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He doesn't realize he's different until he's three, when his mother buys him two of the same stuffed animal and he asks why she did so, each of him holding one of the large, floppy-eared dogs -- one by the ears and one around the middle, while trying to decide which way he likes best.
"So you both have one and don't have to share," his mother says, which makes no sense at all, really -- why would he want to play with two things that looked the same, if he could have had two that looked different instead?
"But they look the same," Clarice says, as Mycroft takes the one she's holding and goes to put them in his room. "Why can't we have ones that look different?"
"Well, what if Mycroft likes yours more?" his mother says, and he doesn't understand what she means.
He figures it out later, of course, after his mother tries to teach him how to read by making both Mycroft and Clarice sit at the table together, even though he can learn just fine if only one of them is there. "Why do you need both of us here?" he asks reasonably. "We won't learn any faster."
"Clarice needs to know this too," his mother replies, and sits her down when she tries to get up.
"But I'll know it when you teach Mycroft," she says. "So why should I sit here too?"
"Is Mycroft going to teach you how to read?" his mother asks sarcastically, and Mycroft and Clarice both frown.
"We're twins," Mycroft says, because he has not yet realized that twins are still two people, and he is something else entirely. "If you tell me, Clarice will know too."
After his mother figures out what he means (and tests it too, by having him draw the same thing twice, in two different rooms), she makes him promise not to tell anyone, ever. "It's dangerous," she says, "no one's ever been like this before. They'll take you away if they find out."
"Not even Papa?" he asks, when she tucks him into bed.
"Not even Papa," she agrees, and kisses his forehead -- first Mycroft, then Clarice. When the door closes, Mycroft does what he's done for as long as he's been mobile. He slides out of his bed and into Clarice's, curling comfortably around himself.
--
Being two separate people isn't impossible, but it is mildly confusing -- there are people and events that he's supposed to know or not know, depending on which body is doing the interacting, and while he's certainly smart enough to keep track of it all, it's... boring. Tedious. A waste of his mental capabilities.
There are limitless practical applications for what he can do, starting at coordinating his sleeping schedules so he can be conscious all the time and only getting better from there. He can't learn one thing twice as quickly, not exactly, but he can read two things at once or study two different subjects at the same time.
Muscle memory persists across both bodies. When he figures this out, he spends a solid week reading everything he can find about the brain, fascinated and gleeful. Later, he'll be disappointed that this doesn't extend to hand-to-hand combat because of his different centers of gravity, but when he realizes Mycroft and Clarice can play the piano with equal skill and half the total practice, it is the most brilliant thing ever.
--
Sherlock figures it out, of course.
"Mycroft," Sherlock says, when Mycroft and Clarice come home for the holidays. Mycroft checks on him while Clarice plays the dutiful daughter (his father doesn't know, and his mother doesn't truly understand, he suspects, or they wouldn't be expecting Mycroft to do the same later).
Mycroft looks at him. "Mummy says you set your curtains on fire last month."
"Did Mother tell you this, or Clarice?" Sherlock asks. He is taller than when Clarice saw him last. She'd gone home for winter hols while Mycroft had visited Sweden with some friends (a successful experiment -- he'd been able to keep track of both things at once, and had been rather proud of himself for weeks afterwards).
"The letter was addressed to the both of us," Mycroft replies, but that isn't the question Sherlock's really asking. In another part of the house, Clarice makes her excuses and goes to his room to unpack their things. "Well-observed, baby brother."
"Do you and Clarice ever want different things?" Sherlock asks curiously. "I mean, of course one of you could be hungry or cold when the other one isn't. But anything else? Why does Mycroft study Political Science while Clarice studies Economics?"
"Because those were my top two choices," Mycroft answers. "I can do both. It comes in useful."
"Do you speak when you and she are the only ones in the room?" Sherlock answers the question himself when Mycroft only stares at him. "Right, of course you wouldn't. There'd be no need to. Who else knows?"
"Mummy has an idea of it; no one else. Also, it's almost time for dinner. Mummy wants me to fetch you," Mycroft says, because their mother had told Clarice to fetch Mycroft and Sherlock for dinner when she finished unpacking her things.
When Clarice finally arrives (Mycroft stops talking and she picks up the thread of conversation seamlessly), Sherlock looks between them thoughtfully and says, "Mycroft, when you -- at night, do you and she ever..."
"There's no 'me and she'," Clarice says, and finishes pointedly as Mycroft, "Just me."
He doesn't answer the question.
--
"Hi again. Anthea, right?" John says to Clarice when Mycroft sends the car for him. He gives her a hopeful smile.
"Melanie, actually. I'm sorry, did you want something?" she asks politely.
The smile fades slightly, but John presses on. "Are you working tonight?"
For a moment, he's tempted to say no, and let John ask him out. Because John is kind, loyal, and surprisingly fit under his jumpers. Also, it'd drive Sherlock mad. But he's really more Mycroft than not (and John seems to still think his name is Anthea; he ought to correct that at some point), and it'd be dishonest.
But more importantly, Sherlock would probably figure it out and tell John within an hour of him getting home, so it's really out of the question. "I'm always working," she responds with an insincere smile, and looks back at her BlackBerry; she's researching the notes Mycroft will need for a meeting later.
"Well, I'm sure your boss wouldn't mind if you took a day off," John says.
Mycroft hates when men try to pick him up. It's always so clumsy, as if being moderately aesthetically pleasing somehow turns them into brutes. Not that he'd consider John a brute, and his earnestness is charming. But still.
"Not happening," she says, again politely. She doesn't bother to look at him this time, and they spend the rest of the ride in silence.
--
It's a routine meeting -- pick John up, congratulate him on not letting Sherlock die, once again offer to help John with his finances in exchange for information about Sherlock (John turns him down, again, on the principle of the matter), give John a case to pass to Sherlock which will largely be ignored until Mycroft makes a personal visit.
Mycroft's focus is mostly on Moriarty -- he's just received a couple promising leads, and he'll need to deploy teams to follow through on them, so he's surprised when John gives him a hesitant look and says, "So, Anthea."
"Her name's not actually Anthea," Mycroft comments, and raises an eyebrow. Clarice has already returned to his office, and is managing the daily minor crises that supposedly need his 'full' attention.
"So what's her real name?"
"I can't tell you that." Her real name's Clarice, but the one on her identification is Annabelle, and the name she gives people varies by the week. It's become a minor entertainment, choosing different names according to his mood.
"Is she seeing anybody?"
He hasn't had anyone ask him about himself since he'd gone to uni with both bodies and shared a flat with himself. "Not in the strictest sense, no," he concedes. "But she doesn't date."
"Why not?"
Because she's him, and John knows the both of them but doesn't know that. Because John's only attracted to her because she's pretty. Because in the strictest sense of the word, he's not even really a woman. He just pretends to be one when it's convenient for him, when he needs to be underestimated or unobtrusive.
On the other hand, it'd be interesting even if things were to end disastrously. But that's unlikely -- John's bisexual, and has had relationships with men in the past. Plus, he gets along with Sherlock, and no one gets along with Sherlock.
Then again, he does love things that are interesting.
"She has her reasons. But if you're interested, I can send her to your flat around, hmm, Friday 7 PM?"
John's body language goes immediately defensive. His eyes narrow suspiciously. "I don't need you to force her to go out with me if she doesn't want to. I'm not that hard up for dates, thanks. Is this part of one of your games with Sherlock?"
"I wouldn't worry about that," Mycroft dismisses. He's used to speaking about himself in the third person by now. "I'm hardly going to make her do something against her will. Friday, 7 PM. I'll send the car."
--
When it comes time to figure out what to do after uni, he decides he likes Mycroft more. There's nothing wrong with Clarice, but he doesn't like being a girl as much -- he doesn't like the way people treat her, nor the way she's expected to act. The clothes are less comfortable, and the respect her presence commands insufficient.
By his last year, Mycroft has several employment offers from a small number of promising government organizations, and Clarice has none. The former is important but the latter hardly matters. It's pointless to focus on two careers at once when he can truly excel at one instead.
He takes one of Mycroft's offers and focuses as much attention as he can on it, using both brains to achieve one goal. Several times, he hits upon a key realization when Clarice is awake but Mycroft asleep.
He installs Clarice as his assistant when the moment becomes opportune (in the meantime, she gets a doctorate -- because she can, and because he'd rather learn than do something boring, until he has enough strings to pull that he can get what he wants).
There are so many things people will say when they think their only listener is a secretary, or a woman; it turns out to be almost completely unnecessary to review the transcripts from the bugs just outside his office.
--
On Friday, Clarice takes a shower before her date while Mycroft goes through their shared closet to find her clothes for the night, envisioning herself in each outfit until he finds the one John would like best. He sets it on their bed, then fetches her boots from the closet. She normally doesn't wear them, but they make her legs look longer without making her taller. She's already a bit taller than John, so heels are out of the question.
It's a habit of his to use both bodies on the same task when no one's around, so Mycroft dries her hair while Clarice applies perfume to her suprasternal notch and the undersides of her wrists. When she accents her mouth with a small amount of lipstick, Mycroft runs the brush through her hair, then follows it with his fingers to coax out the worst of the static.
He helps her get dressed, passing her clothes to her so she doesn't have to pause to retrieve each article. Plain underthings, of course, as it's only a first date. He considers her when he's done. Not bad, he thinks, though the outfit will be a little chilly, if John wants to go for a walk. Perhaps John will offer her his jacket.
--
John flushes slightly when he opens his door. His eyes flick up and down her body. "Hi! I, um, wasn't sure Mycroft was serious when he said he'd..." He trails off.
"When he said I would go out with you tonight?" She finishes for him.
"You know you don't have to, right? I mean, if you don't want to, that's fine. I don't want you to feel obligated. I won't be mad or anything." Except that John's hair is still damp from his shower, and he's wearing a button-down shirt that nicely emphasizes his broad shoulders. He wants to touch them (with either body, to see how much strength is really stored in John's muscles).
"I don't mind. Did you decide yet what you want to do? I believe dinner, sometimes followed by drinks, is traditional."
"That sounds great." John smiles at her. "Are you still going by Melanie?"
"No, I decided I don't like the i-e combination at the end. I haven't chosen a new one yet. Any suggestions?"
John holds the car door open for her. He wouldn't, if Mycroft had gone instead (but then, he wouldn't have asked Mycroft in the first place). "I thought Anthea was nice, personally."
"Anthea for tonight, then," she agrees.
--
When he is nineteen, no one asks out Mycroft Holmes, but plenty of young men try their luck with his twin sister Clarice. Most of the time, he turns them down. He has his studies to attend to, and people to meet with, and a teenaged brother to keep from driving their mother mad.
But he says yes sometimes, because relationships are the sort of thing one needs personal experience to to truly understand, and he intends to understand everything. Clarice has the social life Mycroft can't be seen to have (he needs a reputable past if he's to go into government work, and unfortunately, he harbors no attraction to women).
He gets bored of most men after the first few dates -- too stupid, too shallow, too obvious when their eyes linger on Clarice's chest and their hands slide tentatively up her thigh, pursuing sex with a tenacity the subject matter really doesn't deserve. Clarice has sex with them anyway on occasion, when he's bored or because he's curious, but doesn't usually keep them around for long.
"I haven't been on a proper date in a long time," She admits to John as they wait for the waiters to bring them their meal. "Not since, hmm... Uni, I think."
John looks at her with honest surprise. "Really? Why not? I'd think you could get loads of blokes. Work?"
"Mostly," she agrees, and taps the tip of her fork against her lips before remembering the lipstick he'd put on earlier. He hadn't really liked the men who'd asked Clarice out before, and after uni, he'd experimented instead as Mycroft, before his career had started to require more of his attention and when discretion had been easier.
"What's it like working for Mycroft?" John asks, taking a sip of water. His face is open and friendly, a far cry from the guarded, wary expressions he wears when Mycroft asks him questions about his younger brother.
"Oh, it's alright." She handles all the electronic correspondences and sometimes even actual secretarial work while Mycroft takes care of the physical meetings. "How's living with Sherlock?"
John is freer with his words when he's on a date, and he tells her about Sherlock's tendencies towards using John's laptop and leaving toxic chemicals in jars in the fridge. He describes the way Sherlock likes to throw himself on furniture when he's in a sulk, and complains about how Sherlock never does any of the cleaning. He is halfway through an anecdote about the time Sherlock managed to stain his hands with silver nitrate when his phone buzzes.
"Text from Sherlock?" She asks, and looks at her plate, sneaking a glance at John to gauge his emotions -- it can't be anything important, of course, or else Mycroft's phone would have buzzed as well. John's mildly irritated face confirms that he knows he's being interrupted on a whim.
John sighs and slips the phone back into his pocket without replying. "It's nothing important," he says.
"He'll text again within the five minutes if you don't respond," she comments.
"He knows better. I'm on a date," and John smiles so shyly at her that she can't help but smile back, despite the fact that he's seen the CCTV footage, and knows that Sherlock's deliberately interrupted a good 40% of John Watson's dates (or 100% if one counted electronic intervention).
"If you say so," she replies, and is not surprised when, three minutes later, John's phone buzzes again. Sherlock's bored, not high (it's been a couple years, and Mycroft still counts each day Sherlock stays clean as a minor victory), and knows that John is enjoying his date. Sherlock does not know that John is currently on a date with his elder sister (else one of him would have received an irate text message by now).
"Sorry," John says, and sets the phone aside on the table. "I don't know what he wants. Probably just to have me run an errand for him. Where were we?"
"You were talking about Sherlock," she reminds him, with no small amount of amusement. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather be on a date with him?"
"Oh, god, no. I think I'd strangle him to death if I ever dated him." John laughs. "If he's this bad now that he knows I like him, I can't even begin to imagine how he'd act if he thought I loved him."
Mycroft doesn't have to imagine; he has an entire budget dedicated to cleaning up Sherlock's messes and ensuring he has clothes and food and the like. It's separate from the budget allocated for handling Sherlock's enemies, which is larger but also more useful, as Sherlock's enemies are not infrequently enemies of the state as well.
Unconditional love can be so inconvenient, sometimes (but he wouldn't trade it away for anything).
"Sherlock's hard to get along with," She agrees. "He likes to push people and always forgets that sometimes, he won't be forgiven for it." Sherlock's family had always forgiven his actions, and he thinks it's spoiled him, a little. In social interactions, certainly.
John, he expects, is probably not going to help the matter.
"Do you -- have you known Sherlock for long, then? When did you meet him?"
She gives him a tight smile, and a moment later, John's phone buzzes. It's not Sherlock this time -- he knows this because it's from his phone, because he'd had to pause the typing up of his commands for containing the Sudanese incident in order to send it. It's generally considered bad form to talk about men you're attracted to during a date. it reads.
John frowns and presses a button the screen curiously. "Blocked number, not Sherlock."
He knows when John's read his text because he flushes with embarrassment and hastily closes it. But he chalks it up as a success, because John changes the subject to the latest films instead, and he's seen enough of them to hold up his end of the conversation.
--
When the car stops in front of 221B Baker Street, she walks John to the door. John takes her hand in his and gives her a brief kiss on the mouth. It is their first kiss, formal and expected and just a little bit uncertain. Nice, though. She kisses him back.
His thumb strokes the back of her hand. "Do you want to come inside? For tea or, I think I might have a bottle of wine lying around?" John does; Mycroft had had it sent as a Christmas gift the previous year.
"No thank you," she replies, and nods at the car idling at the side of the street. "I should get back to work."
"You're going back to work? Bit late, isn't it?"
"Working from home," she says. "Good night."
He's still en route to his house when Clarice's phone receives the irritated text from Sherlock (Mycroft's phone receives it too, at the same time).
What are you playing at, Mycroft?
SH
It's followed by several more, in quick succession.
Is this a ruse to manipulate him into spying on me?
SH
He doesn't know we're related.
SH
He doesn't know about you either. Any of it.
SH
Are you going to tell him?
SH
It was just a date, Anthea types out, because Mycroft is in the middle of a conference call. Not everything is about you, Sherlock.
--
Mycroft doesn't intend anything to come of the date. He has work and he doesn't really have the time to pursue an actual relationship. It'd just been a nice way to pass an evening, and easier than repeatedly turning down John's advances. He's not even in the country (though Clarice is) three days later, when Mycroft gets an unexpected text from Sherlock.
John doesn't have Clarice's phone number.
SH
For a moment, he doesn't understand what Sherlock means (though in his defense, Mycroft's busy mentally examining pages of statistics for inconsistencies right now, so there isn't a significant amount of his concentration allocated to Clarice).
Unfortunately, Clarice hasn't got the personal phone, Mycroft does. A trade would be mildly inconvenient.
I don't have one, Clarice replies from her BlackBerry -- the one he uses exclusively for work. Tell him Mycroft and Clarice are twins.
Sherlock's reply arrives less than ten minutes later. Told him after the "date". I'll let him know you aren't available. SH
A perfectly acceptable outcome. He doesn't bother to reply.
Except that Clarice's work phone buzzes not two hours later. The message is from John, but Sherlock's phone number is the one that shows up on the screen.
Hi! Is this Anthea? Or Clarice? Sherlock's being a prat, but I had a good time the other day. Would you like to go out again sometime? :) -John
He really oughtn't. He really oughtn't. But he thinks about the look on Sherlock's face when he realizes they've been on a second date, and the feel of John's hand on his, and the warm, comfortable press of John's shoulder against his own. Mostly the latter, and that's what makes the decision for him.
Mycroft's away on business right now, so I'm rather busy, Clarice responds. But how does Friday after next sound?
--
"Are you my brother or my sister?" Sherlock asks one time, while they are all at home for Christmas. He is perched on the armchair in a corner of Clarice's room, legs drawn up to his knees. His shoes are on the seat; their mother would throw a fit if she saw. He eyes Mycroft and Clarice narrowly.
Clarice lies on the bed, and Mycroft lies between her legs. The back of his head rests on her breasts. Clarice's hands hold up the book, but Mycroft's eyes are the ones to read it.
"I'm your sister," she says, turning the page when he reaches the end of the current one, "and Mycroft is your brother. I suppose that means I'm both."
"You can't be both," Sherlock says, frowning.
"Why not?"
Sherlock doesn't have an answer, because apparently Mycroft perceives the world in a way different from most people (where, in this case, even Sherlock is in the majority). Because Clarice is a woman, and Mycroft is a man, which means that he is both. He finds about as much existential significance in this as normal people might find in the fact that they have both a left and right hand.
If he'd thought it was any of Sherlock's business, or if he'd bothered to be more introspective about it, he might have said, "You think of your body as a container for your mind. I think of my bodies as two possessions I own and control, with the same mind present in both. I'm Clarice just as much as I am Mycroft."
But it's really none of Sherlock's business, and he really hasn't thought about it much aside from its practical applications (there are a lot of practical applications), so he doesn't say anything.
--
Sherlock steals John halfway through their second date in order to pursue a serial arsonist. In theory, he doesn't mind, because it's always nice seeing his younger brother do something that isn't entirely self-destructive. But he does mind the fact that neither John nor Sherlock lets him know when it's over (he finds out from Scotland Yard instead).
Clarice retaliates by accepting John's invitation to come into to John's flat for some tea at the end of their third date, and afterwards, lets him press her against the sofa and slide his hands around her waist.
By the time Sherlock returns from Bart's, carrying a box of human body parts (he already has a collection of most extremities, so likely to be an internal organ, most likely a lung based on what little of the label he can see and the way Sherlock is humming slightly under his breath), one of John's hands is cupping Clarice's right breast under her bra, and her mouth is on his throat. Her hands are on John's hips, unsure if she wants to stop him from proceeding further.
The box doesn't fall to the ground (Sherlock's much too aware of himself to ever let that happen), but Sherlock does stop abruptly and make a noise of deep disgust. "Don't do that on the sofa. I sit on that."
Clarice smothers her laugh against John's neck as he groans. She pushes lightly at his shoulders. "Sorry, Sherlock," John says as he buttons his shirt back up. "I thought you'd be out all night."
"No, he merely went to Bart's for a few hours," Clarice corrects; Mycroft had seen the surveillance footage when Sherlock had left the flat, and he'd been grinning in the anticipatory way that always meant he was fetching more things to experiment on. "Lungs again?"
"I need to see the effect different poisonous gases have on lung tissue," Sherlock says curtly. He stares at her and John. She isn't surprised when Sherlock makes another annoyed noise and storms to the kitchen to deposit his lungs.
"Sorry," John murmurs to Clarice, his eyes following Sherlock's path. "Do you want to move to the bedroom?" he suggests, at the same time that Clarice extricates herself from him and says,
"I think I should leave now."
Disappointment flickers in his eyes but he walks her to the door, hand on the small of her back. They trade brief kisses at the doorway. "I'll see you later, yeah?"
"Of course."
--
"I really ought to fire everyone who doesn't notice when you sneak past them," Clarice comments when Sherlock appears in front of her desk, having bypassed two sets of security personnel. The third set had identified Sherlock and notified Mycroft, but as they didn't have any non-lethal weaponry, hadn't bothered to try stopping him.
"What are you doing with John?" Sherlock demands. He puts his hands on Clarice's desk, looming over her threateningly.
She raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him. "Dating him, apparently."
"Apparently," Sherlock repeats, as if Clarice had really said, "Lulling him into a false sense of security so I can replace him with a robot clone to monitor your every movement." As if he didn't have surveillance teams for that instead. "Why?"
"He asked me out. Multiple times. It seemed easier than saying no."
Sherlock stares at her intently. "You like him," he says in a tone that sounds a lot like you took away my chemistry set had when they'd been children. "You're dating him."
She sighs. "Why don't you go inside?" she asks, because Mycroft's just finished his call with the CIA, and it will be easier to remove this conversation from the records if it's recorded by the bugs in his office instead of the ones outside it. "Mycroft's schedule is free for the next thirty minutes."
Sherlock does so, throwing himself into the chair on the opposite side of Mycroft's desk in a way that means he's gearing up for a truly spectacular sulk.
"I'm not the one who has to live with you, Sherlock," Mycroft reminds him as Clarice returns to her BlackBerry -- John has been texting him at work, which is moderately entertaining if only because several of Mycroft's men are currently trying to decide if, when, and how they want to tell him that it appears his twin sister is cheating on him with his younger brother's flatmate. "I don't care how much you sulk."
"You and John. You're -- He doesn't know he's dating you too," Sherlock informs him, slouching down in his chair.
"I'm aware of that," Mycroft says, and looks steadily at his younger brother. This is not how Sherlock normally acts. This is not how Sherlock's reacted to Mycroft's dating in the past (though that had been mostly snide comments, and they'd both been much younger then).
"Is there a difference between Clarice and Mycroft?" Sherlock asks abruptly, half-turned to look towards Clarice, though he can't see her through the door. "Aside from the obvious physical ones?"
"Career and influence. Expectations that have to be met," Mycroft says. "Everything of import is done under my name, and you already know she uses a false identity."
"Yes, obviously," Sherlock says crossly and settles back in his seat. "But aside from that."
"No. It's just hardware. Society has different rules for men and women, so sometimes we -- I -- act differently, but... aside from that, no." Mycroft folds his hands on the desk. "Why do you ask?"
Sherlock's never been interested before. But something's different. Something's different now, visible in the way his eyes slide from Mycroft's and the stubborn clench of his jaw. It's visible in the way Sherlock's lips tighten and he refuses to answer.
The reason hits Mycroft suddenly. It's not about him; it's about John.
But he's not jealous; if he was jealous, Mycroft would know -- Sherlock would be insufferable in his possessiveness, clinging and challenging and pressing all his buttons to make him go away (Mycroft doesn't mind; if Sherlock's happier having Mycroft's Stradivarius, he's welcome to keep it). So when he identifies what Sherlock's really feeling, he can't stop the surprised laugh that bubbles up in his throat.
"You're loyal to him. More than that, you're protective of him. I see Doctor Watson's loyalty has not been misplaced."
Sherlock scowls fiercely at him. "Shut up, Mycroft."
"Rest assured, little brother. I've hardly got a nefarious plan up my sleeve. They really are just dates." When Sherlock looks skeptical, Mycroft adds kindly, "If it'll make you believe me, most of the 'spying' I do on you is from the bugs in your flat -- there's no significant benefit to enrolling John's aid."
"So you genuinely care about him. Mycroft and Clarice. You're not just -- doing this for some plot."
"I haven't done that for years, Sherlock," Mycroft reminds him.
Sherlock looks like he wants to protest, or maybe say something else, but his phone buzzes and his eyes widen. "You told John on me!"
"Perhaps," Mycroft admits, because it's possible that as soon as Sherlock had come into his office, Clarice may have texted John about it, saying Sherlock was interrogating her about their relationship.
"I hate you," Sherlock mutters, halfway out the door, fingers already typing a response.
--
"Fuck," Clarice swears viciously when she missteps (his concentration is on Mycroft's conversation with Sherlock, so he doesn't notice the crack in the pavement) and her ankle gives out from under her. John catches her before she hits the ground, but her ankle still explodes in pain. "Fuck," she repeats again.
"Here, let me see," John says, and crouches down, wrapping warm fingers around the heel of her foot. He looks up at her after a few seconds. "It's just a little sprained. Does it hurt to walk?"
It hurts too much to carry her weight when she tries. She fishes her phone out of her purse. "Yes. I'll send for a car."
John's arm goes around her waist. "It'll be ten minutes before the car arrives. My flat's closer, and then we can put some ice on it."
--
When John pushes open the door and helps Clarice inside, Mycroft is already at the flat, talking to Sherlock (just an investigation into a missing foreign dignitary, is that so much to ask?). John stops short at the sight of Mycroft and Sherlock.
"Clarice sprained her ankle," John tells them.
"Obvious," Sherlock says to John. Mycroft has to bite his lip from agreeing with him; Clarice was limping and John was holding her up. It was rather obvious what had happened.
"Right, well, I'll just fetch some ice then." John helps her to the sofa next to Sherlock and then hesitates, looking between her and the kitchen, as if afraid to leave them alone together.
"John," Clarice says. "Whatever you're afraid he'll do, I've probably seen him do before. He is my brother. And he's so much better socialized, now that you're looking after him. Just like training a dog."
Sherlock scowls at her.
By the time John returns with the ice, wrapped in a hand towel, Sherlock and Mycroft have traded places. Clarice's bare ankle is in Mycroft's lap, where he prods it gently to test the pain. High heels can be so treacherous sometimes. Mycroft holds his hand out for the ice, which John hands to him after a second of staring.
"How's the pain?" John asks.
"She's fine," Mycroft replies, pressing the cold bundle against her ankle. "Hardly serious. Sherlock? If you don't do it, I'll have to find someone else who will, and no one quite has your finesse."
"You mean everyone else you have is incompetent," Sherlock says flatly.
"Compared to you, yes."
"You can do it yourself. Or make Clarice do it. You're just as capable, much as I hate to admit it."
"Sorry, I didn't know Sherlock and Mycroft were going to be over," John murmurs softly to Clarice. He toys with a lock of her hair. "Do you want to..." He trails off, looking hopefully up in the direction of his bedroom.
Clarice gives him a tight smile. She can't, not when Mycroft is here too. While he's capable of holding two conversations and sets of reactions at once, it significantly reduces his ability to make observations and conclusions. "No, it's fine," she says. "I should go home. There's a car coming for Mycroft in several minutes; I'll go with it."
"I don't want to," Sherlock is saying to Mycroft. His mouth set in a stubborn almost-pout that hasn't worked since he'd stopped being a teenager. "I'm busy."
"No you're not," Mycroft replies, because John had just been telling Clarice about how Sherlock was bored again and bringing undesirable things back to the flat in an attempt to alleviate said boredom.
He'd suggested posting the violin to Harriet's house and challenging Sherlock to find it (the important thing wasn't the location, but rather the travel time for Sherlock to get to the location). John had laughed himself sick when she'd told him about the time she and Mycroft had done something similar to Sherlock's favorite pair of shoes, when they'd been children and Sherlock had gone nosing about into his room.
"You're cheating again." Sherlock scowls at him. "I'm not going to help you if you're going to cheat."
John is apparently content to sit on the arm of the sofa and let Clarice rest her head against his thigh. His hand is on her hair, and it's -- nice, soothing. Interesting. It's not at all like the feel of Mycroft's hand on her heel, which feels exactly the way her own hand would -- interested but uninteresting, curious about the pain and casually comfortable with its location.
Both bodies tilt their heads back slightly, and he makes a pleased 'hmm' sound -- or, Mycroft does, and Sherlock gives him a sharp look, because that's the wrong body. John doesn't notice, but Sherlock has, because while physical sensation doesn't bleed through (he won't be limping on Mycroft's ankle), he only feels one set of emotions.
"I'll think about it," Sherlock says, and his eyes slide towards John, then Clarice, and finally land back on Mycroft. I'll do it if you tell him, it means.
He looks at John and himself; he looks surprisingly contented -- her body is content, relaxed because her ankle doesn't hurt all that much now that it's cold and not under strain. John's hand is in her hair, and his thigh is warm under the back of her head. He smells pleasant, too -- fresh, clean, and with a little bit of the smell of a hospital about him.
And he does rather like John.
"That's good to hear," Mycroft says, and stands up. Maybe. "The car is waiting outside. I'll see you later, Sherlock."
There is a moment of confusion where John and Mycroft both try to help Clarice up. Clarice grabs Mycroft's hand to get pulled up before John can say a word, leaving him looking put out and hurt.
"Sorry," Clarice says when he realizes what happened and gives John an apologetic smile. "Did you want to --"
"It's fine," John says, but his eyes follow Mycroft's arm around Clarice's back on their way out.
The thing about secrets is that once people find the first secret (Annabelle and Mycroft live together. They are closer than close and share a bed.), they rarely search deeper. Few of them find the second secret (Annabelle's real name is Clarice Holmes. She and Mycroft are twins).
They never think there'd be a third secret, one worse than the hints of incest and a cover-up, one that means dangerous (Clarice and Mycroft are fundamentally different from everyone else. They are something that's never been discovered before. They can do things that have never been done before).
John is told the second secret first. He'll learn the first one, eventually, because it's only a matter of time before Clarice will be expected to invite him to her home, which she shares with Mycroft and has only one bedroom (and a guest room that no one's used since Sherlock's been clean). John will probably not accept this first secret, unless he learns about the third at roughly the same time.
Lovers generally didn't. People generally didn't, if they knew Mycroft and Clarice were related by blood, until Mycroft had gained enough influence that they didn't dare mention his violation of taboos to his face and he'd become too valuable to lose over something so insignificant as incest.
In uni, Clarice and Mycroft had rented a flat with two bedrooms -- he'd ended up only using one, of course, but the other had looked lived-in enough that he'd been able to bring home bed partners without rousing any suspicions, except for the one time he had.
It happens when he's still careless with his belongings. When Clarice and William head to the bedroom, Will's foot kicks the arm of one of Mycroft's shirts. "Careful," Clarice murmurs, already working at the buttons on Will's shirt. "It's expensive."
"That's a man's shirt," Will says, catching her hands, stilling them. "What's it doing at the foot of your bed?"
"It belongs to Mycroft," she responds with a roll of her eyes. Mycroft had left it there when undressing the night before, and it hadn't occurred to him to put it away before going on his date. "Just leave it."
But Will doesn't leave it, because he's come by while she and Mycroft were both at the flat before. He's seen the way they don't speak to each other but seemingly know what the other is thinking, and the way their bodies coordinate effortlessly on tasks. He's seen how it looks like one person living here -- one person's sense of decoration, one person's tastes and spaces and belongings. Not two. He hasn't asked her outright, but he's been wondering about it. "What's it doing there?"
She shrugs. "Does it matter?" she asks, and drags Will down for a kiss.
He expects that to be the end of it and makes a mental note to be more discreet when bringing others home with him, but later Will comes to his apartment when Clarice is at a lesson and asks to speak to him.
"Of course," Mycroft says, and lets him in. There are different rules for personal space between men and women, between lovers, and between men and men; it takes a moment for Mycroft to remember the right ones to follow, and he takes a half-step back when he realizes he's accidentally standing too close. Clarice walks near enough to hold hands with Will, even if they usually don't. Mycroft is expected to leave several feet of open space between them. "Did you want something?"
"It's about Clarice," Will begins, then stops.
"What about her?" Mycroft prompts, when no explanation is forthcoming. He doesn't have to ask, of course. It's obvious.
It's written in the tension in Will's body, the way his hands curl unconsciously into fists at his side and the way his eyes scan the room, looking for something that isn't there. Proof that doesn't apply. Because Will had added two and two together to get, well, four and a bit. Almost right, but not quite -- evidence and evidence and one incorrect jump to arrive at the wrong conclusion.
The curve of Will's lips is caused by suspicion and anger and something that verges on disgust.
"You and her," Will says challengingly.
It hurts, the way Will looks at him. It's mistrusting. He's so much sweeter with Clarice -- with her, he's gentle, genuinely so, and that's what he's used to. But Will doesn't know Mycroft, except from passing mention of him as her twin. As far as he knows, Mycroft is a complete stranger to him, even though they'd curled up in Will's bed together not two weeks ago, and he'd stroked her hair and swore she was beautiful.
"What about us?" Mycroft asks, because he wants to hear it. He wants it thrown into the air between them like a gauntlet.
"Are you fucking her?" Will demands, and takes a threatening step forward. "She doesn't say anything about it, but you are, aren't you?"
Will not being a complete imbecile had been much more attractive when he hadn't been blowing things out of proportion.
"Is that what you think?" Mycroft asks curiously.
Admittedly he does on occasion, when he's in the mood for it. He finds his mouth to be more pleasurable than his hand, if he fancies a wank and both bodies are in the same place at the same time. And he's certainly never hesitated to satisfy both bodies at once, or to use them together to research his own preferences. He's never seen any reason not to.
"It's what I know," Will says. "Do you force her? Is that why you write all her papers for her? So she'll spread her legs like a whore and let you --"
"Don't be stupid," Mycroft interrupts, and then says nastily, because he is angry and his feelings are hurt and he'd never thought her boyfriend would talk about her like that, "At least I know how to get her off without spending five minutes drooling sloppily on her clitoris."
Will punches Mycroft in the face and threatens to tell everyone what he and Clarice do together; in return, Mycroft threatens to pull strings and get him kicked from the rugby team, and reminds Will that no one would believe him.
In the end, Will doesn't mention what happened to Clarice, but Mycroft sports a black eye that lasts nearly two weeks. The sight of it in the mirror is enough for her to break it off rather harshly with Will when he tries to call her.
Trying to enter a relationship had always seemed a bit futile, after that.
--
"Do you think we should break up?" Clarice asks the next time John calls her -- 7 PM but she's still at the office, finishing up his analysis of the Planck accounts (evidence of insider trading -- so boring, and with so much paperwork).
"What? Why should we break up? I thought things were going pretty good."
"Well," she corrects automatically. "Going pretty well. But -- I wasn't looking for a relationship when I agreed to go out with you. And now you seem to think we're in one."
"We are in one," John points out, sounding hurt. "I thought you wanted that too."
"I do," she agrees, because she hasn't been in a real relationship in years. Because coming home to an empty house is boring and even she knows half his visits to Sherlock are to check up on him because he's got nothing better to do the spare time when he's not working. "But," she says, and takes a deep breath, feeling like she's about to throw herself off the edge of a cliff. "There are things you don't know about me. That you should know before anything further happens between us."
There's a long pause -- John, undoubtedly, is trying to decide what she's alluding to, given that he already knows all of Sherlock's more irritating habits (dead animals in the living areas?) and hasn't been significantly phased by any of them.
"Nothing violent," she says when the appropriate amount of time has passed -- when John's thoughts will have drifted from experiments to murder or a history of abuse. "Nothing bad in the way you're thinking."
"Does it have to do with Sherlock? With my going on cases with him, or any of that?"
"No," she says, though really he means not yet. A part of him is still half-expecting Sherlock to be selfish and decide he wants John all to himself, or that he doesn't want Mycroft so closely involved in his life. But even that would just be a minor inconvenience, because for all that Sherlock acts like he expects to always get his way, Mycroft is the one who actually does get what he wants, in the end.
"Do you want to keep going out with me?"
Does he? She bites her lower lip. "I think so, yes."
--
He lets John take Clarice to dinner first -- John spends most of the meal looking thoughtfully at her. He gets a text message from Sherlock (something trivial to interrupt John because Sherlock resents being left alone) and ignores it even though normally he'd at least type back a short reply.
"You're watching me eat," Clarice says.
"Sorry." He stops for a few minutes, but eventually stares again, brows knit together in thought -- still trying to figure out what she wants to tell him. He's already figured out it has to do with her and Mycroft, but he's unwilling to seriously consider incest and has probably already verified with Sherlock that their parents did not abuse them.
The truth is not something he'll be able to guess.
The car takes them to Mycroft's house instead of dropping them off at Baker Street; when she gets out, she puts her hand on John's arm and tells him, "It'll be waiting here, if you want to leave."
The telling itself is not as bad as it could be. She sets John down on the sofa (in front of the television that never gets watched), and when he slides an arm around her shoulders, she goes willingly. Her head is on his shoulder when she says, "I know this sounds unbelievable, but Mycroft and I are -- linked, in a way that defies physics. Or any other field of science."
"Linked how?"
"We have the same thoughts."
"You mean telepathy?"
"No." He's never had to explain this before. There's no proper precedent for how to expect John will react. "I mean, literally, we have the same thoughts. We share a consciousness. I know it sounds unbelievable, but this isn't something I'd lie to you about and Sherlock will verify what I say."
John tenses; she gets up and budges to the side before he can push her away. "If this is true, then every time you and I..." he trails off, motioning between them. "He knows. How much -- does he -- can you block him out somehow?"
"It doesn't work like that," she says. She frowns. "All our experiences and sensory input are shared. In effect, we're one person."
"That doesn't make any sense," John says flatly. "How can you be one person?"
"I never did figure out the 'how' of it," she admits. He'd tried, of course, but there had been limits to his knowledge that couldn't be solved without proper testing, and proper testing was one of the things he'd had to do without, for safety's sake."It just is, and has been for as long as I remember."
John's eyes narrow. "Our first date. Mycroft sent me a text."
"I wasn't in the mood to listen to you talk about Sherlock. And I'm perfectly capable of pretending we're separate."
"So you know where Mycroft is and what he's doing, right now?"
"Bedroom, reading. It's the same book I mentioned to you earlier, I'm hoping to finish it by the end of the night. If computer metaphors help, since I know Sherlock's fond of pretending he's a robot, think of me as a dual-core machine, while everyone else has only the one. I think twice as quickly as normal people and have effectively 48 hours per day to spend, including the time both bodies need for sleep and other maintenance."
"Really?"
She sighs. "Yes, really," she says. "I can demonstrate, if you wish."
Mycroft pads out of the bedroom, still dressed in his suit from work. John watches him approach, looking between him and Clarice.
"I can continue this conversation just as easily as she can," Mycroft says. Clarice closes her eyes and leans her head back against the sofa. Her shoulders are tense. Mycroft kneads the muscles until they relax in his hands.
John stares at him, at his hands on Clarice's shoulders and the way her hair falls over his wrists. "What does it feel like when you touch her?" he asks curiously.
"It doesn't feel like anything in particular. They're just my shoulders. It's not like touching another person." It's not like touching you.
"Who else knows?"
"Sherlock. Our mother. You. No one else."
John almost believes him -- almost, but not quite, because he doesn't want to believe him. And, to be fair, it really doesn't make any sense. It just is. "So, who are you, then? Are you really Mycroft, or are you really Clarice?"
"I'm both," he says, through both mouths.
--
As expected, John takes the car home. Clarice doesn't kiss him goodnight, though she had on all their previous dates together. He doubts John would have welcomed it.
I told him. Let me know when you've found the identity of the blackmailers, Mycroft texts to Sherlock, and chalks it up as a learning experience.
--
He lets himself be drawn back into his work, letting it rise up around him until it's the only thing he sees and breathes and thinks. He's less than fifteen years and one properly cataclysmic world event away from achieving proper world domination (he only calls it that in his mind, and doesn't speak of it aloud). The CIA borrows Clarice again, so Mycroft spends extra time at the office to make up for it as Clarice keeps himself up-to-date on the latest advances in American intelligence while they try to pry information from her about, well, herself.
He doesn't check 221B's surveillance footage himself, but he skims the summaries. The night John gets home after Mycroft tells him, he and Sherlock speak for an hour and change. John goes to his room an hour later than his usual time, and the light in his bedroom doesn't go out until half an hour after that (twenty minutes longer than the average).
On the fourth day, Sherlock emails him the names of the blackmailers involved in the Stewart situation. Mycroft sends a team to collect them for questioning. Later, the security detail on Sherlock reports John Watson leaving the flat. He goes to a pub, leaves it twenty minutes later, then walks aimlessly for another hour, apparently deep in thought.
Interesting.
Mycroft receives another message from Sherlock, by text this time, several days afterwards.
John's phone lost during previous case. Requests your presence at 221B tomorrow evening for dinner.
SH
C is in the States, Mycroft replies. On business.
John says to bring Mycroft instead. SH
--
"You cooked," Mycroft says in surprise when John opens the door to the flat.
"You can tell that from here?"
Mycroft hangs his jacket on the wall and leans his umbrella right beneath it. "Yes," he says, but doesn't bother with the showy explanations he knows Sherlock favors. Showing off is more often irritating than impressive. He turns, and finds himself face to face with John.
If he'd brought Clarice here instead, she would have smiled and wrapped her arms around John's neck to pull him into a kiss -- if John didn't kiss her first. Or maybe she'd have slid an arm around his waist, and leaned against his broader, firmer body, and John would have run his fingers through her hair and grinned softly at her.
But Mycroft Holmes has six inches and twenty pounds on John Watson, and they've never touched, aside from accidental brushes against one another. John glances up at him, then takes a quick step back -- it puts a normal amount of space between them (the amount of space typically found between two heterosexual men).
"My apologies," Mycroft says stiffly, and there must be something revealed in his expression -- in his eyes, perhaps, because that's where John's looking. John's expression changes, becoming guilty and uncomfortable.
"No, you don't have anything to be sorry for. I'm sorry it took me so long to call again," John says, and steps close. He has to balance himself on one of Mycroft's arms and rise on his tiptoes to brush his mouth against Mycroft's. The kiss is brief, awkward, and over almost before Mycroft can even register the press of John's lips.
"You feel much smaller from this perspective," Mycroft says without thinking, because John would fit comfortably in his arms, with his head on Mycroft's shoulder. While Clarice had been able to tuck herself against John's side with some slouching, there's no way Mycroft would be able to do the same. Fascinating.
John gives a startled laugh. Some of the awkward tension leaks out of the room. His hand is still on Mycroft's arm, and he's close enough for Mycroft to feel the warm puff of his breath. "Two inches below average isn't that short, really. You're just bloody tall. You and Sherlock both."
"I'm an inch taller than him," Mycroft says with a smug smile. "He was so hopeful when he was experiencing his growth spurt, but he didn't quite beat me."
John laughs. The hand on Mycroft's arm shifts, the grip becoming looser and more natural. "Has anyone ever told you that you're a bit of a prat to Sherlock? I never would have believed it, but you are."
Sherlock's not here ("I told him to make himself scarce for a few hours," John explains as he places their meal on the table, which has been cleared of Sherlock's experiments), and after they finish eating, John smiles at him. It's a tentative smile, similar to the one he'd given Anthea on their first date together, back before John had started using her real name.
"You want to continue our relationship," Mycroft says, and helps John clear the dishes away. They settle together on the sofa afterwards, facing each other. "You're attracted to this body almost as much as you are to the other one. And you've spoken to Sherlock about me, of course. Whatever he told you can't have been too terrible."
"How much of it was real? Clarice likes fashion, reading bad science fiction, and watching romantic comedies. And you're -- was that all true?"
"Well, I wouldn't tell people that as Mycroft," Mycroft says. "But that doesn't mean it's not true. I'm the same person. Society has different standards for how men and women behave. I'm well-versed in what is and isn't gender-appropriate." He'd learned very early on that while Clarice could do most of the things Mycroft did, the reverse was profoundly not true.
"Does that bother you?"
No one's asked him that before, since no one's known before, and the question manages to genuinely surprise him.
"I --" he stops, frowning, and considers the question. Does it bother him, the differences people expect between Mycroft and Clarice? "To some extent, yes, because it's an inconvenient distinction to make. But it's just a rule one has to learn to integrate themselves in society -- nothing more, nothing less."
They talk for a while about other things, about Sherlock and cases and John's work at the surgery. Mycroft, in turn, gives John a highly edited description of the tamer incidents he's been involved in. Eventually, however, the subject turns back to Mycroft. Or, more specifically, MycroftandClarice, one entity.
"The bodies are functionally equivalent, though of course this one's more useful. There's much to be said for being male, when trying to get things done."
John tilts his head thoughtfully. At some point, they have migrated closer together on the sofa. He has to crane his head back to look Mycroft in the eyes. "And are you?"
"Am I what?"
"Male. Do you consider yourself male?" There is no uneasiness in John's posture; he's curious, nothing more.
Mycroft's never understood why people get so hung up on on such petty social norms. "Mycroft is male, but Clarice isn't. But if I had to choose one, I'd choose Mycroft. Does this bother you?" He knows the answer is mostly-not, but it's polite to ask.
"No," John says, and before he can say anything else, Mycroft curls his fingers around the nape of John's neck and licks his way into John's mouth, wet and dirty. They've kissed before and Mycroft doesn't kiss any differently than Clarice does, but John's reaction is completely different. Where before he was gentle, careful, now he's rougher, fighting for control.
"You're much rougher with men than you are with women," Mycroft comments, when he has John pinned to the sofa. The height different strikes him again -- he'd been able to curl up on John's chest before, but now he looms over John easily, locking him in place.
"You like it," John points out, which goes without saying at this point. The evidence of just how much Mycroft likes it is pressed firmly and obviously against his lower belly.
"I do," he agrees, and untucks John's shirt from his trousers. He grins against John's jaw. "If we have sex on the sofa, Sherlock will know and throw a fit. Do you want to?"
John chokes on his laughter. "We can't," he gets out between giggles. His hands smooth over Mycroft's shoulders. "We can't, he'd kill me."
"Sherlock's a prat, not a murderer," Mycroft says, sucking a path down the line of John's throat. If he tried, he could leave a bruise, bringing a tender, livid mark on his skin that would still be there tomorrow. John pokes him in the ribs.
"Don't," John says, even as he groans and tilts his head back to give Mycroft better access. "I'm working tomorrow."
Mycroft pauses a few minutes later, fingers wrapped around the buckle of John's belt while John grinds against his palm. Both their lips are kiss-swollen, bright and wet. "Sherlock will be home soon," he says, because Clarice is receiving Mycroft's notifications about his brother right now, and she's not distracted by the soft noises John makes, or the warm burn of arousal in Mycroft's veins. "He's on his way right now. We should move --"
"To the bedroom," John finishes for him. "Yes, come on, let's go."
--
Afterwards, John catches Mycroft's wrist when Mycroft swings his legs off the edge of his bed. "Where are you going? You don't have to leave."
"I have work," Mycroft explains as he pulls on his trousers and fishes around for his shirt.
"It's past midnight." John's thumb is warm on the underside of his wrist. "Get some sleep." His voice is low and rough with drowsiness, and Mycroft is sorely tempted to crawl back into bed with him and curl their bodies together.
But.
"It's not past midnight in America," Mycroft says regretfully. "The sooner Clarice finds out what I need to know, the sooner she returns to London. She's almost done."
John makes a muffled noise of assent, before registering Mycroft's actual words. He sits up. "Wait, was that what she doing just now, then? When we were... you know. Please tell me you weren't working while we were having sex."
"Well, you can't expect me to need two brains worth of processing power for sex," Mycroft points out reasonably, because while Mycroft been focused on the sheer physicality of John and the sensation of their bodies moving together, it'd been only natural to let Clarice borrow his spare mental resources. After all, she hadn't been having sex with him.
"You know, most blokes like to be the focus of their partner's attention during sex," John says, and now there is a thin thread of irritation in John's voice, because he doesn't quite understand, not really.
"You were the focus of Mycroft's attention. Clarice isn't even here," he replies, and gives John a thorough good-bye kiss before he leaves. "I swear I'll make it up to you, the both of me. I'll send a car, Tuesday when her flight gets in."
--
Sherlock is in the flat when Mycroft leaves, synthesizing poisonous gases on the kitchen table. His jaw clenches when Mycroft drifts close enough to identify the compounds he's playing with. "Couldn't you keep your hands off him long enough to not sully the sofa?"
"You should label this," Mycroft comments, picking up the bottle of vanilla that holds no actual vanilla in it. "John won't expect you to have swapped its contents out."
Sherlock glares at him when Mycroft puts it down, precisely two centimeters away from where it'd been previously. He darts his hand out, curling it protectively around the bottle as he brings it back to its original place. "Go away."
"In due time," Mycroft says. He takes a moment to steel himself, then says carefully, "You talked to John for me. About me."
Sherlock stares at his experiment. His hands are still. He doesn't say anything, but Mycroft can tell he's listening.
The surveillance footage hadn't come with an audio track, but Mycroft has been able to read Sherlock's body language ever since the summer during their childhoods when Sherlock had refused to speak a single word aloud. He'd watched the conversation twice, to be sure, but once had been enough for him to see what he needed to know.
"The situation with John would have been more difficult had you not intervened. So, thank you."
Sherlock makes a sort of indistinct noise that could almost be construed as acknowledgment. Then, he says, "It wasn't for you. But if you wanted, you could show your gratitude by not snogging him on my sofa." He glances at Mycroft. "Going back to work?"
"Clarice is being watched. I'll be performing her duties and maintaining my correspondences until she returns to London. Synthesizing nerve gas in your flat? What would your landlady think? Or, for that matter, the neighbors?"
"I know how to safely contain a reaction." Sherlock scowls at him. "I don't want you interrupting my experiments like you always do."
"You nearly blew yourself up, the last time you tried nerve gas," Mycroft reminds his brother pleasantly.
"That was ages ago!"
"Three years is not ages ago."
--
On Tuesday, John appears only mildly surprised to see Mycroft in the backseat of the car instead of Clarice. "Hi," he says to Mycroft, and leans in for a brief kiss. He is freshly showered and shaved. "I thought --"
"The flight was late," Mycroft explains. "Clarice is still en route in the cab. She'll get home shortly after we do. Have you eaten? We can order takeaway."
"Takeaway sounds great," John says and after a brief discussion on what to order, starts to take his phone out.
Mycroft stops him. "Clarice already placed the call," he says, because it'd been easier to do so in the relative quiet of her taxi, as soon as they'd made their decision. John blinks in surprise before grinning.
"Ah, right. Convenient, isn't it?"
"Quite," Mycroft agrees.
--
They are waiting for the takeaway (Mycroft is waiting for the takeaway; John is sitting with his hands folded in his lap while he tries to learn as much as he can about how Mycroft lives without actually asking him) when Clarice's car gets near. Mycroft goes to fetch her a glass of water. He heads to the front door, and John follows.
They meet Clarice at the front of the house. When she finishes paying the cabbie, Mycroft passes her the glass of water and goes to the boot of the car for her things. He can carry more than she can, and she's tired from the flight and lack of sleep.
John smiles brightly at her. He hugs her, then pecks her on the mouth. Clarice, in turn, tucks herself comfortably against him when he puts an arm around her waist, but John makes to pull away when he sees Mycroft. "Do you need help carrying her things in?"
Clarice tightens her arm around John's waist. "I quite like you where you are, actually," she says. Her bags aren't too unwieldy and she rather enjoys having John's arm around her.
"How was America?" John asks as they make their way inside.
"Confidential, mostly," she replies. "I looked at a lot of documents and talked to a lot of people, most of whom were important and bad at hiding secrets. I was acting on Mycroft's behalf, of course." Her smile is, perhaps, a little sharp -- he's always liked having people underestimate him, and sending Clarice in place of himself had certainly encouraged that. He will never stop finding it funny that people expect women (especially secretaries) to not be very bright.
Most of the time when he has an audience, he makes some effort to pretend Clarice and Mycroft as separate. He'll have the bodies smile at each other, or trade glances, or do a dozen other things that mark them as different.
He doesn't do that now. Instead, he lets things happen naturally, which means Clarice mouths John's throat while Mycroft pays for the takeaway and grabs the dishes, the two of them passing and coordinating their actions effortlessly (his body awareness extends to both bodies at once, of course).
He doles out portions for both himself and Clarice, while Clarice smooths her hair back to some semblance of neatness (she doesn't need a mirror when Mycroft can see her). She slips off of John's lap with a smile and says, "The takeaway's here. We should eat before it gets cold."
"Do you have a preference?" Mycroft asks after they have finished eating. Clarice has run to take a quick shower; perhaps she oughtn't since it's fairly obvious how this night is going to end, but he doesn't particularly like airports and wants to feel refreshed again. "For which body you want?"
John's facial expressions really are appallingly easy to read, Mycroft observes as he takes off his tie and jacket. First confusion, followed by comprehension and surprise. Then, a slight flush as he glances first to the bath where Clarice is, then to Mycroft, gaze pausing briefly on his mouth, hands, and groin.
"Or both at once," Mycroft agrees amicably, just to watch the flush deepen. John's tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he realizes with a rush of heat that Clarice hasn't yet, with John.
"Have you done it before? You and Clarice sharing someone?" John asks.
"When the occasion presents," Mycroft replies. He'd tried it a few times, to satisfy his curiosity -- just for fun, picking someone up to experiment on them. It'd been alright. Better than alright, really, compared to the usual multitasking with the second body. More intense. He'd be happy to do that now.
John swallows, and Mycroft knows he's thinking about Clarice, about her hair and skin and the fact that the water from the shower had stopped running several minutes ago. "I'd like that," he says, sounding strangled.
John goes gratifyingly speechless when Mycroft leads him to the bedroom, where Clarice is already waiting for them.
--
Things blur after that. He lets the distance between his bodies disappear into nothing, relaxes the part of his mind that constantly tracks where Clarice ends and Mycroft begins. It's easy, natural even, to remove the constant filter on his actions.
"Rougher," Mycroft urges from behind John, easing a second lubricated finger inside him. "I like -- teeth, just a little bit. Scrape, don't bite," and Clarice moans her approval when John obeys, his lips against her clit and three fingers buried to the hilt inside her.
And
She's coming, coming with a high whimper, clenching and shivering around John's fingers and against his mouth. John grins up at her, bright and smug, and Mycroft laughs in delight, twisting his fingers in a way that makes John groan and press back against him.
And then
John's inside her -- no condom, his skin against hers ("she's on birth control and I've seen your medical records," he says when John hesitates). His pubic bone grinds rough against her clit with each thrust, and Mycroft's behind him, pounding into him, and her hands are on his shoulders and on his hips and her mouth is against his ear as she gasps, "You feel so good, John, John -- you're so tight around me, fuck, inside me, oh --"
And finally
John's head on Mycroft's shoulder, and his shoulder tucked under her chin and his back warm against her chest and the skin of his waist under Mycroft's hand, warm and soft and just ever-so-slightly rough with pale scars. It's peaceful, and both of him are tired. John is already lightly dozing, and it's easy for him to just close his eyes and breathe in the comforting scent of John and himself and sex, until sleep overtakes him.
--
Some time later, Clarice arranges for a large gift basket to be delivered to 221B.
She gets a text before the surveillance footage is forwarded to him. It's from John, sent during his lunch hour. Sherlock's threatening to set it on fire. Please don't let him burn down the flat. :( PS: Dinner tonight?
He can't believe he finds the emoticons endearing. She responds, Tell him to look again at the color of the leaves. Dinner sounds lovely. What did you have in mind?
It's a secret. :) Be at the flat around seven.
She responds in the affirmative, and confirms the appointment in Mycroft's calendar. John doesn't send another message until an hour before his shift at the surgery is scheduled to end.
Why did Sherlock just text me telling me not to come home, and that he's got it under control?
It takes him a few minutes to extrapolate from the contents of the gift basket and Sherlock's impulsive nature exactly what happened. Most of those few minutes is because Clarice has to look up the MSDSes of several compounds to make sure her brother isn't likely to be in serious danger.
To John, she writes, Tell him I didn't realize he'd used up the last of his hydrochloric acid and not to mix the greens and the blues. Your flat will be uninhabitable for the next 12 hours. A car will be waiting for you when you leave work.
To Sherlock, she texts, I'll be taking John for the evening. Please don't destroy the flat in his absence.
John responds with another terrible emoticon. Sherlock doesn't deign to reply, but Mycroft hadn't expected him to. Sherlock will be too piqued about the gift basket to talk to him for days.
The Defence Secretary's aide nods at Clarice's BlackBerry knowingly and offers her a friendly smile. "Having a good day?"
She can't smother her grin before it escapes. "I've had worse."