A/N: This fic is part of my series "Silence at the Diogenes". Companion fics are "Silent Sanctuary", "Shelter in the Storm", and "The Sounds of Silence."
John was in the middle of updating his blog when a text arrived.
John, I'm sending a car to pick you up. I'm feeling poorly, and my regular physician is away. See you in 15 minutes. MH.
"What the heck?" John stared over his shoulder at Sherlock, who was sorting through sheet music. "Is your brother up to something?"
"Quite often, yes."
"I mean now." He showed him the text. Sherlock glanced at it and smirked.
"Oh, yes. He's definitely up to something, and you'll be glad you went."
John's eyes narrowed. Then he got up and went to retrieve his medical bag…. And a few other items.
Just in case his suspicions proved correct.
John recognized the Diogenes Club as soon as the car dropped him off at the back entrance. He'd visited Mycroft here twice before, when the latter wanted to discuss Sherlock in private, but gone in through the front door each time. This was different. Perhaps Mycroft really was feeling ill. Clutching his bag, John resolved to keep calm and see how things played out.
The doorman nodded silently in greeting and led John into the building, down a shadowy corridor, and up to a door bearing the sign 'Physician's Office- Private.' The doctor thanked him in an acceptably low voice. When the man walked away, rubber-soled shoes noiseless on the thick hall carpet, John opened the door and entered the office.
Unlike most doctors' surgeries, this one had neither a waiting room nor a receptionist. It was brightly lit and had the usual accoutrements: a sink, cupboards, wheeled stool and instrument tray, and a paper-covered examination table. But when John saw Mycroft perched on the table's edge, eying him appraisingly and looking far from sick, he knew something was definitely up.
The elder Holmes wore a deep red silk robe, belted at the waist. When his shoulders hunched forward, the garment fell open, exposing his bare chest. John found it hard not to stare: he'd never seen Sherlock's brother wearing anything more revealing than a suit minus a waistcoat.
"Mycroft," John said cautiously, "what's going on?"
The other man raised a finger to his lips and whispered, I feel quite unwell. That's why I summoned you.
You look fine to me right now, John mouthed back.
Mycroft's predatory stare intensified, and his grin broadened. My problem seems to be internal.
I agree. It's in your twisted mind. Now what do you really want?
John wondered why he didn't just leave. It was obvious that Mycroft had brought him here to toy with him somehow. But part of him- the soldier- wanted to hold his ground, properly assess the threat, and neutralize it. He even had a bagful of 'weapons' in hand.
Isn't it obvious? Mycroft unbelted the robe, slid off the table, and stood.
Total nudity diminished most men. Not Mycroft Holmes. He wasn't beautiful like his younger brother. But his touchingly real body was still attractive. His proud carriage and easy confidence compensated for the softening middle and slight skin sag here and there, the result of yo-yo dieting. John's eyes fell to his half-hard penis, the base of which was crowned with a light smattering of ginger hair.
I believe I get it, he muttered.
Mycroft arched an eyebrow. Do you now?
It all makes sense. Sherlock goes off somewhere to see you without me, and the next morning he's stepping out of the shower with a red arse and trying to tell me it's heat from the spray. But I don't know of any shower head that leaves hand-shaped bruises. Lestrade's been an even bigger hint. Whenever you're around, he won't look you in the eye and he acts like a blissed-out lap dog. And now here you are, pretending to be ill but evidently ready to give me a sore arse too.
The elder Holmes stepped forward. And what does that all tell you, John?
John didn't flinch. It tells me that we have something in common. So I came prepared.
He unzipped his medical bag and displayed its contents. In addition to the usual stethoscope, latex gloves, thermometer, tongue depressor, and blood pressure cuff, he'd packed some toys from his personal arsenal: handcuffs, a paddle, nipple clamps, an assortment of insertible toys, and a ball gag. There was more, but John had already put the bag on the wheeled stool and crossed his arms defiantly.
Weren't expecting that, were you?
Mycroft could only shake his head. John had never seen him so gobsmacked.
I don't make my kinks obvious. I prefer that everyone see me as nice, sensible John Watson. The level-headed one that you wouldn't mind taking home to Mum. Unless Mum liked getting spanked and whipped while Dad's at work.
After a few more moments of silence, Mycroft laughed throatily and his cock stirred to full erection.
Well. Congratulations on surprising me, John. Only one person has ever done that before. They're dead now, mind you, but don't let that scare you.
I'm a soldier. And I live with your brother. Takes a lot more than that to scare me.
Does Sherlock know? Mycroft finally asked.
John laughed. Wouldn't you like to know? Then he sighed. No. He doesn't.
No, if I never guessed, than I doubt he would. A pause. Well, this does change my plans, and possibly for the better. I'm a Dominant, as you so admirably deduced, but an occasional switch does wonders for my blood pressure. And since you came so fully prepared, are you up for a challenge?
John felt his own cock stirring in his jeans when that affirmation caused a visible change in Mycroft. He could see the suave arrogance disappear as those blue eyes lowered to the floor and broad shoulders relaxed. The physical signs of mental surrender were such a massive aphrodisiac, especially when a Dom was exhibiting them. He tested the waters by reaching out and running his fingers from Mycroft's nipples (which instantly hardened) to his cock, which bobbed eagerly upward in a silent bid for more attention.
Let's see if I can't sort you out, although I'm not a miracle worker, John mused. Get up on the table.
Mycroft paused, clearly testing him. John's lips tightened. Got a safe word?
Trust Mycroft to choose the name of Roman history's most perverted tyrant. Do you want to use it now?
Right, then. John grabbed his nipples and twisted them until the skin turned red, and then white. Mycroft gasped and sweat broke out on his upper lip, but he did not lash out or use his word. Now listen. I told you to get up on the table and you hesitated. No more of that. Got it?
Yes. I'm sorry, John.
And I expect you to tell me if things get to be too much, even though you deserve it.
John released him. That's better. Now up.
Mycroft got back on the table and sat, fingers gripping the edges in anticipation and eyes fixed avidly on John, who donned the white lab coat hanging on the door hook.
Any specific complaints? What do you need treatment for, besides being a sneaky, manipulative, seductive prick?
Mycroft chuckled throatily. Is there a cure for that?
Yes, but you wouldn't like it. It's castration.
No, let's skip that one. When John stared coldly at him, he added, Please.
John shook his head. You're definitely an advanced case. Hands behind your back. When the elder Holmes obeyed, John took a pair of handcuffs out of his bag, went behind the table, and snapped them onto Mycroft's wrists. Then he returned to his former spot and prodded the lymph nodes in his 'patient's' neck.
Hmmm. Slightly enlarged. I see that a lot in patients who talk nothing but bullshit for hours on end. He took a penlight from the coat's pocket and clicked it on. Open for me?
Taking no chances, Mycroft opened his mouth AND his knees. John smirked and gazed at the healthy mouth and throat tissue. Nice, wide throat. Good for lots of things, so you'll want to take care of it.
I keep it moist, Doctor Watson.
Cheap sluts usually do.
Mycroft reddened and looked away.
John put the light away, reached back into the bag, and retrieved what looked like a silver chain. After putting it in his pocket, he grasped Mycroft's sore nipples between his fingers again and teased them slowly, until they were rigid and gooseflesh had broken out. John released them and bent down; a split second later Mycroft whimpered as a warm, wet tongue lashed over them. He closed his eyes and fought the cuffs, wanting desperately to grab John's hair and hold him there until he came from the nipple stimulation alone.
Suddenly that gentle suction was gone and white-hot pain shot through first one nipple and then the other. Mycroft's eyes shot open and he bit his lip against the screams that threatened to erupt. Staring down, he saw two steel clamps biting into his flesh, joined by a chain that swayed as he gyrated on the table. John watched him closely, but when he refused to call his safeword, the doctor grinned triumphantly.
Let's check your heart rate now. You look a little flushed.
John took the stethoscope from his bag, fit the ear-pieces into his ears, and placed the chilly chest-piece on Mycroft's aching, throbbing skin. The elder Holmes did yelp then, but John seized his throat.
When Mycroft complied, John released him and listened to his dramatically high heart rate. Hmmm. Hypertension. Not safe in a man your age. He looked up. I'm afraid intense treatment will be necessary.
Mycroft nodded, his face a mask of arousal. John circled the table, running his fingers under the edges and grinning when he felt the extra 'amenities' that the Diogenes decorators had installed. He unlocked Mycroft's handcuffs, pocketed them, and ordered, On your back.
The disposable paper covering crinkled as the elder Holmes obeyed. John secured his wrists in the fleece-lined cuffs attached to the table's sides and fastened a leather strap around his waist before extracting the stirrups from their hiding spot and sliding them noiselessly into place. Mycroft watched him with mingled curiousity and excitement, erection never flagging for an instant.
Put your feet in them. Like that… okay. Good.
John's cock pushed insistently against his zip as he scanned Mycroft's bound, exposed vulnerable body. The Dom in him was ready to faint from excitement and the heady thrill of total control over another person. The most powerful man in Britain was lying there, ready and, judging from that leaking erection, begging him to do his worst. It was more than he'd ever dared to dream for.
He felt no professional conflict, using his medical knowledge to stimulate instead of heal. What he and Mycroft were doing represented stress relief for both of them, allowing them to manifest their darkest desires so that everyday life was more tolerable. John had played similar games with Sarah before, after the surgery closed for the night, and he still received the occasional text from her, slyly requesting a 'follow-up' visit. He'd never played with another man, but the mind-fuck dynamics were still the same. As long as he did no actual harm, the Hippocratic oath he took remained unviolated.
After buckling Mycroft's ankles into place, John donned a pair of gloves, smirking when the elder Holmes caught his breath at the sound of snapping latex. Then he palpated the man's abdominal muscles, which were surprisingly firm beneath the slight layer of fat, and repeatedly came close to that waving cock without actually touching it. Mycroft grimaced in frustration and tried to roll his hips toward those methodically moving fingers, but John, grinning evilly, dodged him every time.
Your face is an interesting shade of red, Mycroft. Feel feverish?
Mycroft glared at him.
Oh, don't be like that. Hold still while I take a reading, just to be on the safe side.
John took one of his favorite 'torture devices' out of the bag: the electro-stimulator.
He and Sarah had purchased it at a Soho sex shop that specialized in medical-themed toys. It was a white silicone tube-shaped object, clearly designed to look like a thermometer. But no thermometer had wires attaching it to a black box with dial settings like 'Pulse Adjustment' or 'Full Blast'. John placed the device and a tube of surgical-grade lubricant on the wheeled instrument tray, and then pushed the tray closer to the table. Mycroft stared in intrigue at the strange-looking contraption.
Looks like a thermo-control torture device, John. The older man sounded calm enough, but his toes curled visibly in the stirrups. Anticipation radiated from every pore.
Hush. Hurts a hell of a lot less than those, but you'll definitely feel it. John nodded toward the clamps as he manoeuvred between the other man's splayed legs. Mycroft slapped his knees together, a tiny hint of defiance flickering in his eyes. John smiled coldly and pushed them apart so roughly that the stirrup hinges squeaked in protest.
You do that again and the only lube you'll get is my spit. And this little toy is a lot bigger than a finger.
Yes, John. I'm sorry.
Fucking better be. Cheeky slut. John punctuated each word with a hard slap to those upturned buttocks. Each blow jolted Mycroft's clamped nipples, resulting in a hiss of pain. You're lucky I have to be somewhere in an hour, or you'd be so fucking sore tomorrow it wouldn't take Sherlock Holmes to guess what you'd been up to. Would you like that? All those ambassadors and world leaders knowing what a pain whore you really are?
Mycroft shook his head, but the gleam in his eyes betrayed his real feeling on the subject.
John squeezed some lube onto the first and middle fingers of his right hand and touched them to Mycroft's opening. He was so turned on that his jeans were soaked and it took every ounce of willpower to keep his hands and voice steady. This was different from playing with Sarah. Very different. It was hard to forget that Mycroft could easily have him killed afterward if he wanted to. Playing with the elder Holmes like this was akin to romping with a pet lion: you had to hope that they enjoyed the game enough to bypass darker alternatives.
Mycroft was tight, which wasn't exactly surprising. John doubted that he was on the receiving end of much arse play: he was clearly a Dominant, albeit one who occasionally liked to submit to another Dom to relieve stress or add variety to his sex life. After a bit of play, John loosened him enough to take both fingers. As he spread lube inside that narrow passage and did a quick prostate check for good measure (seemed to be healthy!), Mycroft caught his breath again and his thighs quivered, shaking the stirrups.
John slid his fingers out, changed gloves, and slicked up the pseudo-thermometer. Deep breath, he ordered before sliding it in. When the widened base rested against the clenching sphincter muscle, John chuckled nastily, tossed the gloves away, and turned the black box's dial to the midway point. As the current surged, he remembered word for word the description on the toy's original box: "The probe delivers a slight electric current that stimulates nearby nerves and the adjacent prostate, resulting in contraction of the pelvic muscles and ejaculation."
Mycroft's hips flew off the table and slammed down hard. "Fuck, John!" he choked, forgetting to be quiet or use his normal pristine language. He would have said more, but a broad piece of surgical tape was hastily torn off and pressed over his mouth.
Shhhh, shhh. John smirked. I know you likely have cameras in here, but we don't need a live audience, do we?
Mycroft shook his head desperately.
Until then, your safe word will consist of you crossing the first two fingers of your left hand. Got it?
A frantic nod.
While John watched in relish, Mycroft's back arched, fighting the waist strap, and his hips rotated wildly. Pre-ejaculate drained freely from his flushed cock onto his belly and dripped down his sides onto the paper. His neck bent at an unnatural angle as he lifted his shoulders and struggled against the wrist restraints. Choked moans sounded behind the tape.
John almost wished he had a camera. He'd never seen the elder Holmes so undone before, and the sight made him stomach muscles tighten and a sex-flush mottle his skin. Mycroft was so beautiful, so desperate and human like this that he had to see more. Without tearing his eyes away from the bound, moaning form, John turned the current dial up a few notches.
The result was electrifying, pun intended. The waist strap creaked and nearly broke when Mycroft shrieked into the gag and thrashed. Unable to just watch any more, John closed his fingers around Mycroft's length and stroked it slowly, teasingly, from root to tip. With his other hand, he turned the dial to its highest setting. Mycroft struggled wildly, feet braced against the stirrups and hips beginning to spasm. His eyes rolled back in his head, his testicles drew up, and he came in thick, coarse spurts all over his stomach and chest. Some clots even reached his neck.
John, breathing harshly, released the other man's pulsating cock. With trembling fingers he undid his jeans and hauled them down along with his pants, smeared lube all over his erection, and pulled the wand from Mycroft's body. Then he was up on the table and driving himself into that wet, spasming hole, which clenched around his prick with heavenly force.
The small room resounded with their grunts, the wet slap of skin on skin, and the squeaking table joints. John ripped the tape off Mycroft's mouth and kissed him while they fucked rabidly. When he removed the nipple clamps Mycroft's shudders were so intense that John felt them on his cock, which yielded to the stimulation and spurted a load deep into the other man's body. Beneath him, Mycroft bucked, snarled, and came a second time, tagging on the restraints so hard that the skin bruised.
They rested like that, boneless and panting, until John finally summoned the strength to get up, climb off the table, and pull up his jeans. He went to the counter on shaky legs, took some tissues from the box, and wiped the semen and lube away from Mycroft's body. The elder Holmes took deep, cleansing breaths and quivered at John's touch.
Easy now, Mycroft. You all right?
Yes, yes. That was marvellous, John. What a pleasant surprise.
John laughed, this time with genuine warmth. He unbuckled the wrist, ankle, and waist restraints, lowered Mycroft's legs to the table, and draped the discarded red robe over him. You obviously needed this for awhile, and I doubt one treatment is enough.
Mycroft chuckled. I concur. When should we reschedule?
If you need another session, you know where to find me.
The elder Holmes smiled slowly. You're right. I do. Always.
That cool stare made John feel uneasy.
And he loved it.