For once, Sherlock was glad to see the black Audi pull up to the curb. The crowds and traffic buzzing through Piccadilly Circus agitated his fraying nerves, making him tremble until his muscles ached. When the car stopped and its rear passenger door opened he sprang inside with a groan of relief and curled up on the richly upholstered seat.

"Took you long enough," he mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut.

"So sorry," Anthea responded with a politeness that sounded pre-programmed. "Mr. Holmes said to tell you that his luncheon meeting is running late, but he will be at the Diogenes as soon as possible."

"Probably doesn't want to leave before they serve dessert."

Anthea didn't respond. Her eyes- and her complete attention- were on her Blackberry.

Sherlock drew his knees up to his chest and covered his ears, shutting out the world completely. He rarely got panic attacks this severe any more, but when they happened, there was only one place and one person capable of getting the nervous poison out of his system.

The Diogenes Club.

And Mycroft.

By the time the car stopped at the club's private side entrance, Sherlock had relaxed enough to get out unassisted and ring the bell which, he knew from past experience, caused a green light to flash mutely on the attendant's desk console. Seconds later, the door opened and an elderly man wearing a doorman's uniform beckoned him inside. Sherlock inhaled deeply and stepped into the shadows and silence.

He followed the attendant to the room permanently reserved for Mycroft. The corridor's thick red rug absorbed all footsteps, and the frosted glass on the overhead lights softened their brilliance to a gentle glow. By the time they entered the private chamber Sherlock was calmer, but when the man offered him a glass of water and two tablets, he still accepted both.

Mycroft must be running even later than expected.

After the attendant left, Sherlock approached the gigantic four-poster bed, stripping off his clothes as he went. The room was a showpiece of Victorian era elegance: Queen Anne armchairs and a velvet-upholstered sofa stood around the crackling fireplace, rich velvet curtains hung from the hand-carved bed frame, and special bulbs in the lamps emulated gaslight. Of particular interest to Sherlock was the leather-covered trunk with shiny brass fittings that stood at the foot of the bed. He paused to touch it, recalling its contents and relieved that the pills left him too sleepy to become impatient.

He climbed into bed, relishing the coolness of the sheets on his naked body. For awhile he drowsily watched the firelight throw patterns on the ceiling. Then his eyes closed, and he slept for the first time in days.

When Sherlock woke up hours later, Mycroft was in the bed with him. His back was pressed against a warm chest, and a strong, freckled arm held him in place. "You're still dressed," he mumbled, momentarily forgetting where he was. The arm lifted quickly from his waist, and a hand pressed tightly over his lips.

When he nodded to indicate understanding and acceptance, the hand lowered and soft lips brushed his long, pale neck before latching on firmly and sucking hard enough to leave a bruise. Sherlock whimpered- which was permitted at the Diogenes, as it was a sound, not an articulation- and leaned his head back, baring more of his flesh to that possessive mouth. He squirmed as heat brewed in his belly, and moaned again when his bare arse brushed against his brother's leather-covered erection.

He's wearing the leather trousers again. Oh yes, yes, yes.

Mycroft guided him onto his back, all the while keeping him pinned to the mattress with one thigh. Sherlock also felt strong fingers grip his hair and anchor his head to the pillow. Robbed of easy motion, he relaxed and surrendered: to his brother, to his burning sexuality, to the silence.

Sherlock. Mycroft mouthed the words. I'm glad you came to me.

Me too. Help me, Mycroft. It's all too much. Please.

Always, brother mine. Always.

Sherlock arched into the kiss that followed, opening his mouth to that skilled and seductive tongue. He was fully erect now and squirmed again, trying to roll onto his side and rub himself against Mycroft. But his brother easily kept him in place.

Don't be so greedy, the elder Holmes breathed into those open lips. Bath first.


Mycroft gestured toward the fireplace and allowed him to sit up. An antique brass tub, loaded with steaming water, gleamed in the firelight. When they were children, Mycroft had often bathed him in a smaller version, washing away dirt and tears and tension. Sherlock's throat tightened at the memories. How he yearned now for those simpler days, when a complicated toy or foreign-language storybook was enough to calm him temporarily. Before the Diogenes, he'd searched for peace in the cocaine needle and the rent boy's kiss. Without this place, he'd probably be dead by now.

When his full lips actually trembled, Mycroft rolled off the bed and held out his arms. Sherlock tossed the blankets aside, crawled over, and let his older brother carry him across the room. He pressed his face against Mycroft's solid chest, the black silk shirt a gentle contrast to the rough wool of the man's usual three-piece ensemble, and inhaled the rich smell of aftershave and body heat.

The water felt heavenly; Sherlock's sore muscles and bruised flesh eagerly absorbed the heat. He'd finished a particularly challenging case for Lestrade two days ago, and still bore the marks of a nasty brawl with the guilty party. He saw Mycroft purse his lips in concern, but his older brother said –or rather, mouthed- nothing. He was safe now, and that was all that mattered. To both of them.

Mycroft was thorough, scrubbing him with sandalwood-scented bath gel and applying a firm, massaging touch to the rigid muscles in his shoulders and back. Sherlock purred and felt his body go boneless everywhere except in his crotch.

By the time Mycroft guided him out of the tub and wrapped him in a thick, fluffy towel, he was painfully hard. Knowing that he wasn't expected to do anything but be tended to and submit when necessary, Sherlock remained still and let his brother dry him off. Those strong hands were so soothing that he leaned his forehead against Mycroft's shoulder and let out a long, shuddering breath.

Better now, Sherlock?

Yes. Getting there.

Finally they were done. Mycroft- who looked magnificent in his solid black ensemble, with the firelight playing off his soft ginger hair- took him firmly by the wrists and propelled him toward the bed. The elder Holmes sat on its edge and pointed to the floor. Sherlock sighed audibly with relief and contentment as he dropped to his knees.

The collar went on first- a thick black leather one with the Holmes family crest engraved on the platinum tag. Then Sherlock presented his thin wrists for the matching cuffs. When they were buckled firmly in place, he rested his chin on his brother's knees, and reveled in the feeling of his hair being stroked and head petted.

Thank you. Thank you.

Mycroft stood and positioned Sherlock over the edge of the bed, drawing his arms behind his back and hooking the rings on the cuffs together. Sherlock rubbed his hard cock against the ornate duvet, relishing the friction, but a sharp slap on his upturned arse made him stop. He looked over his shoulder at Mycroft, who wagged his finger reprovingly before going to the black trunk, unlocking it, and flipping the lid up. While Sherlock watched eagerly, he rummaged through the implements before deciding on a sleek dog whip.

Sherlock's heartbeat accelerated. That particular toy was his favorite; he loved the noise it made whenever it sliced the air en route to his waiting shoulders and arse, and the shock waves it sent through his nerve endings on impact always went straight to his cock. Mycroft smiled knowingly before planting a soft kiss on the small of his back, stepping back, and taking aim.

Sherlock heard the whine of the lash just before a sharp, delicious pain exploded on his right buttock. He moaned into the duvet and clenched his fists. He was leaking steadily now, his cockhead painting the expensive sheets with glistening pre-ejaculate. The second blow marked his left cheek, and raised his excitement to fever levels. It took every ounce of his willpower not to rut madly against the bed as the whip kissed his skin again and again, making his senses dance and his mind go still.

Finally Mycroft stopped. Sherlock heard footsteps approach, followed by feathery touches against his inflamed skin. A palm pressed firmly on his back- their signal for Stay there. He nodded, and watched over his shoulder as Mycroft went to the bar set on the sideboard and poured himself a shot of premium Scotch. He strolled over to one of the armchairs, sat down, and sipped the amber liquid, enjoyment evident on his face.

Sherlock bit back his impulse to beg, but his body demanded more stimulation by going rigid once again. Mycroft noticed the returning tension and rose. He returned to the bar, laid the crystal liquor glass down, and dug through the steel, frosted ice bucket. The dull crunch of the shifting cubes made Sherlock shiver.

He obeyed when Mycroft gestured for him to look away, but he didn't have to be watching to know what was coming. Fine shards of broken ice cascaded lightly onto his hot, throbbing arse, trickling down his crack and balls. A cold hand slid between his legs, stroking his cock and making him yelp. Mycroft yanked reprovingly on his collar at the noise and leaned over him until their cheekbones touched.

Careful, little brother.

Sorry. So intense.

Mmm, I know. You took that very well, Sherlock. I'm going to reward you.

Yes, Mycroft. Please.

The elder Holmes placed the whip on a table specifically designated for used toys, and went back to the trunk. Sherlock watched him go through a second round of rummaging before taking out two items that froze the breath in his throat: a bottle of lube and the vibrating prostate massager that he loved so much. Suppressing a whimper, he made his need obvious by bowing slightly at the waist and spreading his legs further. The light touch on his hip assured him that Mycroft would take care of him.

Sherlock listened eagerly to the soft thump of the bottle hitting the duvet, followed by the pressure of hands against his sore buttocks, spreading them open. When hot breath puffed against his sphincter muscle he shuddered and bit back a sob. He dug his nails into his palms and rocked his hips backward, trying to impale himself on the slick tongue that now lapped at his entrance. When it drew back he moaned in frustration, but the noise sharpened into a gasp when two lubed fingers pressed into him, finding his prostate with deadly accuracy. Mycroft's tongue continued to torment his stretched flesh while his sweet spot received a slow, torturous massage.

It was so much. Almost sensory overload.

Please, please, please….

When Sherlock started thrusting his hips backward in frantic, jerky motions, trying to ride those fingers and that mouth, Mycroft withdrew. Then the blunt, lubricated tip of the prostate massager was breaching his sensitive entrance, its ribbed shaft simultaneously stretching and teasing him. It had been medically designed for maximum stimulation, and the experts responsible were, in Sherlock's opinion, geniuses. By the time the flared base was snug between his buttocks, he was almost weeping with desperation and need.

Tossing his head back, he mouthed, Mycroft, please.

That raw plea was as good as a command. There was an audible click and the toy sprang to life inside him, vibrating with full force against his prostate. Mycroft had applied the maximum setting, forgoing a slow tease in favour of giving him what he needed, hard and fast.

Sherlock's orgasm was volcanic. In a split second, he went from a maddening pool of simmering heat to a full-scale eruption. Wad after wad of warm ejaculate splattered against the bed. His eyes rolled back in his head and only Mycroft's firm hands on his mouth and between his shoulder blades kept him (semi) silent and in place.

Finally Sherlock's hips stopped shuddering and his entire sweat-slick body relaxed against the mattress. He laid there, eyelids slack and expression languid, while his brother gently extracted the massager and unlinked his wrist cuffs. Then strong arms pulled his naked body, which still trembled slightly from the aftershocks, onto the bed and embraced him. He felt so sated and safe and loved that tears welled in his eyes and trickled down his cheeks.

As he shifted, Sherlock felt Mycroft's bulge press against his side. He touched the smooth, warm leather lightly, and licked his lips when the cock inside jumped eagerly.

Mycroft. Let me take care of that for you.

You don't have to.

I want to.

Sherlock's long fingers undid Mycroft's zip and took out his cock, which was flushed and hard. Shifting onto his belly, he breathed on it gently, the way Mycroft liked, and smiled at the appreciative gasp that resulted. Then he wet his lips and slid them over the leaking purple head. He swirled his tongue all over the silky skin, mapping each vein and ridge, before relaxing his jaw and letting his brother slide down his throat. When Mycroft's pubic hair brushed against Sherlock's lips and nose, the older man rocked his hips, relishing the moist heat of his brother's mouth. Fingers ran all over the young man's dark curls, silently encouraging and praising him and hinting at additional rewards for flawless performance.

He was happily sucking away when Mycroft finally pulled out, lifted his chin and claimed his moist mouth in a greedy kiss. Their bodies rubbed urgently together, breath ragged and hearts hammering.

You need more, Sherlock.

Yes, Mycroft. Yes. Please give it to me.

Mycroft positioned his younger brother face down, arms over his head and cuffs securely attached to a brass hook in the headboard. Sherlock, his cheek rubbing against the pillow, spread his legs and arched his back when directed, rejuvenated cock bobbing in time with his heartbeat.

After applying lube, Mycroft pressed into him, loving how Sherlock's still-slick hole gripped his cock and all but forced him deeper inside. The younger man bit his bottom lip in a frantic attempt to remain acceptably silent. The stretching, burning advance of his brother's erection was so pleasurable that he worried briefly about fainting from the intensity. When Mycroft bottomed out and gripped his hips, holding him in place so they could both adjust, Sherlock turned his head and eagerly sought his brother's mouth. Mycroft grasped his chin and pressed their lips together, smiling as he felt Sherlock's body relax and surrender.

He didn't need to ask Sherlock where it felt good- he knew from intuition and experience. Pulling out an inch, he slammed back in, hitting his brother's sensitive prostate with violent accuracy. Sherlock shook all over and moaned, "Oh, fu-"

Mycroft clasped a broad hand over his mouth yet again and began fucking him with such force that the headboard shook with each inward thrust. Sherlock's muffled cries became more urgent when the pleasure intensified, and soon it was all Mycroft could do to hold him in place. His eyes rolled, his wrists fought the cuffs with a mindlessness that ensured future bruising. Only Mycroft could do this to him- take him apart using lips, toys, and cock- and undo the damage caused by the outside world.

Sherlock was seconds away from a second orgasm. His breathing became more erratic and his thighs locked and unlocked spasmodically. When Mycroft slid a hand from his hip to his cock and started pumping it in time with his thrusts, Sherlock whimpered and tossed his head back, wet curls plastering against his brother's sweaty shoulder. His pale face glowed with ecstasy and his eyes were squeezed tightly shut.

When Sherlock's climax tore through him, sending sperm shooting against the mattress and over Mycroft's hand, Mycroft adjusted the grip on his mouth to pinch his nostrils shut too. The sudden loss of oxygen, combined with his elevated heart rate and merciless prostate stimulation, made colors flash and stars explode in his head, and intensified his orgasm to such a degree that he sank into a deep, warm oblivion.

He awoke a short time afterward in Mycroft's arms. They were both naked now, and under the covers. When he saw that his brother was conscious, Mycroft pressed a kiss into his sweaty curls.

Better now?

Mmm. Yes. Thank you.

I think you should stay the night here. With me. It's been so long, little brother.

Yes, it has. And yes, I will.

When Mycroft donned a robe and left the chamber briefly to order a catered dinner, Sherlock picked up his mobile, which had been thoughtfully retrieved and placed on the bedside table, and sent a text to John.

Spending the night at the Diogenes. Don't wait up for me. SH.

John's reply arrived instantly.

Thank God. Was worried when I didn't hear from you. JW

Sherlock smiled as he typed his answer.

No need. I was safe. SH

And he was.