When Sherlock heard the latex gloves being snapped on, he tensed, but Mycroft easily detected eager anticipation. He ran a reassuring hand along his brother's flank anyway, admiring the redness that now colored those tight buttocks.

"You need more than wanking alone to come, Sherlock. That's atypical, I admit, but not unheard-of. Think of yourself as a cipher, and I'm helping you find the key. Now tell me: spanking brought you closer, didn't it?"

Dark curls bobbed as Sherlock nodded. "Yes, and ordering me about too. I'm wet and so fucking hard it hurts. You think John will do all this for me?"

Swallowing heavily, Mycroft smeared lube over the index and middle fingers of his right hand. "I think John Watson would commit murder to keep you happy. And if that turns you on, you are NOT leaving this office."

Sherlock laughed huskily before asking, "Why the gloves?"

It took a few seconds for Mycroft to trust his voice enough to answer. "Because your first lover is the only one who should do this to you without a barrier."

Kneeling again, and no longer caring about the wet patch dampening his trousers, Mycroft gently parted Sherlock's cheeks and pressed a slick finger to that tight pink entrance. Detecting tension, he stroked the muscle without trying to enter.

"Relax," he murmured. "You're too tense, and you've no reason to be."

Sherlock's head turned on the cushion. "Is this going to be painful?"

"What?" Mycroft stilled. "No, why?"

No answer.

"Sherlock, look at me. Now."

The younger man peered over his shoulder. Despite his lust-blown pupils, he was biting his lip so hard that the skin was in danger of breaking. Mycroft frowned: Sherlock relished being bitten and spanked hard, but penetration scared him?

"Sherlock, anyone who loves you will NEVER hurt you. Do you understand?" Trying to lighten the mood, he added, "Unless it's to give you the smacked arse you so richly deserve."

"I know. I'm being ridiculous. Too many prison dramas, thanks to John's odious telly habits. I should know I won't need an A&E visit afterward."

"I'll cut off the telly service if you like."

A smile. "Carry on. Please. It actually felt good before I spoiled it."

"You're sure?"

"Yes," Sherlock drawled in the same tone that he usually applied to those he considered thick-headed.

Mycroft laid one hand on Sherlock's lower back to soothe and steady him. Then he applied the pad of his finger to that clenched ring of muscle again, circling and stroking. When it relaxed, he pushed in to the first knuckle. Sherlock's body was superbly responsive: his thighs trembled and a guttural moan escaped into the cushion. Encouraged, Mycroft probed deeper, relishing the silky heat that felt exquisite even through the latex, gently applying lube to the virgin walls that quivered around his finger. His own arousal was so overwhelming that only his superhuman self-control kept his face placid and movements careful.


"Mmm." Sherlock licked his lips. "That feels incredible."

"Let me add another. Deep breath and bear down. There you go…."

Mycroft slid both digits in until his knuckles were wedged between Sherlock's buttocks. "Ready to feel something exquisite?" Without waiting for an answer, he slowly withdrew partway, crooked his fingers at just the right angle, and pressed down.

Sherlock jerked as if electrocuted. His head shot up and his back arched so abruptly that the bones cracked in protest. His mouth fell open, but no noise came out.

Mycroft did it again, this time sliding his free hand under Sherlock's belly while teasing his prostate. His brother was still hard, and dripping so much that the latex covered hand easily stroked his length.

"Oooh," Sherlock whimpered. "That's so… so…." At a loss for words, he turned his head. Mycroft saw amazement and ecstasy in those normally cynical eyes.

"No suitable description for it, is there?" Mycroft scissored his fingers, gently stretching and loosening the muscle. Sherlock pushed back, making soft noises into the cushion as he fucked himself on those slippery, probing digits.

"Fuck, yes, My, right fucking THERE. Ohhh."

"Getting closer?"

"Oh God, yes."

"Touch yourself."

Sherlock reached beneath himself. His arm muscles pistoned as he stroked his flesh. "Getting there... just a bit more..."

Mycroft finally slid his fingers out, grinning when Sherlock whined in protest. "Shush now. If you thought that felt wonderful, you'll wonder where this has been all your life."

Ignoring the fire that raged in his lower belly, he peeled off the gloves, picked up the vibrator, which had a flared base, and quickly applied a generous coating of lube. Then he pushed it into Sherlock's body and switched it on. He knew from personal experience that the device's design would concentrate the vibrations directly onto the younger man's prostate, making him lose his mind.

Sherlock squealed. His pelvis rolled upward and he started bucking wildly. "Mycroft, what the fuck, that's... that's-"

Seeing his little brother going berserk with pleasure, Mycroft's control broke. The Dom in him roared. Lips curled back and eyes blazing, he threw himself full-length on top of Sherlock, who was rolling on the leather cushions like an alligator. He snaked one arm around his brother's middle to avoid being bucked off and clamped the other hand over his mouth.

"Shut up and take it, little brother!" he hissed in Sherlock's ear before nipping the lobe. "Take every fucking inch of it." He ground his soaked crotch against Sherlock's arse, driving the vibrator deeper. The resulting friction was so heavenly that he sighed. "Oh God, you feel incredible beneath me. I hope John realizes what a treasure he has."

Sherlock panted, teeth brushing against his brother's palm. When Mycroft started pounding harder and biting his neck, the younger Holmes whimpered and tugged his erection more frantically. His other hand gripped the cushion until the knuckles lost all color.

"So good, isn't it?" Mycroft could feel Sherlock tensing beneath him. All the signs of upcoming orgasm were there: quickened breathing, full-body flush, and locking hip and thigh muscles. He just needed that one final push.

Snarling, Mycroft pressed down harder, forcing Sherlock's body deeper into the cushions. His own climax was imminent, and the primal need for release made him cruel. He tightened the hand over Sherlock's mouth, forcing the other man's head up, sank his teeth deep into one pale shoulder, and ground himself faster and harder against that writhing arse.

Sherlock let out a muffled wail and shuddered all over. Mycroft closed his eyes and groaned as he came in his trousers for the first time since he was thirteen.

After riding out their climaxes, the Holmes brothers laid there, the thick silence broken only by their laboured breathing. Mycroft released Sherlock's mouth and kissed the back of his neck. "You OK?" he whispered as he rose carefully to his knees, extracted the vibrator, and laid it on the coffee table.

Sherlock rolled onto his side. His curls stuck wetly to his forehead and cheekbones, and his lids were slack. "Look what you did to me, big brother," he smiled, voice tremulous with emotion. Both of them stared at the thick smears of ejaculate that covered his chest and belly. "It worked!"

Mycroft laughed, giddy with relief and affection. "Merry Christmas," he whispered, gathering Sherlock in his arms and holding him tight. He was exhausted and his clothes were ruined, but none of it mattered. "From now on, may it only get better."

A truly grateful Sherlock left an hour later, anxious to buy a vibrator, lube, and other recommended toys before the shops closed. Mycroft showered in the private bathroom that adjoined his office, sent Anthea home (after tucking a generous bonus cheque in her Prada bag- another gift), and curled up in his desk chair, wrapped in a thick black bathrobe and sipping vintage Scotch.

Gazing out the window at the heavily falling snow, he searched his conscience for any traces of guilt over what he'd done to his own baby brother. When he could find none, he smiled wearily, picked up the phone, and arranged to be punished anyway.

And much later, when the government building was silent, Mycroft Holmes leaned over his desk, long fingers pressed against the mahogany surface and robe hem bunched around his waist. Behind him, a shapely, sultry brunette paced, smacking a riding crop against her soft palm.

"Have you been wicked, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, Miss Adler," he answered. He closed his eyes, smiled contentedly, and waited for redemption.