(Warning: Implied incest)

Mycroft's Brolly

John likes Mycroft. Really he does.

But Mycroft is a Holmes and it's in their genes to be presumptive, apparently. Imperious, obviously. And bossy as god damn hell? Evi-fucking-dently.

It doesn't help that they swan about, these Holmes boys, all delicate, gesturing fingers and pale angles and aristocratic grace, so that you quite nearly want to do as they tell you.


But to paraphrase that old hippie anthem, there's a time for taking orders and a time for giving them, a time for knuckling under and a time for saying, "Fuck you Mycroft, get the hell out."

John probably would have said yes if Mycroft hadn't waited until Sherlock was gone to come boss him around. And he would probably have said yes if Mycroft had just asked instead of assumed. But he'd done one, then the other, and had irked the good doctor so soundly that words had been had, stabby glares exchanged, and one tall swanny representative of the British government had sailed out of that flat so fast he'd actually forgotten his umbrella.

Which was how what happened next, happened next.

"He bullied you."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"Now do you understand?"

"I said shut up, Sherlock."

John snatched the folded paper from his lover, threw himself onto the sofa, and yanked the pages open so hard one tore off in his hand. While Sherlock did the exact opposite of shut up, John uttered four consecutive swear words under his breath.

"He's always thought he could tell me what to do." Sherlock threw his coat and scarf onto the coffee table. "It's because he's old…er. And because of those absurd tests—as if they mattered. Well now you see."

Those tests. The intelligence evaluations both Holmes boys had had when they turned thirteen. Strange little gifts from their strange parents. And, as it turned out, ammunition for a lifetime of 'I know better than you, Sherlock,' gazes from Mycroft because he'd come out eighteen points ahead of baby brother.

"Yes, now I see," John grumped as Sherlock dropped new case notes onto their shared desk. "Now I see that Mycroft is exactly as brassy and bossy as you are. One of these days you're both going to drive me to drink."

Sherlock huffed and gestured with delicate damn fingers and aristocratic grace and said, "You should really learn to let things go, John."

John was about to utter four consecutive swear words quite loudly when Sherlock, busy swanning off toward the kitchen, spotted something leaning against his favorite chair. "What the absolute fuck is that?"

John was so startled he actually put the paper down. Sherlock rarely swore outside the bedroom. And he never swore in the style of a certain John Watson.

Two sets of perhaps-they're-blue-perhaps-they're-not eyes looked at the thing propped against Sherlock's favorite sitting room chair (and what does it say that John's chair is the comfy, stuffed red one, and Sherlock's the one with long chrome bones and smooth beige leather?).

Leaning against one of those silver bones was Mycroft's umbrella.

John pursed his lips, briefly pleased he'd managed to so fluster the elder Holmes that the man had actually forgotten something that for all intents and purposes was a third arm. Then John unpursed his lips so he could grin, briefly pleased that karma had been so kind as to immediately bite Sherlock in the arse.

John lifted the paper again, could not stop the gloat. "See what I mean? Annoying."

Sherlock waved a long-fingered hand, imperious, as he stalked over to the tall, thin representation of three quarters of the British government. "Shut up, John."

The good doctor huffed as he watched Sherlock snatch up his brother's brolly. And just like that, just like that John H. Watson got a gorgeous, filthy idea.

"Fuck it, Sherlock."

The consulting detective spun round, umbrella in hand and said, "I was only repeating back what you said to me not thirty seconds ago. No need to get imperious and bossy, I—"

The super genius finally clued in. "What?"

John peered over his newspaper, not at all aware of the half-naked page-three girl staring at him in a sort of smirky dare. "You heard me."

It's true. Sherlock heard just fine. And usually he distained meaningless conversational fillers that refuse to clarify. However, he couldn't stop himself from uttering again, "What?"

John hadn't started the morning horny. As a matter of fact it'd been four or five days since they'd had sex and, though his libido was more consistent than Sherlock's, they'd been so busy lately that frankly he hadn't even thought about the lack until just now.

Why just now? John didn't know. Didn't care.

Instead of clarifying, the good doctor put his paper down, held Sherlock's gaze with his own, and did that thing Sherlock always watches—always—he licked his lips, wide, flat tongue darting out and back in again.

Then, instead of saying anything, Sherlock did that thing John always watches—always—he opened that lush mouth of his a little, the better to accommodate the uptick in his breathing.

For a moment both men thought about moving past this moment. Look, skip it, let's just go get some lunch, John might have said. Fine. Then I'll need to come back and study these case notes for a few hours, Sherlock might have replied. But they didn't.

So that's how what happened next happened, and how John learned something he probably should have known already but didn't.

But it was fine. It was all fine.

The long, lean umbrella still held aloft in Sherlock's fist slipped slowly through his fingers. After awhile the ferrule came to rest soundlessly on the floor. The detective held the umbrella aloft with the tip of one long finger against its handle. He blinked a slow gaze at John.

John stared back. Let the paper slide to the floor. Did that licking thing again.

After a few heartbeats Sherlock looked down, head cocked to the side as if mildly surprised by what he saw. A few more heartbeats and he began walking unhurriedly around the umbrella, first this way, then that, a tall man slowly marching 'round his own little Maypole. As he went in leisurely circles, Sherlock's expression surprised John.

Because there was no expression.

John had expected (hoped for? could he be that petty?) a sneer on lover's face, a quirked brow, a roll of the eyes.

Instead John saw other things. A steady gaze so focused, so inward that the good doctor thought, He's remembering things, is Sherlock. Or replaying an old, old conversation in his head.

John's learned many things living with the world's only consulting detective. He's learned how to tease the man until he lets go of whatever burdens he's clinging to. He's learned to trick him into talking when he doesn't want to speak, or into listening when he doesn't want to hear. And John's also learned how to tell when it's time for teases and tricks.

The answer? Not now.

Now it was time to let Sherlock unfurl himself around that umbrella and through the silence maybe tell John a few things.

Sherlock opened his mouth right about then. As if he'd tell John a few things.

And he did, but not with words.

At a very slow and stately pace Sherlock walked around that firmly closed brolly, and as he did he licked his lips; the way a man does when his throat's gone dry.

As if to underscore the point, Sherlock swallowed and by the look of it it was slow, difficult.

John watched, deducing, because like burping and sneezing and eating everyone does it, everyone sees. Just some people do it rather better than others. John? He was pretty good at deduction by now. He'd been getting lessons.

Just then Sherlock gave him something more to see, squatting down in front of that brolly, finger still placed just-so over the curved handle, keeping it upright so the detective could look at it from toe to tip.

And he did.

With a tilt of the head he looked down at the wooden ferrule, otherwise known as the-part-everyone-drags-on-the-ground. An abused area, it should have been scuffed and worn, but this was Mycroft's umbrella so of course it wasn't. It was buffed almost to a sheen, with just a few small scratches betraying the fact that it had circumnavigated the globe eight times with its owner.

Sherlock licked his lips again, tongue poking out of his mouth for a long, long second and then his gaze traveled up along the umbrella's tightly-wound black canopy. John has seen this particular umbrella in use, so he was justified in wondering how it could not only look as if it had never been unfurled, but how it could look damn well pressed. There wasn't a single wrinkle in its crisp folds.

John wondered how the brain of a man that meticulous worked.

At about the time he was having that thought, a man with a brain that meticulous shifted his gaze up, to the brolly's curved and glistening handle.

This was when John noticed Sherlock's eyes were not expressionless anymore, that behind them a brain was blazing, firing, burning through a hundred thoughts at once and somehow the thought that was clearest—it must have been, because it popped into John's head as if someone had spoken it in his ear—was the fact that Mycroft's hand, his beringed right hand, wrapped around that handle every day.

John flicked his gaze around the room for an instant and then returned it just as Sherlock leaned forward and dragged his tongue along the handle of his brother's umbrella.

He didn't do it once. He didn't do it twice. He did it over and over until John lost track of exactly how many times he did it, and until John had plenty of time to poke around in his own brain and see what he's seen many times: that the handle of that brolly came to the exact same height as Mycroft's cock.

Well fuck.

John would like to say the realization was so obvious as to be anti-climactic, he really would. As a matter of fact it was one of his favorite saying, one even Sherlock liked so much he'd stolen it from him, but this? This wasn't obvious except in hindsight and now that he'd seen it John could not unsee it, not ever.

Which was fine.

Which was fine?

Yeah, actually. It was fine.

Because frankly, living with Sherlock had taught John a hundred thousand things, perhaps a hundred and ten, if he was feeling generous, but one of the most obvious was this: Sherlock says and does what the rest of us wish we could say and do.

Stated more plainly, many of us repress what we think and feel, Sherlock Holmes does not.

So this? While he didn't see it coming, no, the fact that Sherlock has had/does have a sexual thing for his brother actually didn't surprise John quite as much as the fact that he hadn't noticed it until now. Or maybe some part of him did. Maybe that was why he'd said it.

Fuck it, Sherlock.

And because these thoughts were new and fresh and had many, many angles from which to look at them, John took a moment to look at them through the lens of his own desire. He thought of Mycroft sexually and he wondered what he'd feel. The answer: nothing much. He found that the idea of Mycroft in that way didn't do anything for him.

The same couldn't be said for Mycroft's little brother.

Twenty? Thirty? How many times had Sherlock dragged his tongue up that handle, around it, over the graceful curve of its top? And when had his breathing become so loud that John could hear it even over his own?

John didn't have time to figure it out because about then Sherlock rose from his crouch. As he did he looked at John.

And without words asked a dozen things.

John nodded in comprehension. And when had that happened? When had he gotten this good at understanding Sherlock? No clue. But he did, he understood him just fine and so John responded in wordless reply.

I see what you did there, he said. I know what it meant, what it means, what you wanted, or maybe still want.

I'm not particularly bothered by it no, he added, and yeah, that surprised me for a minute. But I know what I mean to you. I know that what we have is rare.

Keep going, he said at last, then whispered it soft and clear, one hand sliding down, palming himself through black jeans.

Well fuck.

That time it was Sherlock's thinky thoughts.

Because as disinclined as Sherlock was to meeting expectations of normal behavior he knew good and well what normal was. How do you think he knew how to flaunt it so consistently?

So Sherlock knew when he was wildly on the other side of normal, and he knew the risks that come with that. Up until John, he didn't give one flying fuck about those risks.

Then there he was, a brave little man who somehow managed to fill every room he entered even if Sherlock was already in it. And then there John was and Sherlock suddenly cared a little about being normal. And learned pretty damn fast that he didn't have to be.

Because John gave him permission. Every day, in a dozen ways, John said over and over: Do it. It's okay. I signed on for this. Be. Just be…you.

Well that was easy enough.

Sherlock smiled at John. It's just you and me, that smile said. Even if we brought in a cast of thousands, John, it'll only ever be you and me.

And right now, one black brolly. A stand-in. An imperious ghost.

Sherlock sank to his knees again, then slid down, down, down the length of the umbrella until eventually his mouth was an inch from the floor. Finally he turned, eyes closed tight, and kissed the ferrule softly. Then softer still. Again and again he pressed his mouth there, breathless and tender.

After a minute, maybe two Sherlock stopped a long while, mouth open, breathing soft shaky breaths against that glistening wooden tip. Then carefully, as if it were something very delicate, Sherlock licked it.

And groaned.

He licked again, less tentative, more tongue. And again. The fourth time he moaned, high and faint. Then Sherlock pressed his cheek to the umbrella, then his mouth, the bridge of his nose, his forehead, like a cat he pushed his face over and over against that black, unmoving thing, panting, sighing, then keening softly as he bared his teeth and bit.

Just a little.

"Yes." It was a whisper, as faint as sighing. It was permission. Longing. Desire. It was John.

His lover, on his knees, bowed before an imaginary man, smiled and echoed him. "Oh yes."

Finally Sherlock began the long, slow journey back up the lean length of that umbrella, keeping contact by mouth, cheek, neck, even the hair on his head. Yes, a cat, a pale cat pressing and kneading, pressing…and needing.

He stopped moving just below the curve of the umbrella handle, tilted his head back, and inserted the tip of it into his mouth.

There was nothing particularly comfortable about the posture Sherlock was in. Spine rounded, neck arched, head back as far as it would go, he looked like a man…servicing something. And it clearly didn't matter what that service did to him.

Sherlock rose a little, pushed the handle deeper into his mouth. He grunted, as if it was too much, but he rose anyway, taking in more, then again until John stopped breathing.

Precisely then Sherlock spread his legs and pressed the heel of his hand against his cock. Growling in the back of his throat, he bared teeth and bit spit-slick wood not at all softly.

Oh it was more than time.

With a soft hiss he slid his lips from the handle, rose slowly on shaky legs. Finally he stood tall, imperious gaze imperious as he gazed down at that umbrella.

It took a couple blinks before John realized Sherlock was moving backward, had hooked the toe of his shoe around the leg of the beige chair, was tugging it round until it faced the sofa. Once canted toward John, Sherlock collapsed amidst the cool cushions.

Immediately he slouched low, legs wide in an inelegant sprawl, arms spread as if crucified, the brolly clutched carelessly in one hand.

He sighed heavily, eyes half closed, for all the world so very bored.

The large bulge in his trousers said otherwise. Loudly.

Oooooooh and that bulge was tempting. Enticing. Irresistible. So much so that Sherlock's free hand began sliding toward it, moving slow and circumspect. Yet when his hand reached his thigh, Sherlock stopped, left it there, cock untouched but straining, wanting, hard.

A little bit, then a little more—in slow degrees Sherlock's hips began moving…just the barest side-to-side motion. Then small movements guided by the flexing of his thighs. Finally tiny, slow pumps up against nothing.

Sherlock pressed his head hard against the back of the chair, mouth open, eyes closed. "Please."

One hand slowly fisted around the umbrella. The fingers of the other dug into his thigh. "Please."

Sluggishly, as if drugged, drunk, dazed, Sherlock dragged that brolly around the arm of the chair, until it was pressed to the side of his leg.

And there he stopped. And stayed so very still for nearly a minute. A minute during which John was pretty sure he would catch fire. Or shout. Or maybe beg. With a great deal of needy, desperate swearing.

Actually, John knows how lucky he is that his lover can, will, and does make sex last. Oh yes, sure, absolutely, he knows. But sometimes luck makes him so hard he hurts.

Finally John unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, shoved them carelessly to his thighs. With a soft sigh even he barely heard he slid his hand inside his briefs and over the warm, heavy flesh there.

Eyes still closed, Sherlock smiled, and started thrusting his hips again, the barest canting up, little thrusts, just little ones…

…then he tugged the brolly between his knees…his thighs…then hard, hard, very hard right up against his crotch.

He hissed in relief, the sound precisely the one he makes when the drugs in a nicotine patch at last hit his system.

He wrapped one long leg around the umbrella, pulled it tighter against his cock. Whispered something John couldn't make out, only that the words were soft, desperate, and there were so many of them. A litany then, maybe a recitation, proof, evidence.

Finally from that faint jumble one word emerged, soft and clear, whispered in time to each upward pump of Sherlock's hips: "My, My, My…"

It's rare for John's orgasm to rush up hot and unexpected, but this one blazed through him fast and sharp. Before he could release his cock to hold the fire off he was coming, thick, hot spurts shooting up over hand and belly, a guttural groan trapped behind gritted teeth.

The adrenaline and pleasure burned through his over-stimulated body, arching his back hard, then melting muscle and bone just enough to leave him spent, soft, then deliciously indolent.

With a relieved and wanton little giggle John slid low on the couch, legs sprawled, mouth open and panting, and waited for the rest of the show.

Which was still in progress.

Though now the program changed, just a little. Because he no longer needed to take John with him, Sherlock at last settled down to the business of going full steam ahead in fucking his brother's umbrella.

Though not before a little more foreplay, a bit of…lovemaking, if you will.

Sherlock pressed the length of the brolly against his chest, belly, face. He wrapped his long arms around it, clutching close, holding tight. He kissed it everywhere his mouth could reach, stroked it with cheek and hands. And again the faintest, feathery, desperate sound, "My, Myyyyy…Ooooh."

Then, boneless as any cat, Sherlock slid from the chair and to his knees on the floor. Then there was no more messing around.

Sitting back on his heels, hips canted far forward like some sort of rock star about to croon the final lusty notes of a ballad, Sherlock jammed that umbrella against his hard-on and started thrusting up against it like there'd be no fucking tomorrow.

But there was right now, and right now was for wide-legged rutting, and open-mouthed keening. It was for digging nails into pliant black cloth as if it were pale flesh you could mark with your need, it was for throwing back your head and thrashing, as if it all felt so good it hurt.

Right now was for thinking your lover's name but for saying your brother's…and then for moaning your lover's name like the perfect incantation it is but for looking at this long, lean thing your brother touches, holds, maybe even caresses every day, this thin, elegant representation of something you've always wanted somewhere in the back of your mind but have never had and maybe never will, but that's fine—

Sherlock grunted.

—it's more than fine—

Sherlock clamped his thighs tight around the umbrella.

—you have something better—

Sherlock thrust, plunged, pumped that umbrella hard and fast between his clenched thighs, then did it faster still and as hard as he could stand.

—you have John, you have—


Sherlock fell forward onto hands and knees and rode out his orgasm a good long while on top of his brother's forgotten brolly.

"He rejected you, didn't he?"

Stretched out on the sofa, draped heavy over his lover, Sherlock pressed his other ear against John's chest. The lazy lub-dub of his beating heart made Sherlock sleepy and somehow wide awake.

"You're not a super-genius, John," Sherlock murmured in time with the slow pump beneath his ear, "with arch-enemies to keep you sharp." Sherlock started to keep time with a soft tap of his fingers against John's side. "So you have no right to be this smart."

John danced his own fingertips over Sherlock's spine. The only place he was "this smart" was right here, with this man. As if super-genius was somehow a bit catchy. As if it leaked out of pores like sweat, smearing all over another person's skin. "And yet here I am, doing it just the same."

Sherlock sighed. He opened his mouth, breath warm across John's chest and said, "It all started when I was fourteen…"

It'll be awhile before Sherlock finishes that sentence, but now, at last, I have a doorway in my own canon through which to introduce a bit of Holmescest. Thank you a href=" .com/"Crocodile_eat_u/a, I blame and praise you for this. All you had to say were two magic words: Mycroft's brolly.

Though this completes "Four Shame, Sherlock," I'll continue this series of *cough* the-boys-fucking-the-inanimate but with stand-alone fics; if you have ideas, send 'em on. We've got a few suggestions so far, including the Union Jack pillow, John's firearm, and Sherlock's violin. Kindly share yours?