give me something to enjoy!”

Sherlock grinned broadly and stripped off his remaining clothes. He never could stay clothed, that boy, mused Mycroft idly. Then the breath caught in his chest at the sight of his brother’s lissom, lean body - all sharp edges, naked in moonlight. His long cock stood against his lower abdomen, thrusting up from a neat, dark patch of hair at his groin; his tight, velvety sack drawn up below. Mycroft’s mouth watered for him.

Sherlock approached, staring with equally ravenous hunger at his brother – rumpled and restricted by handcuffs; disconcerted but turned on beyond reason. His pale chest peeked out from beneath his crisp, open shirt. His trousers were down at mid-thigh, and his substantial cock - thick, ruddy and glinting with wetness - bobbed in the air, curving upwards very slightly, as it naturally did. That curvature created wonders inside his body, and Sherlock ached for its magic.

He dropped to his knees in front of it, like a suppliant at worship, and Mycroft’s brow crumpled with desperation.

“Oh, yes…,” he whispered, running his uncuffed hand through his brother’s sweet curls, stroking his eartips. “Oh, please do…”

Sherlock smirked and inhaled his brother’s scent, the tip of his nose a mere fraction away from the tip of Mycroft's straining prick.

Sherlock closed his eyes and hummed with pleasure, then cast a saucy look upwards and winked. Mycroft almost wailed as his brother opened his mouth, and took him inside. His knees nearly gave way at the hot, wet sensation of Sherlock’s nimble tongue as it explored his glans and the sensitive pinpoint of his weeping slit.

Nonsensical curses and obscenities fell from his lips as he was licked and swallowed. Sherlock hummed low in his chest, sending a reverberation through his penis that seemed to travel somewhere deeper into this arse.

Sherlock sucked and laved, tasting his brother's rich precome on his tongue and savouring its unique flavour. It sent him skyrocketing into sensory pleasure. His mouth and nose and brain were enraptured by the tastes and smells of his nearest genetic counterpart, and his most cherished partner in life.

He brought a hand up between Mycroft’s thighs and played with his heavy balls, which filled his palm so beautifully. He loved the fullness of them, loved knowing he was building up a flood of semen to be released into his own body.

Mycroft was grunting haphazardly now, and Sherlock seized the opportunity to push him closer to his limit. He ran his forefinger underneath his brother's taut balls, pressing at the sensitive ridge behind them, massaging it steadily until he felt Mycroft's breathing shift to a faster, panting rhythm. Then he removed his finger and brought it to his mouth. He tasted the delicious muskiness of his brother's body, and slid his wet fingertip back under and up to Mycroft's tightly puckered hole.

Mycroft exclaimed into the night, trying desperately to keep the noise down, when all he wanted to do was shout encouragement and praise. His brother’s slim, wet fingertip persisted at his entrance, and lodged inside a few inches. Just enough to cause an illicit, naughty little feeling in his stomach to deepen his lust. Sherlock wiggled his finger tantalisingly, and probed just a bit further, not fully inserted, but far enough in to make Mycroft feel penetrated.

Giving My a blowjob on the balcony, with a finger up his bum. Such stuff as dreams were made on. He giggled with his mouth full at the thought, and Mycroft made a helpless whine of pure need.

“Lock…prob’ly should stop, if you want…,” he panted.

Sherlock frowned as though he was going to have his favourite toy taken away, and sucked harder, pushing forwards and opening his throat to take his brother deeper. He pressed his finger harder too, stroking him firmly from the inside.

“Seriously…!” urged Mycroft, frantically tapping his brother’s shoulder with his free hand.

Sherlock smiled wickedly around the cock in his mouth, then swallowed again, squeezing his throat against the plump head.

“Fuck!” hissed Mycroft. His legs shook with the strain and he felt the first shudders of release building in his thighs and lower back.

“I’m going to – “

And then Sherlock pulled away entirely and extracted his finger.

Mycroft jolted and his eyes sprang open at the sudden lack of contact. Sherlock gazed up at his desperate lover, sucked his finger off, then wiped his mouth on his hand, looking far too pleased with himself.

Mycroft’s unsatisfied cock jerked needily in the air. It was infuriating, and all the more erotic for being so.

“You tormenting little bastard!” he ground out, meaning every word.

Sherlock shrugged with admirable nonchalance.

“You told me to stop, silly. If I didn’t know the precise length of your refractory period – getting longer with age, sadly – I’d have forced it out of you and we could go again in an instant. But if I have to wait for you to be ready again, we might freeze to death out here.”

Mycroft seemed incredulous and slightly offended.

“We’re don’t all have a Peter Pan complex! You may be able to spend yourself like a hormonal teenager - I am but frail flesh and blood. And my refractory period is utterly normal, thank you!” he said, keeping his voice hushed.

Sherlock relented, feeling soft and fuzzy, and entirely warm towards his extraordinary brother, who really could get it up for him whenever he wanted. He didn’t want to make him genuinely insecure about his prowess, which he had never found lacking.

He stood and leaned in to offer a soothing kiss, which Mycroft accepted with good grace.

“I’m only teasing, My. I don’t want you down my throat right now. Not when you could be up my arse. Hold onto the rail.”

Mycroft relented, deciding now was not the time to get defensive and bristly. Not with Sherlock bending over before his very eyes, legs straddled wide, leaning on his hands in an obscene and rather gymnastic pose.

Sherlock peeked round at him from upside down, face flushing, hair flopping all over his face.

His tongue poked out in concentration as he walked himself back on his hands, positioning himself in front of Mycroft. He had to push up a little to get the correct angle, until his spread arse was at the correct height to meet his brother’s erection.

Mycroft gawped at the sight of Sherlock’s hole – obviously pre-prepared - stretched and slick with lube. It winked and twitched in front of him, in literal open invitation. So this was what the little sod had in mind. He wanted to control the pace and angle, and put on a bit of a performance. He wanted to fuck back on him, and all but use his cock as an inanimate toy. Mycroft discovered he was absolutely fine with the idea of being his brother’s fucking-post.

Sherlock moved back until his faintly striped backside pressed up against his brother’s groin, and he felt the tickle of hair against him. He chuckled at himself and bent his knees a little, wiggling his arse and teasing his brother between his buttocks. Mycroft shifted his hips and tried to line up the large crown of his cock with that sweet opening, but the mechanics were off.

“I’ll have to cheat, dear,” he chuckled, softly, and used his untied hand to guide himself to Sherlock’s gaping entrance. He slid in easily and with minimal resistance. The wide-spread position of his brother’s legs parted his buttocks naturally, which made for easier access, and his prick, dripping and ready, pushed home completely with beautifully soft friction. It made his head spin, to be so engulfed.

“You’ve had something up here,” gasped Mycroft, delighted at the notion, and at the feeling of being able to just slide in. Or rather, have his brother slide back onto him.

“Yeah,” panted Sherlock, happily. “Played with that thing you keep secret in the box under your bed, you dirty sod.”

“S’not a secret from you, is it? Did you like it?”

“Not as much as I like this. It’s not wide enough for me, and it doesn't curve like you,” giggled Sherlock, overflowing with compliments now he was filled and on the way to being satisfied.

“Good. Fuck back on me, you shameless slut,” demanded Mycroft, in a deep, husky tone of command.

Sherlock shuddered deliciously at the language Mycroft only unleashed during extreme fits of passion. He did not have it in him to reclaim the upper hand under the circumstances, and did as he was told.

He thrust his hips back, taking the strain through his strong thighs. His arms shook with the effort of bracing, but it was worth it for the thrumming pleasure coursing through his arse, deeper than he’d had for a while. As he suspected, this position made for a mind-blowing fuck.

They moaned together, each feeling the other so intimately. So turned on by the rather unusual scenario. Each man adored the depth of connection with the other, physical and emotional.            

Mycroft huffed as he balanced himself, re-gripped the rail so both his hands were spread out either side of him. He lowered himself just a fraction, and canted his hips upwards – and then it was perfect. It was spot-on. Sherlock let out a wail to wake the neighbourhood. Mycroft thanked the gods of property investment that barely anyone lived in the surrounding area at all, and that none of the Russian oligarchs who owned most of St. James’s these days were in residence.

Sherlock threw his weight onto his hands, muscles burning with lactic acid now, as he let Mycroft fuck him at the preferred angle, hitting his prostate with every stroke. He cursed himself for shackling his brother. Ordinarily, he'd revel in the fierce grip of his brother's hands on his hips. But Mycroft worked with diligence and gusto to fuck him insensible nonetheless.

Sherlock shook from stem to stern as his brother’s cock pounded relentlessly up inside him, and suddenly his finish was upon him.

“Oh, My, oh, you...make me…so… Coming, I'm coming!”

He jerked like a fish out of water, his balls tightened and throbbed with the need to release, and sparks flew from his arse to his melting tip. He came untouched, splattering onto the tiled balcony floor, moaning in one long stream of animal noise. His arms and legs shook with the strain of it, and his stomach contracted through every pulse of his spending cock.

Mycroft grunted unevenly as his own cock was clamped, and his eyes rolled back in his head. The wet, burning channel surrounding him fluttered as his brother came, and then he followed, gasping with his head thrown back, pulling against the metal handcuff on one wrist. The pain of it was lost amid a haze of hormones. Blood rushed in his head, and through his engorged prick as he flooded Lock's quivering body with semen. He moaned his brother's name to the sky as he completed.

Sherlock groaned with exhaustion as he pulled away and fell to his hands and knees. He felt an instant gush spill from his arse. Mycroft watched, fascinated and dazed, as his ejaculate rolled thickly down his brother’s inner thighs.

“Beautiful sight. Oh, Lock, so used, you are. God, it’s just… Open. Sticky with me,” he murmured in filthy wonderment.

Sherlock giggled uncontrollably and rolled into a ball on the ground, recovering his breath. Mycroft snorted at the sight, and leant on his knee with one hand, rueing the handcuff which prevented him from fully relaxing and enjoying the afterglow. Most of all, he regretted not being able to gather his brother to him and share the moment equally.

“Lock, please… The cuff? You’ve made your point. Let me hold you. I…”

Sherlock looked up, confused.

“Oh, shit. Yes. I sort of forgot you were my prisoner!”

He ran into the flat, and for a brief moment Mycroft really feared he might be left here. That this was all part of some cruel practical joke. That his brother would ride off on a wave of mischief and decide to have a little humiliating fun with him. It had been known. But less so these days, he reminded himself.

Sherlock returned with the key, still naked, sweaty and sticky. He walked a little awkwardly. His legs were rather wobbly from holding the stress position, and his arse was still a bit tender from being so vigorously rogered.

Mycroft smiled broadly as his brother unlocked him, and rubbed at his wrist to soothe the hurt.

He gathered his amazing boy to him, and they sagged against each other in sheer relief and mutual repletion.

“Was that worth waiting for, my dear?” asked Mycroft, playfully, nuzzling at a high cheekbone.

Sherlock snorted and nodded his curly head definitely.

"Honour restored?" he teased again, just to check.

"Hmph. Yes. That'll do it,” said Sherlock, looking up with mock-seriousness and true adoration in his eyes. “Though somehow all our encounters end in ruination for my rear end.” He pouted for effect.

Mycroft smirked, and kissed him fondly.

“No," he corrected, "they always end up with me soothing your rear end with various creams, unguents, and cooling gels. As I shall now do.”

And with that, he scooped his far-too-tall-for-this-sort-of-thing brother up into his arms, and carried him, protesting insincerely, back into the flat.

Another few days of sentiment, and all would be completely well. And then they would start round on driving each other up the wall, and arguing, and testing each other's talents - until it was time to make up, and come back to this again.  

Notes:

Hope you enjoyed. Do leave me some K if so - always grand to hear from lovely mucky readers. xx