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Sherlock never knows when the texts will come. They arrive most often late at night, or early enough in the morning to make the difference mainly one of semantics, but the uncertainties of schedules and time zones mean one might appear at any hour. There’s never any doubt as to who they’re from, even though the number is blocked and the messages contain only a single word. Their cryptic nature is deliberate; should Sherlock’s phone ever fall into the wrong hands, there will be nothing incriminating in its depths. At most they might eventually wonder why someone periodically texts him with a name drawn from the speakers at Plato’s Symposium.
Sherlock could have told them, of course. Although it was something that began as whimsy, Mycroft’s sad idea of a joke at philosophy’s expense, over time the code has taken on subtleties of its own – never discussed, yet understood. Agathon expresses sincere flattery and desire, although there’s also an element of self-conscious sentiment, of mockery. Pausanius represents nostalgia; it means Mycroft has been contemplating their shared past, a time when things were marginally less complicated between them. Aristophanes of the hiccups and the rambling discourse reveals Mycroft in a more playful mood, or as much so as he ever gets, but there’s still the wistful undercurrent of two halves searching to be made whole. Seven variations, each with its own set of shaded implications. Mycroft would probably maintain he chooses a speaker at random; Sherlock knows better.
This time the screen reads Socrates, and Sherlock’s eyes narrow when he sees it. Socrates is well past the first flush of youth, an asker of difficult questions with no clear answers, and it suggests that Mycroft’s tired, having had one of those days helping run the country, and is sorely in need of a distraction.
Which is where Sherlock comes in – although he’s not expected to respond immediately, or necessarily at all; that’s always been understood. However, when he doesn’t, more often than not it’s because he can’t; he’s staking out a building somewhere with John, waiting for a suspect to emerge, or else avoiding subsequent injury from having not been quite discreet enough. At other times he simply has more pressing things he needs or wants to do, although the summons will linger at the back of his mind until he’s in more of a mood to answer it. Sometimes by then the moment has passed, but then such is the way of things.
Tonight, though, his world is quiet. This morning’s puzzle of the irate woman with the perpetually misdirected mail proved to be less interesting than he’d hoped for, vindictive neighbour rather than elaborate fraud scheme, and while Sherlock also has a marvellous series of poisonings under investigation, it’s on hold until fingerprint results come back from the Yard – lifted from the surface of a golf ball, no less. John is currently seated in the armchair across from him, attached to his laptop, but judging from the quality and depth of his concentration he’s doing nothing more interesting than catching up on news or vacuous gossip, the two so often sadly indistinguishable.
“I’m off to bed,” Sherlock remarks, shuffling his things around, shutting the lid of his own laptop with a decisive flip.
John looks up from the screen, and his gaze flicks curiously over to the pocket where Sherlock has just replaced his mobile. Sherlock makes a mental note to wait a bit longer next time, at least half an hour or so. He keeps forgetting that John is genuinely interested in him, that he cares. Which means, among other things, that he tends to notice far more than Sherlock is accustomed to from his usual run of acquaintances.
“Something the matter, Sherlock? It’s only ten o’clock.”
Sherlock shrugs. “There’s nothing urgent that needs doing, and I do need sleep occasionally.”
“No one you need to call, maybe?” John smiles, the inflection of his tone annoyingly suggestive.
“Not at all.” Technically, Sherlock has no intention of calling anyone tonight, and he holds John’s gaze steadily, without any need to dissemble. Further recognising it as a perfect opportunity to deflect future speculation, he takes his phone from his pocket and sets it pointedly down on the table, knowing that John’s talents do not currently extend to cracking his passwords, no matter how curious he might be.
“Oh,” John says, duly chastened. “Well… good night, then.”
“Good night, John.”
***
After he secures the door behind him, Sherlock goes to the far side of the bed and unlocks the bottom drawer. The rudimentary lock offers very little in the way of security, but it’s only intended to deter snooping flatmates and nosy landladies. Even if forced, the drawer contains nothing so much damning as mildly embarrassing. There’s lubricant, wipes, a select handful of silicon toys. The most intriguing item is probably the cheap semi-disposable mobile phone lying beside them: anonymous, untraceable, kept solely for these occasions. Mycroft owns its twin, but since any communications can still be tapped, voices vulnerable to identification, it leaves text as the only viable option, at least for one of them. Plausible deniability is the current watchword of Mycroft’s existence, and the bane of Sherlock’s.
Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed and uses the phone to text, simply: Here. It’s only been a few minutes since Mycroft first messaged him, so he expects to hear back very shortly. In preparation, he removes his shoes and socks, and hangs his suit jacket up on the back of the door. He unclasps the watch from his wrist, and lays it on the bedside table, beside the cluster of items retrieved from the drawer. Then he lies back on the bed and waits, the phone held loosely in his hand beside him.
Mycroft is a creature of comfort and habit, and it’s not difficult for Sherlock to imagine what he might be doing now. He’s almost certainly at home, buried in the sanctum sanctorum of his private study, absorbing the contents of various documents spread out in front of him on the massive mahogany desk. It’s a cosy, windowless space that fits his brother like a velvet glove. He has two computer displays, one directly forward of his papers, the other angled off to his right, and very likely there’s an open newspaper somewhere to his left as well. There’s a sizeable television mounted on the wall, but at this hour it’s probably off. In his mind’s eye Sherlock sees the phone vibrate on the polished wood beside Mycroft’s hand, sees Mycroft picking it up to check the screen before finally putting his pen down and pushing the stack of papers to one side. He sees Mycroft smile, small and tired, but probably the only genuine one that’s crossed his face all day.
There are two cameras in Sherlock’s bedroom. One of them sits in the far wall beyond the foot of the bed, hidden in the crease above the white-painted wood of the window. It’s easily covered over by drawing the curtains, but most of the time Sherlock doesn’t bother. There’s nothing he needs to hide from Mycroft, nothing he doesn’t already know. Sometimes it even brings a strange sort of comfort to know that Big Brother might indeed be watching him in his sleep. As the phone buzzes in Sherlock’s hand, he sees the small red signal glow of the camera, indicating that Mycroft has successfully tapped into its feed from wherever he might be, switched it on.
Despite its tiny size, the camera has a wide field of view, enough to capture not only the bed, but the width of the room. Sherlock lifts the phone up to read his message, acutely aware that Mycroft is now watching everything he does, probably still sitting at his desk in front of his computer screens.
Good.
Sherlock settles with his head between the pillows, puts the phone back down beside him, and looks up at the ceiling. In this position, the other camera is directly overhead, a black dot half-concealed in the shadow of a ceiling rose. It’s more tightly focused than the first, the one that ensures Mycroft can see every detail of his face, his expressions. Taking advantage of this, Sherlock crinkles up his nose with exaggerated disdain.
“Your ardour is overwhelming,” he retorts, knowing that Mycroft can hear him now. The final piece of equipment is the microphone concealed in the headboard of the bed, sensitive enough to pick up the sound of Sherlock’s breathing on a quiet night. They’ve decided it doesn’t matter if Sherlock’s voice is intercepted, as long as there’s no concrete evidence of who he’s speaking to. Despite the relative freedom this gives Sherlock, he never utters Mycroft’s name, or refers to the precise nature of their relationship. This arrangement is a compromise for what they cannot have; not now, at any rate, what with the unforgiving nature of Mycroft’s job and Sherlock’s life. Maybe they will have it again, in time.
As he waits for a response, Sherlock idly wonders whether Mycroft has put his headphones on, or whether he’s chosen to patch the audio through his speaker system. The study is soundproofed, but it still carries a small element of risk. Sherlock decides that given the hints of Mycroft’s current mood, he’ll opt for maximum indulgence and comfort over unnecessary prudence. He’ll lean back in the deep leather swivel chair, from which he can see Sherlock’s face on one monitor, his form on the other, and let Sherlock’s voice wrap around him from all sides. The thought makes Sherlock smile, just before the phone buzzes again.
I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.
Sherlock allows himself a moment of smugness for the accuracy of his interpretation, but he has no particular desire to keep Mycroft waiting. He keeps hold of the phone in his hand as he stretches languidly on the bed, which is not quite long enough for this purpose, but he improvises, pushing his arms up and then out. Then he makes himself properly comfortable, placing one pillow behind his head, throwing the other onto the floor. It feels luxurious, the stillness of the room, the pleasant buzzing in his head unrelated to artificial stimulants of any kind.
When he’s nicely settled in the middle of the bed, he sets the phone aside and begins unbuttoning his shirt. It’s the cobalt blue one today, the one Mycroft likes because it brings out Sherlock’s eyes, or at least that’s how Sherlock interprets the assessing glances Mycroft gives him whenever he wears it in his presence. Sherlock’s fingers linger over the buttons, almost caressing each one before he undoes it. He only makes it to the third one down, the one over the hollow of his ribcage, before the phone vibrates beside him.
I want to kiss you first.
In his mind this begins with Mycroft’s fingers reaching out to gently stroke his cheek, and so Sherlock follows suit with his own hand, running it down first one side of his face and then the other, feeling his skin tingle and flush. Then he moves it across to his mouth, dragging the tips of the central three fingers slowly downwards over his parted lips, letting them rest there as he tilts his head back, letting the camera, letting Mycroft, see him better. He moves his fingers lightly over his lips, feeling the shifting pressure of them as Mycroft’s mouth on his, and as Mycroft presses forward with his tongue, Sherlock slips the tip of his middle finger inside, sucks on it greedily. The phone buzzes in his other hand, and he glances at it without stopping.
Lovely.
Sherlock accepts the praise as his due. He imagines plundering Mycroft’s mouth in turn, running his fingers through what remains of Mycroft’s hair, smirking slightly even as he enjoys the traitorous softness of it. However, that’s something he cannot have, and he’s quickly forced to let Mycroft go. Instead he sucks two more fingers in his mouth, wetting them thoroughly. Then he trails them down the exposed sliver of his chest and back to the rest of the buttons.
After undoing the rest, he pulls his shirt out from his trousers, letting it fan out around him on the bed, imagining Mycroft’s breath now hot against his neck. Wetting the tips of his fingers once more, he trails them across his chest and over to his left nipple, now closing his eyes and letting Mycroft’s tongue take their place. Mycroft laps softly at the tiny bud of skin, leaving a glistening circle of moisture, then nips at it just as Sherlock pinches, hard. The pleasure-pain sends ripples through his body, makes him gasp and writhe as his cock stirs more fully to life, pushing hard against the fabric of his trousers.
Be gentle.
Sherlock can almost see Mycroft wince, but in this he ignores him. He’s always liked things a little rougher than Mycroft is prepared to administer, just another of the perennial sources of conflict between them. Defiantly, Sherlock pinches again, ever harder, groans into it as his left hand moves to rub against the crotch of his trousers. He’s still holding the phone, and he uses the hard plastic shamelessly to his advantage, knowing Mycroft will see what he’s doing, the insolence of it. If Mycroft dares to text him now, to reprimand him again, the added sensations will only add to his pleasure.
Regretfully, Mycroft understands this and maintains his disapproving silence as Sherlock repeats his actions on the unsensitised skin of his other nipple. He moans and twists on the bed, panting theatrically, in an object lesson intended both to arouse and rebuke – if you would only do this for me, it insists, see how very much I would enjoy it.
There’s likely no convincing Mycroft, though – it’s been a year since their last trip away, back home, and that had proved something of a disaster. The knowledge of how fleeting a time they would have together had thrown a looming shadow over the occasion, and overblown anticipation had quickly transformed into bickering, resentment, and a general reluctance to yield. In some ways, this is better, calmer, for both of them.
Finally, he feels he’s needled Mycroft enough and stops. By this time his cock is aching, and he puts the phone down long enough to undo his belt and trousers, taking them off together with his underwear as one tangled unit, which quickly disappears over the side of the bed. He’s still wearing his shirt, but he stops long enough to give his cock a couple of firm strokes, taking the edge off his desire. He half-expects to hear from Mycroft again, but the phone remains stubbornly silent. It’s only then that Sherlock remembers how weary he’s presumed Mycroft must be, and a twinge of guilt tugs at him. He resolves to do whatever Mycroft wants for the rest of the session, to take it slow and easy.
With that thought, he shrugs off his shirt, throws it onto the floor with everything else, and lies back again, now completely naked on the bed. As he stares up at the ceiling, his lips half-form an apology that never quite makes it out of his mouth. Nevertheless, his contrition must show, for the phone buzzes again.
Thank you.
There’s nothing further – possibly Mycroft is still too annoyed or dispirited to direct him – and so Sherlock takes things on his own initiative, reaching over to the side table for the lubricant. He could simply get himself off now, quickly and easily, but he doesn’t want it to be over yet, and besides, there’s Mycroft to be thought of still.
He considers for a moment, and then slides his slick right hand down his body, bypassing his cock entirely, despite its demands for his attention. He draws his knees up, deliberately exposing himself to the camera’s eye, and begins to stroke along the inside of his thighs. His fingers leave a glistening trail in their wake as he continues on to fondle himself lower still, the heavy sac, the sensitive line of his perineum. He imagines Mycroft’s hand on him instead, Mycroft’s mouth dipping down suddenly to envelop the head of his cock, which twitches instantly in response despite the lack of physical contact.
He hopes very much that Mycroft is enjoying the view from the comfort of his chair. If Mycroft was wearing a shirt, he’s likely unbuttoned it by now, and unzipped and unbuttoned his trousers as well. Sherlock can see his cock, slim and firm against his belly, Mycroft stroking it absent-mindedly while his gaze flickers from monitor to monitor, watching Sherlock touch himself slowly and deliberately but to no apparent end, clearly waiting for his attention.
Finally, the phone buzzes again.
Tease.
Sherlock smiles up at him. “What should I do, then?” he asks the empty air.
Turn over and let me see you properly.
When Sherlock reads this, his languor dissipates in a rush, and he flips over obediently onto his belly. He draws his knees up and to the side and spreads his thighs apart, the position one of calculated humility, of submission. He looks back over his shoulder towards the camera as he rubs himself against the sheets. It’s a gesture that would drive Mycroft crazy if he were actually there. He would run his hands possessively over Sherlock’s arse, and then make Sherlock squirm and push back against his fingers. If he were feeling playful, he might even use his tongue, just to hear Sherlock groan and curse him.
Open yourself up for me. Please.
This time Sherlock has to reach across the width of his body with his clean hand for the phone, his right still slick with lube. He adds a little more for good measure, then reaches behind him to circle his hole gently, encouraging the tight muscles to relax. Still, he gasps and bites down on his lip as he finally pushes the tip of his middle finger in up to the knuckle. There’s a small damp patch growing on the sheets under his cock as he pushes in a little further.
“I wish it were you,” he murmurs, as he pushes another finger inside himself, feeling the muscles stretch and burn. He keeps the phone tucked under his left hand, in a way that enables him to access the buttons while still supporting his weight. Awkward, but practical.
No more than I do.
As he begins to push back onto his fingers, he longs to see Mycroft’s face, to know what he’s doing right now. Mycroft’s self-control is good, but nowhere near perfect – tonight alone is proof enough of that. Is he braced against the armrests, holding off on touching himself, while his cock twitches in sympathy with Sherlock’s? Or is he already sunk deeply into the chair’s embrace, his eyes half-lidded, his hand working at a steady pace? It’s at times like these that their arrangement strikes Sherlock as incredibly unfair, but it’s still infinitely better than nothing at all.
I wish to see your face. While I fuck you.
It seems Mycroft has recovered fully from his earlier bout of reticence, and the thought of the obscenity spoken aloud in his brother’s smooth voice makes him shiver. Mycroft would never be so direct, so crude, if he were present in the flesh. However, there’s something about the anonymity of texting, of the entire situation, that brings out this side of him. It reminds Sherlock that perhaps there are some small advantages to this arrangement after all.
He turns over again, but this time he shifts towards the edge of the bed, and his hand hovers briefly over the selection of toys on the bedside table before settling on his favourite. Despite being made of unattractively-coloured silicon, it’s the one that reminds him most strongly of Mycroft’s cock – long and slim, gently curved. It’s a simple, solid piece, no fancy gadgetry or attachments, and he coats it liberally with lubricant right down to its base. He lies on his back again with his knees up, and takes a deep breath before pushing himself down onto it. Mycroft would have taken more care, but Sherlock is rougher, less patient, and he sighs in both pleasure and discomfort as it slides home. Then he begins to move it in and out, slow and deep, angling his body eagerly to meet it.
“Oh,” he says, the sensations forcing the words from him. “Yes… want you to… oh… fuck me… just like that.” He punctuates his speech with each thrust of the toy inside him, gasping for breath in between. While he’ll never admit it, he wants this, needs this, every bit as much as Mycroft does, maybe more. It’s nothing like actually being fucked by Mycroft – no kissing, no touching, none of Mycroft’s ridiculous breathy noises – but it’s hard and satisfying enough that he can pretend.
Harder. More.
Sherlock blinks at the unexpected suggestion. Perhaps he’s managed to exert some corrupting influence on Mycroft after all. At any rate, he’s not about to refuse. He speeds up, short, sharp thrusts until his wrist aches and he knows he’s going to be feeling it the next day.
“Yes…” he says. God, Mycroft, he wants to say, but he bites it back. “Fuck…” He wonders if Mycroft knows just how difficult it is not to ever use his name. Whether he knows it’s a kind of torture for Sherlock unto itself. MycroftMycroftMycroft, he chants desperately inside his head, although he doesn’t even let his mouth shape the words.
I want you to come with me inside you.
It’s a familiar enough request, and after he reads it Sherlock finally stills his hand, and withdraws the dildo. He needs to keep one hand free for the phone, and the toy is liable to move in inconvenient ways while he gets himself off. He swaps it for one of the others, a plug with a thin tapered end for stimulation, and slicks that up as well. Then he pushes it inside him, more slowly this time, and settles back against the pillows, his knees up so that the flared head of the plug rubs against the bed. The phone is clasped loosely in his left hand, resting on the concave of his belly, and he closes his eyes as he finally, finally brings his free hand up to stroke his cock, trying not to rush. He rocks his hips slowly, each backwards movement bringing the internal tip of the plug into contact with his prostate, and he moans at the additional stimulation, his mind frighteningly blank.
“I don’t think… that this will take very long,” he warns. He can barely open his eyes in response to the vibration against his stomach.
It will suffice.
He wants to laugh, but it turns into a groan as his hand moves faster on his cock. Despite everything, he feels Mycroft somehow there with him, their shared history and understanding managing to transcend even this cold, dispassionate connection. He knows now from the tenor of Mycroft’s texts that he’s watching, waiting, delaying his own pleasure all the better to enjoy the sight of Sherlock’s. With that thought he tips his head back, pushing against the pillow, his moans alternating with gasps as he bares his throat to the camera. His back arches and his heels dig into the bed as he rocks faster back and forth, and thrusts into his fist, and ah, oh god, I wish, Mycroft…
He’s so close that he almost ignores the last message completely, but that’s something he can’t quite manage to do, even now.
I love you.
Smug, sentimental bastard and his wry, perfect sense of timing, and oh, and Sherlock comes with a short, sharp cry, spilling over his hand and his belly and the sheets. As well as the sheer animal pleasure of it, his orgasm brings with it an all-too-brief interval of mental relief, of peace. Afterwards, he lies there, breathing hard in the silence, with only his imagination for company. He thinks of Mycroft in front of his monitors, in the leather chair, the phone clasped tightly against his chest as it rises and falls, bringing himself off hard and fast. He’s moving roughly over Sherlock now, and Sherlock hears him groan, feels hands tighten in his hair as Mycroft shudders above him. Then the long stillness afterwards, the heavy, half-supported weight of Mycroft against him, his warm breaths sighing over the hollow of Sherlock’s throat.
Sherlock exhales, long and slow, as he finally removes the plug, sets it aside. He lies back down on the bed, now turned slightly onto his left. The phone is beside him, and his right hand rests lightly against it, on the sheets that smell only of Sherlock. It’s the time he misses Mycroft most fiercely, when desire is spent and there’s only emptiness in its place.
“And I you,” he mutters like an afterthought, but he means it anyway.
Another moment of stillness, and then he hears a tiny something outside, a slight thump, perhaps, or a rustle that has no reason to exist, and Sherlock’s recovered enough of his faculties that the sound jolts them back the rest of the way. He’s sitting upright in an instant, and then slides off the bed to listen at the door. After a brief evaluation he silently unlocks it and pulls it open a fraction of an inch. He frowns as he catches sight of the phone, still lying on the bed, but Mycroft, too, knows when discretion is required.
Despite his suspicions, Sherlock isn’t quite prepared for the sight of John a little way down the hallway, half-slumped with his back against the wall, eyes shut, drawing in deep breaths that do not quite manage to be silent. His shirt-tails are out and his trousers are halfway down his thighs, and it’s all too clear what he’s just been doing. Sherlock cocks his head to one side curiously, but for the moment John seems oblivious to his presence. Only then does the phone finally buzz, and Sherlock pads over to retrieve it.
Did we have company?
“It would appear so,” he says quietly. “Although I believe the main party compromised to be himself. Quite thoroughly, from the looks of things.”
Sherlock goes back for another glimpse, but in the meantime John has somehow managed a swift and light-footed departure. The extent to which he realises he’s been observed will be evident in the exact degree of awkwardness in their next encounter.
I must say your soldier fellow has proven himself most intriguing.
“John’s hardly my soldier fellow.” Sherlock considers. “Although…” He lies back down on the bed, looking directly up at Mycroft. “Would that bother you?”
A full minute passes without a reply, but Sherlock knows better than to repeat the question. He imagines Mycroft studying his face on the monitor, processing the web of implications, as though Sherlock were perhaps an unexpected military build-up in the Gulf, or an increase in tensions across the Taiwan strait.
Was it your intention to replace our current arrangement?
“Of course not.” Sherlock allows the full force of his indignation to show. If Mycroft knows anything, he should know that he’s not in any way replaceable. It’s easy for Sherlock to forget, sometimes, that his brother has his own blind spots and weaknesses, that he’s not the infallible being Sherlock believed in when he was younger. His voice softens. “I thought of it as more of... an occasional variation. For both of us. He’ll never need know.”
There’s another thoughtful delay, although shorter than the last.
That does have slightly more appeal.
“It was just a suggestion,” Sherlock adds. “We needn’t if you don’t want to. I just miss…” being able to touch you, he doesn’t say, knowing Mycroft will see it in his face, the instinctive twitch of his fingers.
I can see how it might do you some good.
At that moment, Sherlock appreciates his brother’s understanding more than he can express. He’s always been fond of John, but now it’s very likely he can have John, too, and he wants that very much indeed – to be able to kiss him, hold him, to moan his name when he comes. However, while it would mean a lot to Sherlock, it’s not the most important thing, and that’s something he needs to make unequivocally clear. “I never had any intention of… not without you here.”
Yet how could you ensure I would be free to join you when it was time?
Sherlock had thought that was obvious. “I would wait to hear from you first, as always. Achilles might suit.”
And then simply seduce him to order? You certainly have a high opinion of your own abilities.
He thinks he can hear Mycroft’s dry, soft chuckle between the lines. He hopes so.
“With good reason.” Sherlock smirks. If John’s recently dishevelled state were any indication of his responsiveness to sexual stimulus, Sherlock would merely have to ensure that they made it as far as the bedroom.
Very well. I suppose we shall see, then.
Sherlock glances gratefully up at the camera, at Mycroft, the phone still resting lightly over his heart. “Yes,” he agrees. “We will.”