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“Phone Lestrade and my brother! They are going to want to see this,” Sherlock shouts, rousing John from his stupor.
Sherlock is high on adrenalin and ego, and that’s how John knows he’s finally solved the case. Sherlock has been in the lab at St. Bart’s for three days and god knows if he slept at all during that time or if he ate anything. John suspects he may have also inhaled some dangerous chemicals from the odd way his hands are circling in the air and the rate at which words are tumbling from his mouth.
John had finally succumbed to a semi-nap on the floor of the lab, which isn’t really a great spot for sleeping, but he’s been here for hours waiting for Sherlock to wrap it up. The dénouement is nigh and so John pokes at his phone with swollen, fatigued fingers. Lestrade, then Mycroft, and both are on their way. Good. Sherlock can have his Poirot moment and they can all go home.
Lestrade looks scruffy and exhausted when he arrives, and he leans against the doorframe with a look that clearly says “get on with it.” Mycroft is fully dressed: three-piece suit, clean-shaven. The only sign he’s been up late is the red rimming his eyes.
“Murdered, you see, by a drop of this little liquid. Which I could describe, but the chemical complexities would boggle your tiny minds, suffice it to say—” Mycroft coughs discreetly, as if to say he would understand, but Sherlock ignores him. “Suffice it to say. The mixture is a sort of aphrodisiac, of the highest order. Mycroft’s colleague, naturally being of the aged, stuffy sort, would, quite possibly, get an erection, become very randy and then die quite suddenly. As he did, of course, on top of his lover.” Sherlock finally spares a look for Mycroft, and it’s a sneer. The tawdry murder of a high-level government official is exactly the sort of thing Mycroft would consider legwork and thus beneath him.
“All very interesting, and I’m sure it’s true, but the question is: Who did it, Sherlock?” Lestrade looks plaintively from Sherlock to John. John shrugs and glances longingly at the floor. “Who murdered the old geezer?”
“There’s only one chemist in the family, Lestrade, and if you would simply remove your head from your arse, you would of course know that Cousin Timmy is the obvious culprit, the only one capable of concocting this delicate mixture and the only one with access to the old man’s nightly aperitif.” Sherlock’s eyes are alight and John recognizes the signs of sleep deprivation, impatience, and the beginnings of a rant. “Do I have to do all your work for you? Where is the oh-so-reliable Anderson at this hour? What have you been doing yourself? Watching telly? Am I the only one interested in bringing justice to the writhing masses of humanity, in foiling the criminal underbelly of…”
Sherlock’s strop ends abruptly as the vial he’s been holding flies out of his hand and shatters on the ground. A million tiny crystals and an iridescent liquid spread out in an oval shape along the tiled floor.
“Oh dear god, no,” Sherlock says. He backs away, even as Lestrade and John instinctively move toward the mess. “No, John, back away and cover your mouth. It’s highly toxic.”
“Is this some sort of game?” Mycroft inquires. He’s been silent for quite some time, but now he’s sneering suspiciously in Sherlock’s direction. “What are you playing at Sherlock? You’re never quite this clumsy.”
“No, I… Mycroft, it’s not a game. Stand back. I’m … it’s been a long case, I was tired, it slipped.” Sherlock looks at John pleadingly. “It slipped!”
“Okay, let’s get out of here.” Lestrade moves to the door, but Sherlock waves frantically. “No, no. We can’t let the fumes get out. Cover your mouths and wait for it to dissipate. Hopefully no one will be unduly affected.”
“You did say aphrodisiac, didn’t you?” Lestrade looks extremely panicked.
John begins to panic as well. The last thing he wants to do is get an erection in front of Sherlock or start fancying his brother. He shudders. It’s no use. He’s got said erection. And he fancies everyone ever. He is randy as hell. “God, I’m randy as hell,” he says. “This stuff could make us a fortune!”
“Remain calm, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft instructs. “Sherlock, pull yourself together.” Mycroft’s upper lip is coated in a fine sheen of sweat. “Oh dear lord.”
John barely has time to register the fact that Mycroft is coming undone before he feels Sherlock grab him roughly by the shoulders. “It’s too late. But it will wear off,” Sherlock says, sounding desperate and putting his face far too close to John’s. “Our hearts are strong enough. I think.” John can feel his heart racing and hopes Sherlock is right.
“John,” Sherlock says. “If it’s going to be anyone, I want it to be you.” And with that, he presses his mouth to John’s and wraps his arms around him. John has no choice but to go along with it. He’s helpless as waves of arousal hit him over and over and he feels compelled to act on it. He tongues open Sherlock’s mouth and grabs his arse to pull them closer together.
“I feel ill,” Mycroft says.
“I feel quite horny,” Lestrade says, watching John and Sherlock. John can hear Lestrade fumbling around in the corner, jumping up and down and chanting “shake it off, shake it off,” but then he finally turns to Mycroft. Sherlock gets his teeth into John’s neck and John moans. Over Sherlock’s shoulder John sees Lestrade, his hands on Mycroft’s waist, yanking his belt off and his trousers down and Mycroft just stands there, his head back, his eyes closed, muttering some sort of prayer or mantra.
Mycroft does nothing to stop Lestrade from sinking bonelessly to his knees and sucking down his cock.
“Detect-… Inspect-… Gregory, this is-… you have to stop. You don’t know how I’ve fantasized…”
Lestrade pulls off Mycroft’s cock and looks up at him. “You? About me?” When Mycroft nods mutely, Lestrade smiles. “I… well. I’ve admired… oh hell, let’s do this after. I really have to suck you off right now.”
“God, yes,” Mycroft says, his hands closing around Lestrade’s head.
“That,” John whimpers. “That.”
Sherlock looks up from John’s neck to see what John is talking about. “I am both disgusted and aroused,” he pronounces. “But that can be arranged.”
With one arm John sweeps all the lab detritus to the floor. He’ll pay for that later – Sherlock, for one, will kill him, but now, Sherlock doesn’t care. John pulls Sherlock out of his jacket and shirt and pushes him to get up on the table. “Cold!” Sherlock shouts as his shoulder blades meet the steel top. But he shuts up immediately as John works his shoes, trousers and pants off. John has never seen a more beautiful sight. Sherlock is bowed across the table, arching his back, cock hard and balls drawn up tightly. John begins to lick and bite and suck and Sherlock is gasping for breath. “John, I’ve never, that is to say, this is not my area, I mean I have, but not…”
John does not care. At all. He sucks Sherlock’s cock into his mouth greedily and even though this isn’t his usual purview not really my area, either, he is so horny he gives the most thorough blowjob he can and is well rewarded when Sherlock shouts, bucks, and comes. Most of it ends up on John’s face. John strips quickly and uses some of Sherlock’s come to jerk himself off. Seconds later, he comes across Sherlock’s thighs.
Now Mycroft is also naked except for his socks and Lestrade has nothing but a billowy white shirt hanging off his torso. The two of them are in a kiss that looks like a fight to the death, each one grappling with the other for leverage.
“My brother’s never been fucked,” Sherlock calls across the room. “Do be gentle, Lestrade.”
John slaps Sherlock’s thigh. “Sherlock, behave. They have no more control than we do right now.”
The slap seems to have awoken something in Sherlock. He slides off the lab table and pulls John into a bruising kiss. He’s erect again, and John is really confused by that, until he feels his own answering erection.
“This stuff really works as advertised,” he says. He wants to stop and check his pulse, and possibly everyone else’s, just to be safe, but he can’t. “I’m going to fuck you, and I have a feeling your brother isn’t the only one who’s never been fucked.”
“Once,” Sherlock gasps, as John resumes kissing his neck. “An experiment. It didn’t go well.”
“Bend over the table. Point me in the direction of something we can use as lube.”
Sherlock does as commanded and John gives his arse a little slap for good behavior. He points to a small, low cupboard where John finds actual lube – it is a hospital after all -- and since there’s plenty, he tosses a bottle to Lestrade. Mycroft is lying on the tiles with his bespoke suit jacket spread out beneath him and he looks stunned. John can’t think about what it means to see Mycroft Holmes, naked and lying on a hospital floor, waiting to be fucked.
John turns his attention away from the other two and focuses on Sherlock, who is blatantly wriggling his arse and begging John to come on. John wants to just ram inside Sherlock, consequences be damned, but that’s not going to happen, although it takes every ounce of strength he has not to. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to control his movements – lube on all his fingers, lube on his cock, lube on Sherlock’s arsehole. He slips one finger in and Sherlock opens up around him, and okay. Seriously. This concoction would really sell on the open market. Then, economies would fail and cities would grind to a halt while everyone everywhere fucked their brains out.
He finger fucks Sherlock for a nice long while, and Sherlock has no complaints. Quite the opposite. He’s a noisy bottom, John notes, as is his brother, who is also giving voice to his pleasure. John bends over Sherlock and kisses along his spine as he pushes two fingers in and out, over and over, grazing the sweet spot, and watching Sherlock’s dark head twist and roll side to side in enjoyment.
“Okay, I can’t take it anymore, Sherlock, I’m going to fuck you. Let me know if I hurt you.”
“Shut up John, and get on with it!” John can hear the eye roll.
John pushes in and it’s too much. He was going to take this slow, but he can’t, he’s fucking Sherlock as hard as he can, pulling him off the table so he’s better aligned with John’s hips and Sherlock clings to the table as John controls his weight with his legs (his knee, oddly enough, doesn’t even twinge.)
“Christ, Mycroft, you’re so tight!” Lestrade’s commentary doesn’t derail John for one moment; he comes inside of Sherlock and reaches around to stroke Sherlock to completion as well.
Sherlock doesn’t miss a beat after that. “Lestrade’s cock is enormous. I’d like to try that.”
John feels disappointed at that, maybe a little hurt. “I think you’ve been claimed already, Sherlock,” Lestrade says, petting Mycroft’s hair as Mycroft runs his fingers questioningly through the come on his stomach.
“Nonsense,” Sherlock snorts. “John knows I only care for him, but this is a new experience entirely. Only I won’t shag my brother.”
“Meaning I will,” John says. He’s not even remotely upset about that thought. In fact, the sight of Mycroft, lying there, embarrassed and debauched, quite turns him on. He kneels by Mycroft and Lestrade goes over to Sherlock, pushes him back down across the lab table and plunges his cock in immediately.
“You’re such a slut, Sherlock, I always knew you were,” Lestrade says as Sherlock grunts. “How do you like that? You like it big? You like it rough? You do. You’re going to take it all.”
The sounds Sherlock makes make John’s blood roar in his ears and only the sight of Mycroft’s face stops him from taking Mycroft in the same way. “Why don’t you fuck me?” he asks Mycroft amiably, once they’ve watched Sherlock and Lestrade for longer than is strictly proper.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Mycroft mumbles.
“You’re doing fine, it’s no problem. Here, sit up against the wall and I’ll ride you.” A little more lube and John preps himself with ease. He’s come twice and he’s still hard as glass. His fingers find their way easily and he’s shocked at how ready he is.
Mycroft has a lovely curved penis and gorgeous ginger hair down there. John pulls him into a sloppy kiss and then sinks down on him. It feels fantastic. It feels better than that; it’s amazing to have someone inside him. “God Mycroft, you’re lovely. I bet no one tells you that enough,” John says. “I’ll make sure Lestrade is good to you. You deserve to be taken care of.” Mycroft’s eyes are wide as moons and John thinks Okay, he runs the government or whatever, but he’s lonely as hell and just wants to be taken care of. Christ.
He’s still riding Mycroft and reveling in Mycroft’s cries of pleasure when he feels something at his cheek. It’s Sherlock. “Suck me while you do that,” Sherlock says. John complies, pleased that Sherlock and Lestrade are done already. Mycroft begins to come the moment John takes Sherlock into his mouth right in front of him. Lestrade moves in to kiss Mycroft and John pushes Sherlock back against the wall and sucks him until he comes again.
“Both,” Sherlock says. He points at Lestrade and John and gets on all fours.
“Christ, impossible,” Lestrade says. John agrees. Sherlock won’t take no for an answer and he pulls Lestrade over and lays him down against the tile. No one seems to care that they’re fucking on cold tile in a hospital lab at 4am. John has a fleeting thought about what will happen at 8am when people start coming to work.
The thought leaves his mind as soon as he nudges up behind Sherlock, who is sinking down onto Lestrade’s cock. “Impossible,” he mutters, but is helpless to stop himself from pushing his own cock along Lestrade’s into Sherlock. He doesn’t get very far and so the three of them work at that for a bit.
Mycroft is over at the sink scrubbing his cock, and isn’t that thoughtful? When he returns, he motions to Lestrade and Lestrade pulls him down to straddle his face. Sherlock shifts again and suddenly John is all the way inside, up against Lestrade, and it’s so tight he can’t breathe. Seeing his brother face-fuck Lestrade must have triggered something for Sherlock, and John won’t analyse that any more than he’ll analyse any of this.
Sherlock is keening and rocking back and forth and John can feel Lestrade come, and then quickly get hard again while still inside Sherlock.
The pleasure is rounding itself out, circling his brain, his cock, his arse, coming and going and building to a crescendo. He comes, sobbing against Sherlock’s back. He doesn’t know how many times Sherlock has convulsed around him, but there is come on Mycroft’s back and shouldn’t they all be running dry right about now?
John counts five more orgasms before he lies on his side, curled in the fetal position. He has never been happier to see his own dick go soft and small, blissfully crescent-shaped and unresponsive. “I’m done, it’s over,” he croaks. Sherlock has fucked both him and Lestrade (Lestrade, again showing an impressive sex-mouth, kept shouting “Is that all you’ve got?" Sherlock was never one to back away from a challenge, not that a decisive winner could be named in that particular battle of wills, and several more breakages were incurred throughout the lab). Mycroft had been taught how to give a blowjob several times. John had come in his ear, his hair and could even see some on the ceiling.
Lestrade finally peters out, so to speak, after one last orgasm, self-inflicted, which he put to good use covering Mycroft’s chest as Mycroft lay, spent and sated, plucking at his once-fine suit and making faces. “Right, I’m done. Lasted longer than you lot, let that be a lesson!” Lestrade crows.
“Shut up, Lestrade. We all know you’re the sex god among us, and therefore I wish you well with my brother, a verified prude with a lax libido. A match made in hell, if ever there was one.”
“If you truly intend to start a relationship with Dr. Watson, I wish you well, dear brother, for the two weeks you’ll have before he moves out,” Mycroft snaps.
“Boys. We need to come up with a plan. A cleaning plan, and a plan to get out of here. Someone’s bound to come in sooner rather than later.” John puts the relationship talk to the back of his mind and focuses on practical matters. Like where his pants have gone.
“Dr. Watson is correct,” Mycroft says. He straightens up and looks rather impressive despite being completely naked but for his socks. He plucks the remnants of his clothes up from the floor. Lestrade shrugs on his shirt and pulls up his jeans and looks none the worse for wear. Sherlock is a wreck and John still isn’t sure where any of his clothes actually are.
“Allow me to offer my flat as a place to reconvene, shower and rest,” Mycroft says. “Dr. Watson can ensure we’re all healthy. My personal chef can cook some food.”
“I’m in,” Lestrade says amiably. “Just need to make a call to Donovan, have her swing ‘round and arrest Cousin Timmy.”
“I do not need your services,” Sherlock sniffs.
“Now, Sherlock. Personal chef, did you hear that?” John rounds on Sherlock, ready to break with him on the food issue, the flat being devoid of anything remotely edible.
“I have four full bathrooms with excellent showers in all. Anthea can pick up a change of clothes at your flat. And…” Mycroft pauses with a wave of one pale hand. “My limo with tinted windows is idling just outside the back exit. I have a clean-up team on standby, ready to assist us with our indiscretion.”
“You call it an indiscretion, I call it bloody brilliant,” Sherlock says.
Lestrade rubs his hands together. “You had me at eggs and bacon. Must be jolly good having staff.” He gives Mycroft a grin that John has never seen before.
“Has anyone…” Sherlock pulls himself up to his full height and indeed looks superior even though he’s wearing his coat and nothing else underneath. “Has anyone thought about security recordings? This whole debacle has been taped. This room is under surveillance because of a recent theft, even though I can’t imagine what anyone would want to steal from a lab near the morgue.”
“And store it in their refrigerator, no I can’t imagine that at all.” John smirks.
“I can handle any surveillance on this room Dr. Watson, as my brother well knows,” Mycroft purrs. “I will make sure it never sees the light of day. I think we can all agree on that.”
“I don’t want to know, do I?” Lestrade asks, looking askance at Mycroft and his sudden ability to whisk security video into the ether.
“I give your relationship less than two weeks,” Sherlock jibes at Mycroft. They glower at each other.
“Well, nothing to do but row, so we’re done here," John says. "Mycroft, lead the way to your getaway car. And do call me John, now that we’ve fucked.”
Later, at Mycroft’s large and well-appointed flat, fully showered and redressed, Lestrade and Mycroft make a quick date, share a small smile and then leave, having some rather important work to be getting on with. Both of them have a pronounced limp and thick scarves covering the love bites on their necks.
Sherlock lounges around in Mycroft’s heavy brocaded robe, flipping through his books and poking around near his insect collection.
“So,” John starts awkwardly. “Two weeks, you think?”
“My brother knows nothing,” Sherlock says. He stretches and smiles up at John. “The most vital thing anyway.”
John sinks down onto the plush couch Sherlock has appropriated. He nearly moans at the luxury of it all. He wants to stay and let his abused body heal right here, and not at 221B Baker Street, as traitorous as that is.
“What’s the most vital thing we have that throws Mycroft’s prediction off?” John leans in to Sherlock’s space, finally feeling some of the post-coital bliss he surely has coming to him.
Sherlock sits up, faces John and puts a hand over John’s heart. His hand is warm and John feels the pressure like the most intimate of comforts.
“Strong hearts, John.”
“The strongest,” John replies, and kisses him.