A/N 12/16/12: FYI, in her story "Iridescent", Charlie Chaos did use a variant of the "mass penalty Life Debt" thing that I used for this story, but it's just one of those things where it's a good idea so more than one person thought of it. Please don't give her any grief over it; she and I are just fine with each other. Thanks!
AN 12/14/12: Here it comes! This one is dedicated to Hortensia, who I would hire as a researcher/archivist if I were still a career woman.
I hope to have a new update to each of my fics for Yule, or at least by New Year's Eve. I am so determined, in fact, that I ignoring the epic, selfish stupidity of both my sister and my niece, and am writing this chapter with a 102.3F fever, blocked sinuses, and a puke bucket at my side. (Actually, it's not so much a bucket as it is a plastic Jack O'Lantern the kids used for trick or treating at Halloween. I like the irony!) Therefore, please pardon typos. I'll fix 'em eventually.
Oh, and one more thing. It's a lemon and then some, folks. Blessed Yule! Enough said. Blessed Be & Happy Reading!
CHAPTER 12: WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS…
Sherlock leaned against the counter, waiting with uncharacteristic patience for his younger love to finish his self-appointed task so that they could head out to meet LeStrade and team at what the DI swore was a baffling case. In the past, nothing would have kept the Consulting Detective from the case, despite his natural pessimism that he would find the same degree of bafflement that seemed to so regularly strike LeStrade and Dimmock and … well, pretty much everyone except for Mycroft, Harry and himself. Although he did feel some eagerness for more brain food, Sherlock had recently realized that long sojourns between cases did not torture him as they used to. 'The Work' was still important; it was just not all-important. That designation was reserved for Harry and Mycroft.
It was Harry's intention to knock on Mrs. Hudson's door on the way out to the airport and deliver to the motherly woman a fully cooked and beautifully prepared meal. They had heard the poor woman sneezing and coughing as she came in from gathering the newspaper this morning, and Harry had promptly set about making a homemade get-well basket for her.
While watching Harry prepare the meal, Sherlock snatched up a crisp slice of green pepper, munching thoughtfully before offering a bemused, "Isn't a traditional gift for an ill person supposed to be a pot of soup? Specifically, chicken?"
Snapping the heavy plastic lid closed over the steaming, spicy taco meat, Harry gathered the other containers of tortillas, lettuce, chopped tomatoes, onions and shredded cheese. Efficiently stacking them together in a white wicker picnic basket, he turned and scoffed at Sherlock as he beckoned his tall companion to follow him out the door. "What about me has ever given you the idea that I am a traditionally-minded person, Dear Heart? What gave me away: the being an all-powerful wizard bit, or the part where I'm in a homosexual relationship with two brothers?"
Smirking at Harry's audacious wink, Sherlock admired the view as the smaller man walked ahead of him and dryly commented, "Actually, I think it was the purple dragonhide trousers you're wearing."
He was startled into laughter as said trousers showcased a flirtatious shimmy before Harry disappeared into the hallway. Quickly closing the door and sealing it with an efficient press of his hand against the WWW security panel, Sherlock hastened after his little lover, drawling in amusement, "Why is it you only get so daring when we are on our way out?"
Emerald eyes sparkled up at him as they headed down the stairs. "Because it took too much effort to get these blasted trousers on. If I teased when we were still in the flat, it would have been a wasted effort!"
Pausing in front of Mrs. Hudson's door, Sherlock knocked on the door and then leaned down and breathed into a small, damn near perfect ear, "Now that is purest truth, little tempter. I will be sure to demonstrate how quickly I can reverse that effort when we return, hmm?"
Harry shivered at the warm breath in his ear and the image the flooded his mind. Just as they heard footsteps approach the door, Sherlock murmured devilishly, "Of course, that does not mean I won't be seizing every opportunity throughout the day to explore the tactile properties of dragonhide trousers on your delectable bits."
The woman who opened the door was confronted with the sight of a very flushed Harry Potter and smug-looking Sherlock Holmes, both somewhat hidden behind an enormous picnic basket. It took Harry a moment to register that the shocked woman was not, in fact, Mrs. Hudson. The three stared at each other for several seconds before the woman stuttered, "Harry?!"
Blinking in surprise as Sherlock tapped his gaping jaw, Harry snapped his mouth shut and then grinned slowly. "Hello, Mrs. Figg. What's new with you?"
Sherlock would later replay the next moments in a pensieve, trying to figure out how such an incredibly normal-looking woman could move so quickly. It seemed to take barely a second before the dowdy woman had seized the basket from Harry and shoved it into Sherlock's arms, then seized Harry in a nearly-desperate hug and rocked him, muttering tearfully, "Oh, Harry! Merlin, how can I possibly thank you? Are you all right? Are you well? Tell me the Dursleys are dead! If not, please let me help kill them! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
Mrs. Hudson finally shuffled over to the open door, leaning tiredly against the door jamb as she observed the rare visual treat of a shocked and speechless Sherlock. Deciding to rescue the sweet young tenant who stood rigidly in her cousin's grip, she sniffled pointedly and said in congested tones, "Bella, let the poor boy go. Come in, come in, clearly there's a bit of storytelling to be done."
Nodding dumbly (a fact which he would deny emphatically should anyone ever by stupid enough to point it out), Sherlock followed his landlady and her guest, who was manhandling his little lover into the flat, and took out his phone.
Small delay. And this one actually is baffling. SH
He ignored LeStrade's immediate texted reply, already knowing that the man would be going ballistic about another example of Sherlock's seeming arrogance – 'Really, is it arrogance if one actually is better than everyone else?', he mused – and turned his attention to the situation at hand. It was far too interesting to leave right now; the Case could wait half an hour.
But that did not mean he wasn't going to remove the strange woman's hands from his lover's person immediately!
…Add a spoonful of sugar…
Half an hour later, Sherlock ushered Harry into a cab, curtly issued the destination to the interested driver, and pulled his distressed little wizard into his arms. Harry just huddled against the older man, turning his face into Sherlock's expensive mackintosh and breathed in the comforting, familiar scent.
Dropping his chin to rest on top of the messy, black hair, Sherlock ran a soothing hand up and down his little love's slim back and considered everything. With his arms full and unwilling to free one in order to text, he chose to nudge the bond with Mycroft. His brother must have sensed Sherlock's disquiet, as he immediately opened the bond fully. Rather than explain, Sherlock simply released the memories of the past thirty minutes for Mycroft to review, and spent the time quietly comforting the slim body shivering in his arms.
Poor Harry. He had not known that his older lovers were aware of his 'lost years' in Surrey, with the despicable Dursleys. He had never intended for them to know about it. To suddenly be confronted with Arabella Figg, the only person to have ever been kind to him as a child, had shocked him to the core.
Honestly, Sherlock had been rather shocked, as well. Neither he nor Mycroft had any knowledge of the fact that Mrs. Hudson was a squib, nor that her maiden name was Figg. Somehow, that little nugget had slipped through Mycroft's net, and Sherlock could feel his brother's steaming anger at the omission.
Given the increasing frequency and urgency of LeStrade's texts, Sherlock had been forced to cut the visit short, and he had not even considered leaving Harry there. Even without the charms and the light bond he shared with Harry, it would have taken considerably less than Sherlock's normal degree of observation to know that the young man was overwhelmed and bordering on tears. To be suddenly faced with such a solid reminder of an unbearable childhood, particularly when it came as out of the blue as this one had, would knock anyone off-kilter.
Sherlock felt the cab suddenly change direction, away from the destination he had given the driver. Looking up sharply, he met the eyes of the driver in the mirror just as his cell dinged discreetly. Reluctantly shifting, he retrieved his phone and glanced at the screen, relaxing slightly at Mycroft's reassuring strength coming through the bond as he read: Redirected cab to my flat. Muzzled LeStrade. Meet you there. MH
Nodding briefly at the driver, who dropped his eyes and focused on the busy traffic, Sherlock marveled at the reach of his brother's influence and once again pulled Harry close.
Harry heaved a deep sigh, which Sherlock felt more than heard, and said quietly, "She looks really good. I'm glad the Youth Restorative Potion worked. Snape is an amazing brewer, the prick. I assume you and Mycroft know Arabella was a victim of Dumbledore?"
Nodding against the rumpled hair, Sherlock murmured, "Yes. He stole her magic, and three others that you know of, and left her nearly a squib and tied to him in a near-slave bond. She was your neighbor and was kind to you, despite her orders to the contrary. And when you activated the Life Bond Penalty, one of the many inspired actions you took was to return the magic to those four people, along with their youth."
He felt Harry's smile on the sensitive skin of his throat. "Succinct, as always, Dear Heart."
They sat in silence for several more kilometers, before Harry hesitantly asked, "What else do you know, 'Lock? About Surrey, I mean?" The poor young man could not even make himself say the name 'Dursley'.
Tightening his hold on the deceptively fragile form in his arms, Sherlock sighed and then said deeply, "Quite a lot, Little One. Let's wait to discuss this a bit; we're on our way to Mycroft's flat. He'll meet us there and we can talk together."
Harry's apprehension was evident in the tension of his back and shoulders and the tense silence he fell into. Dropping a gentle kiss into the raven tresses, Sherlock sent one, clear message through his bond with Mycroft, which was returned with firm agreement.
No matter what else came out, Harry was never to know about the photos. Arabella Figg had done a courageous thing, an outrageously brave thing, in defying her so-called 'master' and gathering proof of the horrors he and the Dursleys inflicted on Harry. She deserved – and would get – tremendous rewards for her actions, her compassion and her intelligence, particularly in light of her own victimization.
The photos had served their purpose, and might be used again at some point, well away from every possibility of Harry ever finding out about them.
It was well past time for Harry to heal.
And Make Lemonade!
Merlin, he was exhausted.
Mycroft had met them as soon as the lift door opened, his beautiful steel doors thrown wide to allow the man to stride forth protectively form his flat and gather them both into a strong, simply wonderful, embrace.
Sherlock had visibly relaxed, much of the tension flowing from his tense form as he allowed his head to rest briefly on Mycroft's shoulder. Sherlock was strong, confident, brilliant, gorgeous, all-around amazing.
Mycroft was … Mycroft.
Without ever intending to, Harry had dissolved the second both of his beloved men were embracing him. It was as if a spring had been released and he had been given permission to stop fighting against everything that had pained him, tortured him, warped him. Finally, he had both a soft place to fall and a fortress to fall into. Sherlock and Mycroft. Mycroft and Sherlock. Love, safety, laughter, devotion, protection, companionship…
And it was that moment, that single revelation, that tunneled past the Vengeful Savior, dismissed the Boy Who Lived, and released Harry.
Free. But not alone. Never again.
Of course, that epiphany caused much emotional purging. Tears and sobbing were involved. Also sore, reddened eyes and far too much snot. Frankly, it was disgusting.
But neither of the elegant, dignified, beautiful men who held him seemed to care. They should have. With anyone else, they definitely would have. But, it was Harry, and so they didn't.
It was just that simple.
After the 'Great Purge', as Harry sardonically called it, he was hustled down the hallway, into the gape-worthy Master Bedroom, and straight into a steaming bubble bath in an enormous tub in a bathroom that could have been in Architectural Digest.
Actually, he was pretty sure it was, in fact. The January issue. Smirking tiredly at the fact that Mycroft had sneaked that past the public even while protecting his privacy and his beloved illusion of minor-government-ism, Harry raised a wrinkled hand and blew at the diminishing bubbles. It was time to get out.
But Merlin, he was exhausted.
He never even registered the deep, soft voices that chuckled lowly, or the strong arms that lifted him from the water and held him while gentle hands toweled him dry. He did have a vague sense of movement, which must have occurred when whichever Holmes was carrying him entered the bedroom. He reasoned that fact out sleepily because the sudden chill air of the bedroom after the superheated bathroom made him shiver and try to tunnel into the closest strong chest, earning a chuckle that vibrated against his cheek.
Then he was tucked into a massive bed with what had to be a magical mattress. Warm, familiar bodies settled on either side of him, and he moved instinctively into one while tugging the other closer. Again, soft, deep chuckles vibrated, this time against his chest and his back. Soft blankets were pulled over him, and Harry drifted off to sleep listening to the steady thud thud of the heart beneath his ear and the slow, calm breaths of the Brothers Holmes.
Mycroft woke first.
He used to snap awake, fully alert and assessing a million details before his eyes even opened fully. That had begun to change when his relationship with Sherlock deepened into the comfort of sharing a bed. He had begun to awaken more deliberately, to push away that which was urgent for the world, for the country, for his career, and instead to take moments for the simple enjoyment of waking with the warm body of someone he loved next to him.
But this…. Ah, this was perfection.
Keeping his eyes closed, he savored the feel of the sleepy contentment coming through the bond with Sherlock. For once, his brilliant brother was not obsessing or deducing or plotting. He was resting.
Mycroft could feel Sherlock's hand on his hip, and his own was on Sherlock's. They crossed protectively over, and rested upon, the most precious person on the planet.
Cracking an eye open, Mycroft's face lightened into a smile was he studied the deceptively petite young man currently cuddling between himself and Sherlock. Flushed cheeks, pink lips slightly parted in sleep, thick black lashes resting against creamy skin, and ebon-black hair every-which-way. With his head resting both on Sherlock's arm and Mycroft's chest, and sleep softening his features even further, Harry as nothing short of adorable.
Sensing gentle amusement flooding through the bond from an awakening Sherlock, Mycroft opened his eyes fully and met the sleepy, slate-blue gaze focused on him. No words were necessary. They never had been, for them. And since the bond fully bloomed, words were mostly superfluous.
Especially in moments like this, with the three of them wrapped nearly naked around each other in the gentle light of dawn as it filtered through the dove gray drapes across the room.
Studying each other, Sherlock and Mycroft reached a conclusion at the same moment. They were here, together, with Harry. Yesterday, the worst of their fears and worries had hit the light of day and been overcome. And they were still here, together, with Harry.
Nearly naked. Here, together, with Harry.
It was time.
Carefully lifting his arm with a gentle caress of Sherlock's hip, Mycroft stretched and reached behind him to the nightstand, finding his cell phone with unerring ease. Moving it to where he could see the screen, he carefully selected Betsy's number and began to type. Once complete, he moved the screen so Sherlock could read it. Sharp eyes scanned the message quickly and a confident nod was all Mycroft needed to hit Send.
Reaching back, he set the cell carefully back down on the nightstand, not bothering to clear the screen. The words remained visible for 15 seconds, before the screen blinked back to sleep mode.
Betsy, for myself and my partners, I am gratefully accepting that offer you extended. We thank you. SH, HP & MH
No reply was needed. Betsy – and Hermione, and possibly Anthea – would see to the details. Mycroft had other, much more immediate, concerns to handle.
And handle them, he will!
Harry wasn't sure when he transitioned from wonderfully asleep to wonderfully awake. All he knew was that he had been completely relaxed, warm, safe and comfortable, and now he was not-so-relaxed, but still warm and safe. 'Comfortable', however, was disappearing with a rising tension … and other things.
"Oh, God!" Green eyes flashed open, immediately focusing downward as his toes curled and fingers clenched in the silk sheets. Familiar chestnut curls trailed teasingly over the bare skin of his hips and thighs, and Harry just barely had time to visually confirm that Sherlock's mouth was indeed hovering over Harry's erection before Sherlock lowered his head. The return of the insanely-incredible sensation that woke him caused his eyes to roll back before he closed them with another gasping moan.
"Sh-She-Sherlock! Wha-?!" Unable to form words properly as Sherlock's tongue went to work on his cock, Harry reached out wildly and grabbed for chestnut hair. Before he could seize Sherlock's hair, his hands were taken into custody by Mycroft, who had been pressed against Harry's side watching avidly.
"I think… not, Little One," Mycroft chuckled. His tone was purest chocolate, dark and smooth and sinful. "Until we say so, let's just keep this right … here." He raised Harry's arms deliberately and gently but firmly pressed his hands to the scrolled bars in the headboard. He met slightly alarmed emerald eyes evenly, but did nothing to ease Harry's concerns except to caution, "Hold on. If you let go before we tell you, there will be consequences. Understand?"
Sherlock's head did not stop bobbing as Mycroft issued his instructions, making it incredibly hard … er, difficult… for Harry to think clearly. Mycroft was issuing signals of pure control and just a touch of sensual threat, and Harry knew damn well that he should be protesting. He should.
He really should.
Nodding compliantly was not what he had intended to do, but once it was issued it seemed fairly lame to take it back, so he tightened his grip on the headboard and tried to glare his own warning. He tried.
He really did.
Apparently it came across more as a confused pout, because Mycroft grinned down at him and apparently Sherlock was somehow managing to watch Harry even as he tormented him, because he chuckled. That sensation damn near broke Harry's resolve to hold to the headboard, but something about the dark anticipation in Mycroft's intense gaze made him tighten his grip instead.
The next twenty minutes or so made it very, very clear to Harry just why Mycroft-bloody-Holmes was so successful in, well, everything. The man was far too detail-oriented. He was also evil.
Now Harry knew why Mycroft had always held back so much during previous intimate moments. Always before, Mycroft had allowed Sherlock to gently lead Harry through new experiences. He had always been present, involved, participatory, but he never took the reins, so to speak. Harry knew for a fact that Sherlock had even thanked the man (in various, creative ways) for allowing Sherlock to do most of the guiding. Harry had just always assumed it was because Mycroft was so remarkably considerate of both his lovers. But now, he knew the truth.
When Mycroft Holmes took the leash off of his control and allowed himself free rein, he was downright dangerous. All of that powerful intellect and self-discipline was now concentrated entirely on Harry Potter. Specifically, on Harry's undulating body, shivering skin, quivering muscles and dozens of erogenous zones. (Really, who else would figure out that nibbling the inside of Harry's elbow would make him moan like that?) Mycroft's entire, frightening intellect was focused on exploring and exploiting Harry's body.
The fact that he was losing his mind was just a bonus.
And Sherlock! While Mycroft was occupied with mapping out, analyzing and conquering new territory, Sherlock was using his most irritating personal characteristic to devastating advantage. Nothing could get him distracted from his chosen occupation.
He was like a dog with a bone. A quivering, leaking, twitching bone.
At one point, Harry was left staring down at his men in helpless, erotic fear, watching with self-preserving detachment as both of his lovers' tongues played with Harry's cock and testicles, licking, lapping, nipping, suckling, sliding apart to pursue their own interests before closing in on one area – and each other – for endless moments of pure, erotic torture. Every time Harry's breath changed or his sac tightened, he was either distracted by a wayward brother, temporarily ignored in favor of nibbling his hipbone or his navel, or rudely pulled away from the edge of orgasm by an authoritative hand tugging his testicles down where the owner of the hand wanted them.
It was maddening! Nothing could be worse – or better – than what Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes were doing to him. He couldn't think of any possible way they could make this situation more intense than it was.
And then, they turned him over.
His first clue was when Sherlock finally took his incredibly talented mouth off of Harry's pleading cock. Well, not really pleading. More like weeping. Copiously.
Then Mycroft took one of Harry's hands and gently but firmly unclenched it from the headboard, and Sherlock did the same with the other. This was enough to make Harry blink and begin to refocus, but just as his eyebrows drew together and he opened his mouth to berate them … probably … Mycroft descended. And there was fierce kissing, and Harry found that he could express his indignation fairly well in this manner. He thought he was making his case, anyway. He was battling back against Mycroft's all-too-knowing mouth. His tongue fought for dominance. He was holding his own. He felt reasonably triumphant.
Until Mycroft chuckled, the sound dark and sensual.
Harry had just enough time to figure out how much he had been played, meeting Sherlock's intense, teasing stare with trepidation, before he was lifted, turned and laid back down on the bed. Each brother took a hand and reintroduced it to the headboard, which was probably already bearing the imprint of Harry's grip. Then, in perfect synchronization, Mycroft and Sherlock kept one hand locked around one of Harry's and ran the other down Harry's shoulder, over his slender back, skating delicately over each rounded buttock before tightening their grip just enough to separate Harry's cheeks and reveal to their intense stares his pink, twitching center.
They were working the bond. 'Oh, God!' As if they heard his somewhat terrified, aroused exclamation, they chuckled again, and left his hands to cling to the headboard of their own accord. They seemed quite certain he wouldn't be letting go for a while.
Actually, so was he.
And then it began again. Mycroft started at Harry's neck, and Sherlock started at Harry's toes. Not a centimeter went unexplored. Every twitch and quiver, moan and gasp was recorded, documented, analyzed, and numerous experiments were repeated to ensure the results could be replicated.
Harry couldn't decide whether to bury his face in the pillow to stifle his moans and whimpers, or to turn his head to the side to gasp for air. It didn't matter, really, because everything he did was noted by the dangerous intellect and libidinous attention of the Holmes men.
They met in the middle. Holy….fucking….hell!
Just as they once again separated his cheeks, Harry felt a cold, smooth stone pressed against his anus and suddenly a wash of magic – literally – left him feeling empty and quite alarmed. Raising his head, he almost unclenched his hands as he squealed …. erm, shouted…"What the hell?!"
Their response was another darkly amused chuckle from Mycroft, followed by Sherlock's smooth baritone asking, "Do we owe thanks for that nifty little charm to Ronald or to Hermione?"
Horrified, Harry's head whipped wildly from side to side as he tried to look at them without releasing his grip and pleaded, "Ron! Please, oh, please, don't let it be Hermione! …. Mycroft?...Please?"
He did manage to turn his head enough to see Sherlock drop his chin to his chest and laugh, but the scowl he wanted to form was lost when he slammed his face back into the pillow at the sight of Mycroft's head descending to Harry's rear, blue-slate eyes intent and curious.
After that, all of Harry's verbal utterances were pretty much whimpers, gasps and whines. He couldn't even swear, although he really did try.
He had assumed that Sherlock was the one with the oral fixation and abilities, and Mycroft was the control freak. He was right. And wrong. And right.
"Oh, god!" Poor Harry couldn't hold a thought; his brain was like a sieve, sloshing from side to side with every devilish swipe of Mycroft's tongue. It was torture. It was incredible! It was unbearable!
And then, he let go of the headboard. And everything stopped.
The silence and sudden cessation of torment was enough to wake him to the danger. His hands were clenched in his own hair, they hadn't really moved far, and they were still holding on to something, just not the headboard and… Wait, why was he mentally babbling? He had a right to pull his own hair if he wanted to! Turning his head to glare back at his torturers… um, lovers … he had an abrupt change of heart. The look on Mycroft's face was distinctly predatory. And Sherlock looked like Christmas had come early, and Santa had left him viscera.
Mentally backpedalling, Harry tried for a grin and offered weakly, "See, now, suddenly I have a reason to thank Ron for the charm, too! Heh! Heh!"
The joke, such as it was, fell flat. Well, not really; both men grinned back at him, but in a wicked, 'where's the cockring' kind of way. Sherlock was running one finger very lightly down Harry's sensitive spine, and Mycroft … was reaching into his nightstand drawer. Harry's eyes grew wide when Mycroft drew his hand back and clasped in it … was a wand. An actual, 'you're a wizard, Harry', off to Diagon Alley wand!
Sherlock's hand had finished its journey down Harry's spine and was now settled ominously on the right side of Harry's pert butt. His other hand followed, to rest on the left side. His expression was anticipatory.
Mycroft leaned down and gently kissed Harry's lips before straightening and watching him intently. "Harry, our little Innocent, did you ever consider the economics of Ollivander's wand shop?"
Blinking at the odd segue, Harry's dark brows drew together in a confused expression, before he hesitantly shook his head. He didn't really have enough spit left to try to speak.
Mycroft smiled, elegant fingers tracing the slim, almost metallic wand in his hand. Held like that, it was distinctly phallic. Suddenly, Harry got the punch line to a lot of jokes that had pretty much gone over his head during his years in the dorm.
Sherlock began to knead Harry's buttocks, slowly reawakening the burning desire that had been banked somewhat. He placed a gentle kiss on Harry's hip, then nipped sharply and suckled, drawing the blood to the skin for a moment before drawing back to study the love bite in satisfaction. Tracing his new mark on their little tempter, he drawled, "12 galleons a wand. Perhaps forty new wands a year. Not much of an income, considering everything, don't you agree?"
Completely confused at the topic, but willing to go along with anything that did not involve reminding anyone present that he had disobeyed Mycroft's command, Harry thought about it briefly and then nodded. Clearing his throat to speak, he stopped abruptly at Mycroft's admonishing finger on his lips. Scowling, he glared up at his lover, who smiled down lovingly at him.
"Harry, my love, we three know full well how powerful and intelligent you are. No sane person would contest that fact. But here and now, in this bed, you do not have control. You have no worries, no obligations, no responsibilities. You have us for all of that." He leaned down to meet a bewildered, emerald stare, carding his hand tenderly through Harry's hair. "Do you understand, love? Here, with Sherlock and me, all you have to do is let us love you."
He and Sherlock watched as that idea slowly sank into their littlest love's psyche, and knew the exact moment that he accepted their offer. They could practically feel the incredible weight of his responsibilities lift from his slender shoulders and valiant spirit. They had known from his second day of residency on Baker Street that this would be an unimaginable gift they could give their beloved, overburdened wizard. That their offer would also suit them both perfectly made this just that much more ideal than their relationship already was. This young man had literally born the weight of the world from his eighteenth month of life, and had never once been truly safe and free. But here, with them, they took his control but left him choice. They set him free but gave him something to hold onto. They took the decisions and worry, but gave him clear rules and consequences.
Speaking of consequences…
"Now, back to our lesson," Mycroft smiled down into Harry's face, watching as curiosity and trepidation crossed it openly. It was telling that Harry still did not speak. It was a clear acceptance of their offer. He could not be more suited to them if he had been crafted by the gods for them alone. Perhaps he had.
"Wandmakers specialize not in crafting only wizarding wands, but in designing and crafting focuses, tools, wands and weapons ideally suited to a magical being. For every wand, there is a plethora of other items you can purchase from your wandmaker. So long as they know what materials are in your wand, they also know with what materials to craft, say, a sword… or a shield ring…," he paused briefly to smile into fascinated green eyes, his smile widening as he sense Sherlock leaning over to get a better view of Harry's face for the next bit, "…or a sex toy."
He raised the slender wand to tap it lightly against his lips, sternly controlling his urge to laugh as Harry's wide eyes fixed on the wand and he visibly gulped. Sherlock didn't bother; his laugh rang out in wicked, joyful amusement at their little Innocent's expense.
Rather than give Harry time to get anxious or to second-guess himself, Mycroft pressed another gentle but firm kiss onto his lips, tapping admonishingly on the teeth that worried at the lush lower lip. He then straightened, as did Sherlock, and dropped the tip of the cool wand gently onto Harry's spine, following Sherlock's hand as it ran a long, caressing line down the slim back. As Sherlock once again began to knead Harry's buttocks, Mycroft allowed the wand to gently settle into the delicate crevice he had been tormenting with his tongue earlier.
Sherlock purred the sensual warning, "Put your hands back on the headboard, Love. You're going to need it." He waited just long enough for Harry to draw a deep breath and grip the headboard again, then gently parted Harry's cheeks, exposing the tempting rosebud to their view. Without a moment's hesitation, Mycroft tapped the wand with his finger, activating its core, and swiftly inserted it into the twitching hole.
Harry's entire body reacted. His hands tightened, his toes curled, his hips thrust forward into the mattress, and uttered a long, low, gasping moan that practically ignited their need for him. Even now, in the midst of the event that they had yearned for and planned and fantasized for months, they could not help but analyze the information.
They knew what the wand did. It was named a Wanton Wand (just called 'Wanton' more commonly) for an exceptionally good reason. It was not sentient, but it knew its purpose and could modify its functions according to the needs of the participants. Its specific purpose was threefold: lubrication, perfect stretching of anus and rectum, and enhance sexual pleasure. They understood that the Wanton would, to some degree, follow their needs and wishes. For example, it knew precisely how much Harry's passage needed to be stretched to suit both Mycroft and Sherlock's size. It could even (Merlin, God and Harry-forbid, stretch him to accommodate both together). It also could interpret their wishes, to a certain extent.
Mycroft knew for a fact that the terrible twins had lost a bet with Anthea regarding that particular fact. As a reward to his devoted P.A., he had allowed Ollivander to provide enough information for the twins to learn that both Mycroft and Sherlock were significantly larger than either of the redheads. Anthea had smirked for days, having won the bet and forced the twins to pay for an Ollivander-special for her and William. It probably did not help their mood that young Neville was still enforcing the chastity-belt punishment. (Although, that fact improved the Holmes brothers moods every time they thought of it.)
At the moment, it seemed to be quite cognizant of the fact that they wanted it to delicately tease their little tempter's prostate, but not to the extent that he orgasmed. Frankly, it was fascinating and definitely merited further study. 'Poor Harry,' he heard Sherlock purr mockingly over the bond.
He felt Sherlock's surprise when he replied back through the bond, 'Indeed! How useful. It seems our bond is enhanced to verbal communication not just at stress triggers, but also sexual. When we activated it to a verbal level when Harry was composing, we could speak with ease for several hours afterward. I wonder…,' he trailed off consideringly, his brilliant mind actively calculating even as he savored the delicious moans of their beloved little wizard.
Sherlock snorted in amusement, for once understanding why other people were irked by his ability to multitask in any situation. If he were not of similar mentality, he might be offended that Mycroft could speak coherently and make complex plans even during an intensely personal, sexual moment such as this. Fortunately, he was a Holmes, and thus could not help but add over the bond, 'Perhaps, if we space out sex with Harry to correct intervals, we can keep the full bond active all the time.' Not to mention, the 'work' required would be of the most enjoyable variety imaginable.
This Wanton would, theoretically (as they were bonded to Harry and each other) would work on them, too. Certainly, they would find out – eventually. For now, it was just too much fun to torment Harry.
Not once during their mental meandering did either man lose focus on their little lover, except to share frequent, deep, plundering kisses with each other. They ran teasing, comforting hands over Harry's sensitized skin as he writhed and moaned, they murmured praise and approval as he kept his hands fastened to the headboard, they dropped kisses and touches everywhere.
In short, they worshipped him.
Finally, Mycroft removed the Wanton from Harry's quivering body. Exchanging a brief glance to ensure their plans remained unchanged, Sherlock immediately stretched out on the bed, gently tugging Harry's hands free of their grip, and he and Mycroft maneuvered Harry til he was stretched out atop Sherlock's naked form. Still somewhat dazed and badly wanting to cum, Harry did little more that shudder at the skin-to-skin contact, but Sherlock moaned so desperately and passionately that it went straight to Mycroft's already engorged cock. That moan, and the sight of his two lovers naked and glowing and snugged together so perfectly, ended any further hope of foreplay.
Harry managed to focus enough to understand the situation and that it meant he was not only going to complete his bond with Mycroft but also that he would finally be able to come. That knowledge motivated him enough to begin trying for his own bit of payback, dropping his lips to Sherlock's chest and beginning to kiss, lick and nibble what seemed an endless expanse of ivory skin. Sherlock retaliated by positioning his knees between Harry's and then raising his legs, separating them so that Harry was fully exposed and positioned for Mycroft. He felt Harry gasp and shudder, and looked over his love's shoulder to see that Mycroft – ever-considerate and careful of his loved ones – had just tested Harry's readiness with his long fingers.
Sherlock was transfixed at the sight of his brother, powerful muscles no longer hidden by expensive suits and all civilization stripped away, fully aroused and poised at the pink entrance to their needy and moaning little love. Mycroft suddenly raised his gaze, blue-gray locking with gray-blue, and held Sherlock's stare as his rigid cock sank effortlessly into Harry's passage. Shock and ecstasy exploded through the bond, flaring between all three of them and causing mirror-synapses to fire in frantic bursts, reflecting and refracting in overwhelming sensation.
Even as Mycroft was reeling from the incredible feel of Harry's tight heat gripping his cock, Sherlock was feeling it, too. Mycroft was trying to resolve the perceptual conflict of entering his littlest love and also feeling himself cradle Harry, engorged cock sandwiched between his and Harry's stomachs, as he watched himself through Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock was experiencing similar multiplicities. They, at least, were somewhat familiar with the feel of the bond. Harry was completely overwhelmed, feeling himself fucking, being fucked and frotting, all at the same time with no warning at all.
When Harry's perceptions also flared through the bond, causing both Sherlock and Mycroft to feel what Harry felt as Mycroft entered him for the very first time, it forced them all to pause for one single, crystalline moment. In that instant, something seemed to snap into place, the feeling both exquisite and agonizing. And then, finally, a full, functional, tribond blazed into life.
Of the three men on the bed, each was brilliant. Each was powerful. And each had been fiercely independent. Loners, all of them. Until now.
The power of the bond faded slightly, and the power of the bonding blazed again. Drawing his hips back with a nearly-inaudible hiss, Mycroft accepted the mental and emotional adjustment needed to feel what all three of them were feeling, and then found the part of the bond that was his self-perception. It glowed brighter to him. Relieved at the restoration of his separate identity, even as it bonded with his partners, he called their attention through the bond and showed them what he had discovered. It was obvious to all of them when Sherlock and Harry also found their own individuality; the relief was tangible.
Yes, they were happy to be bonded. Melded? Not so much.
Amused at the thought that only three, multitasking geniuses could go through an incredible experience of soul magic, experience both loss and restoration of self, and still keep an erection, Mycroft again caught Sherlock's gaze …and smirked. That was all the warning Sherlock got before Mycroft snapped his hips forward and thrust back into Harry, winning startled shouts from both his lovers before, too, returned fully to the moment.
And, oh, God, it was glorious!
Each man was convinced they were the luckiest of the three. Mycroft, because he was finally burying his cock into the arse that had tormented both he and Sherlock for months, and was able to watch as his brother surrendered to the pleasure of holding naked Harry during the ultimate frottage experience. Sherlock, because he had the voyeuristic bliss of watching Mycroft take Harry, watching Harry be taken, and enjoying the mind-gasm that was three-way mental sex with his most important people. Harry, because he had never experienced or even imagined such intense pleasure, and because he was safely sandwiched between the only two people in the world that he could envision sharing his body and soul with.
When the brothers finally allowed Harry to orgasm, he took them with him. Yes, the bond would have ensured that, but even without the bond, the spasming of Harry's passage around Mycroft would have guaranteed orgasm for him, while the flood of semen and uncontrolled thrusting against his cock made Sherlock's orgasm a certainty. If that hadn't done it, the pleasured awe on Harry's beautiful face would have. Nevertheless, the fully-alive bond ensured that each man felt what the other felt. It was like having three different orgasms at the same time, layered one atop the other. In a word, it was intense.
For several minutes afterward, the only sounds in the room were frantic gasping and long, shuddering breaths. Finally, their bodies had recovered enough for Mycroft to carefully separate from Harry, pulling himself gently from the smaller man and cradling him in trembling arms as he lowered himself to lay at Sherlock's side, nestling the exhausted wizard between them.
Sherlock turned with them, dropping a heavy arm across Harry's stomach and resting his hand on Mycroft's hip. He could feel his muscles shaking, and knew without any doubt that if he tried to get up to get a warm cloth to care for his lovers, he would end up crawling to the bathroom and back. He would make it, because he would not allow any less, but there would definitely be little dignity in the act. Given those factors, he decided to wait.
Mycroft was of the same mind, and for once was unprepared to care for his lovers as he deemed proper. He knew he should care more about that, but his mind was still shaking from the incredible upheaval. He, too, decided in favor of caution.
Harry, snuggled between them, covered in the fluids of all three of them and exhausted to the point of near-stupidity, couldn't have cared less. Wandless magic was out of the question at the moment, given that he'd just as likely blow them all up. If he had his wand handy, he might have managed a little post-coital courtesy, but considering what he now knew about wands, maybe not.
Eventually, Harry uttered a trembling sigh and said in a voice that shook, "Holy fucking hell!"
Mycroft raised a heavy, slightly uncoordinated hand and patted him gently on the chest. "Or holy fucking heaven. One cannot be sure."
Moments passed before a sleepy Sherlock offered the final comment of the night, "Either way, it was definitely a religious experience."
Mycroft made a mental note to smirk at that in the morning, and joined his bonded lovers in sleep. It wouldn't be for another 24 hours that any of them remembered to contact LeStrade about the case at the airport. Even more notable was the fact that none of them particularly cared.
AN2: Yule gift number one. Let's see if I can get an update to each of my other fics – yes, and the new one that I keep promising – before Yule, or at least New Year's Eve.
Two FYIs: (1) Although I know this takes place in England, you know I'm an American. There probably are BritsSpeak gongs going off all over the place, and I'll try to correct them when they are pointed out. However, for the most part, let's just pretend that language has progressed a century and is now a complete amalgamation of Britican, okay? (I considered using 'Amerish', but it sort of made me want to take up barn raising and quilting, so I changed it.) (2) This story is only MPreg incidentally, through Neville and the subsequent revelation for Mycroft and Sherlock that Harry could get pregnant – conceivably. (Hahahaha!) I hope to have a sequel later on that features the formation of the next Potter-Holmes generation.
Blessed Be, y'all.