This is what my mind conjures up when I'm bored and I have nothing to do because I can't sleep (stupid brain can't you shut up! God now I know how Sherlock feels...)
Mycroft/John hinting (although John's suitably horrified by the idea hehe) and Sherlock/John (naturally).
It was late and the sun had already gone down below the natural horizon as well as the manmade one that tower above the mere speckles on the pavement that were people hurrying home to escape the approaching darkness. He was too busy to pay attention where he was going because damnit if he wasn't going to kill Sherlock when he got home then he was going to take it out on one of the body parts in the freezer! Just because the anti-social, sociopathic pain-in-the-arse couldn't be bothered getting up and going out to the shop to buy his own supplies for his hare-brained experiments didn't mean that he should be out here, in the light drizzle and darkening world hauling three bags of stuff from the nearest open corner-shop. He was going to kill him, of that he was certain; he just needed to get back to Baker Street first though.
He was so busy internally mumbling to himself about the many and varied ways he could kill Sherlock and dispose of the gangly body that he didn't notice the black Mercedes pull up alongside the kerb and a well-dressed man step out into the now strengthening rain and open an umbrella, an umbrella which he promptly held over his head as he walked over to John and began to stroll alongside him, the umbrella naturally protecting him from the worse of the rain. He was so surprised by the lack of cold moisture hitting his face and the back of his neck that he looked up and stared at the person holding the umbrella for a full minute before he spoke.
"Mycroft," he frowned in confusion as the eldest of the two Holmes brother's smiled kindly at John and reached out with his free hand to take one of the bags from John's silently-protesting right arm; it felt strange to him when Mycroft's hand brushed against his own as the taller man took the bag and continued to stroll alongside the incredibly confused doctor.
"John," Mycroft acknowledged, still smiling as he continued walking and John nearly stopped walking altogether because he couldn't have heard correctly; Mycroft just called him by his first name, his first name and Mycroft Holmes didn't do that. Mycroft Holmes was professional down to a T, he did not talk to people as though they were friends because he was a business man, though what type of business he worked in John didn't really want to know because he was certain that he'd end up even more paranoid than he already was; heck he was sure that the cameras around London had been following him for the last fortnight!
"It's not the nicest weather for a stroll you know John?" Mycroft said in a tone of voice that John hadn't heard the man use before and it took him a moment to recognise it, and when he did he felt inclined to run or die of shock alternatively; Mycroft sounded like he was... flirting with him, he sounded playful and like he felt... something for John beyond curiosity and now John really did want to die of shock because he knew that Mycroft would find him wherever he ran and why did people keep assuming he was gay!
"Yes well, Sherlock's got a couple of experiments that he wants to carry out so I was sent to get the supplies," he replied keeping most of his bitterness and annoyance out of his voice as they turned onto Baker Street and John realised that the Mercedes was still there, crawling alongside them and he felt compelled to ask, "why are you walking next to me when your car's not two-feet away?"
"Why are you walking when you could be in my car that's not two-feet away?" Mycroft countered almost immediately and it was the way in which the man said 'my car' that made John blush and almost beg for Sherlock to appear and divert his brother's attention because he was not comfortable with this... really, he wasn't... well, he sort of wasn't... well... he might not mind that much but he wasn't used to someone coming onto him in the rain, holding an umbrella and wearing a pin-striped suit matched with a smile that would melt most girls, and guys.
"I was walking before you came along with your car," he answered lamely knowing that it sounded like he was arguing like a child but he didn't care because he was embarrassed, no not embarrassed, feeling embarrassed would have been a Godsend... no he felt... flattered? And a little turned on... oh God! He didn't have a thing for Mycroft... did he? Oh he hoped not...
Mycroft chuckled and his voice did things to John that he'd only ever thought Sherlock's voice could do, but it seemed that drawing out unintentional responses from him was something the two Holmes brother's had in common; God bloody damn them! They reached the front door of 221 b and John awkwardly fished in his pockets for the key whilst Mycroft stood close, too close, holding the umbrella over his head so the lashing rain didn't drown him although was kind of wishing it would. It seemed like an age to him when he finally managed to get the key out of his pocket and he accidentally bumped into Mycroft who, like Sherlock, obviously had no concept of personal space and he dived through the door as though he'd been doused in boiling hot water. Standing two steps into the landing of 221 b Baker Street John turned and looked at Mycroft who was still standing on the threshold, holding the bag of stuff in one delicate-looking hand and the umbrella in the other and though John wanted to take the bag and bid Mycroft goodnight the natural gentleman in him, the one that his parents had raised, came to the fore and he found himself asking, "do you want to come in for a cup of tea?"
And he could have happily killed himself when Mycroft's response was a raised eyebrow, a provocative smile and a polite, "if you insist" though John could definitely hear the seductive undercurrent to that statement. Mycroft stepped over the threshold, simultaneously placing the bag on the floor at John's feet, his head dipping lower than was strictly necessary and closer to his own, whilst he closed the umbrella and placed it against the wall.
Taking a deep breath John grabbed the bags and set off up the stairs with Mycroft trailing behind him in much the same manner Sherlock did, like he was stalking his prey and didn't that just make John feel better? He opened the door to the sitting area and looked around for Sherlock, who was apparently nowhere to be seen and he wasn't sure whether he should be worried or relieved about that, but he focused on depositing the bags of stuff on the table in the kitchen which Sherlock had cleared of his usual chemistry set for this new experiment he was planning.
"How do you have your tea?" he asked as he filled the kettle up and turned it on. He looked across at Mycroft who seemed to have made himself comfortable in John's chair, not Sherlock's, John's, and he waited for the man to answer.
"Black, no sugar please John," Mycroft answered in a near purr and it made John's eyes widen as he resolutely focused his attention on the fascinating concept of making a cup of tea. It was rather funny to observe, especially due to the fact that John as so intent on making the cups of tea that he didn't notice how Mycroft slipped out of the chair and crept up behind him until there was a strange sensation of hot breath on the back of his neck.
Slowly, ever so slowly, John turned around and looked up into the rather lustful gaze of Mycroft Holmes and the only thing John could think was, 'I always thought it'd be Sherlock' as Mycroft dove in and kissed him, without hesitation, without consideration, without any thought. And John didn't know whether or not he was kissing back because the kiss lasted all of two seconds before John was aware of Mycroft being bodily thrown away from him and another, very possessive grip, settling itself around him.
"Out," a dark and damn near deadly voice said so quietly that it made John shiver and the grip around him tightened almost as though it liked the idea of him shivering. John had a feeling who was holding him but he found that his brain was kind of dead in the water at the moment; he'd been kissed by Mycroft Holmes and that was all he knew, apart from the fact that whoever was holding him really didn't like sharing.
For the most part, Mycroft was sort of hanging off the kitchen counter, half-splayed out on the floor nursing a rather spectacular looking split-lip and John wondered briefly if he'd done that when they'd kissed but his brain was still dead at the moment so nothing was really computing. Mycroft slowly and carefully picked himself up off the floor, fixed his suit jacket which had been ruffled in his impromptu date with the ground, and smiled at John and whoever was holding him so possessively close, "well I think my I'd best be on my way; I do hope you don't catch a cold John, the weather's been absolutely awful."
A low, murderous growl emanated from whoever was gripping him and John wondered if he should say anything but like his brain his voice just wasn't working so he settled for nodding dumbly as Mycroft sauntered past, smirking despite the split-lip and let himself out of the flat.
It was almost a full minute before John's brain managed to actually kick-start itself back to life and with its sudden revival he realised what had happened; all of it. He'd been walking home from the shop, Mycroft had appeared, flirted with him, he'd invited him in, been making a cuppa and then he'd been getting kissed, then Mycroft was flying and he was being held by whoever was holding him now; whoever had pale skin and was a lot taller than him. He managed to turn around in the embrace and he came face-to-face with Sherlock who was staring at him with such an intense stare, which John realised was real, true want that when he opened his mouth to speak he found himself being kissed for the second time that night; only this time it was with the one person he'd wanted to kiss for weeks, months even.
It was intense, it was like the first day of spring when the snow's all melted and the countryside comes alive with activity, the butterflies floating by and the bumble bees buzzing past and the all the lambs and sheep and animals bleating and barring and just telling people that they were there. It was like the birth of a star in deep space, spontaneous and beautiful but over in such a short time in the history of the universe. It was like being swept beneath the waves and slowly drowning in the divine brilliance that was Sherlock Holmes. It was like all the most beautiful and wanted things that man had ever required and wished for rolled into one and given a name. It was in a word, sublime.
And when it ended, for it did indeed have to end, his forehead rested against Sherlock's own and his breaths came out in pants and gasps as the man holding him like the world was trying to drag him away growled decisively, "mine... my John..."
And John's world burned in a fiery passion.
In his black Mercedes Guardian, Mycroft carefully dabbed the split-lip he had received from his brother with the handkerchief that not-Anthea had so graciously supplied and he knew that she didn't need to ask whether or not his plan had been a success, even if he'd had to improvise slightly. He looked out of the window absentmindedly as they pulled away from the kerb and set-off for his home where he'd been dropped off to go about his business and sleep in an empty bed, thinking about what he'd just done. True he'd done this entire thing with the initial intent to get his brother and Doctor Watson... John... together but the problem was he hadn't been anticipating his own response to it all; namely the kiss and then the feeling of want for the doctor as his younger brother had held the somewhat shell-shocked man closely. He had never given any thought to the concept of wanting someone in such a way but it seemed that he now wanted someone; the only problem was that his brother already had him.
But it wouldn't stop him from at least wanting John... because it made no sense to want someone who was so... plain and predictable but... if he was so plain and predictable then why did the man start to kiss back? Why did the man do the unpredictable? Why did the man seem to be concerned with Mycroft? Why? Why?
Why was this man so fascinating to him? It made no sense...
But, Mycroft muse sullenly, love rarely did.
I'm making this into an actual fic rather than a one shot because this plot's too good to ignore! And there aren't that many Mycroft/John based fics around (although... Sherlock/John is my preference :P)
Tell me what you think people.