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Mycroft is dreaming of sunflowers; deadly, assassin sunflowers when he is woken by the ruffle and rearranging of his bedsheets. Half asleep, already wary, he turns his head to find the bright eyed figure of Sherlock climbing into his bed.
"Sherlock, what - "
"Go back to sleep, Mycroft."
So he does.
That's the way it starts, nights spent together in bed, to all intents and purposes innocent.
But of course it's not innocent, because Sherlock is seventeen and it can't be purely platonic if they're not even friendly. Mycroft knows, of course, and should stop it, but finds he can't. Doesn't want to. It makes him feel aware of his own body again, in a way he hasn't been since he was a teenager himself (not so long ago). Sex is not a feature of either of their lives, but now there is this.
Oddly, Mycroft became aware of this some time ago - the fact that for Sherlock sex will only ever be aroused by the cerebral. And even if he does say so himself, there is no one else with a brain to match Sherlock's other than himself. It was just a vague tingle of a feeling then, a sense, an event in the future maybe to come. But now it's crawling into his bed every night and Mycroft seems to carry the feeling around with him all day, long after the night has gone.
But for now it's still just that, just sleeping. Just touching in sleep, a calf brushing against a calf in a lazy way, fingers trailing patterns on backs or sides, half asleep.
He always wakes up hard, these days.
When the time comes for him to go back to London (Christmas holidays over), he suggests to Mummy she might want to send Sherlock down for a little while, prepare him for the bustle of Oxford. He doesn't feel particularly proud of it, but the way Sherlock's eyes follow him around the room for the rest of the morning is a dangerous kind of reward. Sometimes - it seems - feeling takes priority over propriety. He isn't sure how he feels about this.
Sherlock arrives in London three days after Mycroft has settled himself back in his rooms, not quite Downing Street but a cosy little place not far off. When he appears on the doorstep, all wrapped up against the harsh January wind, Mycroft unwinds the scarf from around his neck and wonders if life has ever felt like this before. If this is what life feels like for other people.
A fresh bed is made up in the guest room but it never gets used; coming down after a shower with damp curls and pyjamas slung low on hips, Sherlock climbs onto the sofa next to Mycroft and proceeds to obliterate his personal space, feet draped over his lap. There is nothing to do but lift his book a little higher to make room and curl fire-warmed hands around the arch of a foot, rubbing slowly until he feels Sherlock shiver, curled beside him.
He starts taking Sherlock in on events then, consulting him on some of the more delicate matters of government. Strictly private and confidential, of course, but Mycroft thinks with a deepening feeling of impossibility that really that's the least of their worries. During the day, taking the Tube between engagements or trips to the Diogenes Club, they stand too close in the crowd and Mycroft lets Sherlock adjust his tie, straighten his waistcoat. They take advantage of the anonymity, the necessity of close confines during rush hour and when Mycroft leans back a little against a seat in the crush, Sherlock stands between his parted feet and they watch each other.
If Mycroft catches Sherlock's eyes flickering to his mouth a little more than is strictly proper, he doesn't say anything.
He tries to put a name on this feeling, this sensation Sherlock gives him. In the end he comes up only with hunger, because everything else feels inadequate.
"I have something I need your help with," he likes to say, and watch Sherlock's eyes light up. He would call that brain amazing and unique, if he didn't have one himself. For Sherlock it's about the challenge, the puzzle, and Mycroft suspects this might be the biggest one he'll ever encounter. It's certainly not usual.
They continue to sleep together - but just that, just sleep. Mycroft would be lying if he said he didn't wonder, just a little bit, every night if it might be different. But in the end Sherlock just curls onto his side, watches him carefully, licks his lips like an invitation and then inches closer, leaving himself all too near where Mycroft can touch him.
Of course he thinks about it. Thinks about nothing else. Sherlock is maddening, and Mycroft has never wanted anything quite this much in his life.
But still, propriety. And the rules of right and wrong - the Holmeses specialise in these. He knows them well already.
One morning, watching Sherlock's curls staining his pillow again, stark charcoal in the dawn light, Mycroft wonders when it feels worse - at night, like this, warm skin in so much inviting glory or in the day, watching Sherlock appraise someone as quickly as he does, catching one another's eye when the measure of a man has been decided upon. They know everything now, between them, about the cabinet and what they get up to; last week Sherlock noticed a jewel encrusted tie pin that gave away a health minister with a secret gay lover. It's wonderful, heady, dangerous knowing someone whose brain works the same way yours does. It sparks lust like nothing else he knows.
He never works out, before Sherlock wakes up, watching him with those clear, clever eyes, which one really is worse.
Their situation cannot last indefinitely, of course.
Mummy wants Sherlock home, back at school, before he misses too much work. An important term for him, despite the fact he could lecture the teachers until they begged for quiet. A day is fixed and a train back to Buckingham arranged - Friday, mid afternoon. Mycroft pretends he knows what he'll do when Sherlock eventually goes, pretends he doesn't want to devour him whole before the time comes.
It is Tuesday, early before a long meeting with the Prime Minister that their patterns changes. Something happens.
Mycroft wakes differently, not slowly with the drag of dawning sunlight through the window or instantly with the shrill of the alarm clock. It's in a haze, aware of movement in the room before he's even fully conscious.
Beside him, Sherlock is naked. Sheets pushed back despite the chill outside and his hand is moving, ever so slowly on himself.
Without realisation, Mycroft's mouth goes dry. The sleep flutters away from the edges of his brain with the swiftness of a February breeze. For a second all he can do is watch, then realises that Sherlock is completely awake, aware of his senses, eyes fixed on him. They don't speak, but Mycroft turns in bed, lets Sherlock know he has his full attention.
God, his stomach. His tight, clenching muscles low in his abdomen and the sudden rush of warmth all over his body. He knows this is the time, the chance to put his hand out, brush fingers along a slowly moving arm. It sends his brain into overdrive, cleared completely of sleep and now running, twice the speed.
A sound - the tiniest, smallest noise of pleasure - comes from Sherlock's lips and Mycroft feels himself immobile. God. It's too much. His breathing is matching Sherlock's now; smaller, shallow pants that he isn't in control of. It's like time - or possibility - is standing still.
Then Sherlock's eyes are fluttering closed in pleasure and Mycroft can look away, down the pale white lines of his body in contrast with the sheets. He feels desperate, wound tight and taut and trapped in some sort of teetering moment. It's dangerous being faced with what you want the most, when what you want is this.
Sherlock's breath is coming quicker now, the sudden urgency Mycroft knows so well from himself (so similar, so same) and he focuses back on his face, his eyes now flickering, trying to stay in consciousness but losing the battle. It's aching and sharp and Mycroft realises this is almost definitely - definitely - the first time Sherlock has done this in front of another person. He licks his lips, drawing closer despite himself, wondering about that mouth, that mouth on his.
And then Sherlock opens his eyes, bright, wide and says, "Mycroft," clearly, obviously as he comes.
It shatters the still in the bedroom.
That night, he does it again, hair damp from the shower and sitting at the bottom of the bed, between Mycroft's legs.
They don't touch, not once.
Nothing seems particularly normal, after that. They leave each other notes whilst Mycroft is away at work and Sherlock is in and out, gathering evidence for a project, an essay for school - flirting, it could be called, if Mycroft thought either of them were base enough for that. But just little messages, 'Good morning', 'Hope you're not wearing the red tie, makes you look fat; if so I will take it off you', 'Tired, ready for my (our) bed'. Mycroft realises long after it starts that he is aching somewhere, from something. Aching for something. Dreading Friday.
On Wednesday night they shower together, studiously not touching, not even when Sherlock leans exhausted against the wall, eyes drooping post-orgasm. Mycroft simply watches. Wants.
When they get out he dries him off, wraps the towel around him and Sherlock leans in, tingling his skin.
On Thursday morning Mycroft wakes up harder than ever, been dreaming. He closes his eyes tightly, lets Sherlock watch him and then wonders what they've done, what they've created here.
Something dangerous. Something utterly impossible.
On Friday afternoon, Mycroft walks with Sherlock to Euston, pushing through the crowds on the pavement. He thinks of scandal, of moving far enough away for anonymity, of never seeing Mummy again. There aren't, he finds, any answers.
Platform thirteen is busy, early commuters and weekend shoppers arriving and departing. They stand in silence, Mycroft adjusting the loop of Sherlock's scarf, ensuring he's warm. He wants to say he'll be home at Easter, but what's the point of that? It hardly promises resolution.
"Goodbye, Mycroft," Sherlock says, when the whistle for the train blows and then, in the bustle of the crowd - they don't look like brothers, they really don't - he kisses him on the mouth. It's dry and swift, perfunctory almost, but then he's gone.
Mycroft touches his lips reverentially all the way home in the car.