For several agonizingly long seconds, no one spoke. Sherlock was silent primarily from awe. He'd never seen John look so stern. Menacing.


Well, this is embarrassing. John stepped off the landing and approached. Sherlock's eyes roamed over his apparel: black trousers, a charcoal gray turtleneck jumper, and tight black jacket. What have you let them do to you, Sherlock?

Mycroft stood in the middle of the corridor, eyes lowered. Jeanette, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, acknowledged John with a nervous hello before jumping up and hurrying to stand behind Sarah. John smiled politely at both women, but his usual affability was absent.

Sherlock felt a nervous flutter in his chest as the man he'd come to think of his predictable and faithful blogger approached him. This was John, who'd borrowed money from him, scrambled to keep up with him during roof-to-roof chases, and made tea on command. John tended to his bruises; surely he was incapable of inflicting new ones.

Wasn't he?

John circled him a few times, while Mycroft and the two women watched silently. Finally he stopped, cupped Sherlock's jaw in his warm hand, and examined his face. Their eyes met: Sherlock wondered if John could see the anxiety and desire he was feeling right now.

I believe you're catching on that I'm not new to this. You never suspected, did you?

The younger Holmes shook his head. His mind flashed back to that day at the pool, when he'd gone to confront Moriarty and been confronted instead- by John. During those torturous seconds before John opened his coat to reveal the explosives strapped to his body, Sherlock's world had been tossed sharply on its axis, leaving him disoriented and breathless.

That was how he felt now as he gazed up at the man he'd been so sure he knew. He shook his head in response to the question. John gave him a small but sincere smile.

You know it's still me, right? I'll always keep you safe.

Sherlock nodded. When John's palm slid out from under his jaw, he impulsively pressed his cheek against it, savouring the warmth. The doctor had washed his hands recently, but he could still smell lotion (Burt's Bees- John's favourite) and chemicals (He cleaned up the remnants of my charcoal experiment this morning when I didn't do it quickly enough to suit him). Sherlock couldn't tell what this short but imposing figure wearing Diogenes black intended to do to him tonight, but whatever it was, he would be safe the entire time. Because it was John.

Sherlock heard Sarah whisper to Jeanette before a door closed. The only spectator now was Mycroft, who had yet to speak. John slipped his hand away from Sherlock's face with obvious reluctance and asked, Is the room ready?

Certainly. Shall we go there now?

Sherlock had never seen Mycroft act so docile around John. He had noticed that during the past month, his older brother had spoken to his flatmate with more deference than usual, but simply assumed that John had done something to merit increased respect. He glanced over his shoulder, saw Mycroft standing with hands clasped in front as if secured by invisible restraints and eyes on the floor, and immediately guessed what that something was.

Everything now made sense: John's recent assertiveness with him, Mycroft's uncharacteristic reticence, and even Sarah's flawless domination skills. They all confirmed what John had just said: I'm not new to this.

His initial surprise combusted into a fierce and burning lust, which flared from his caged groin outward, tightening his stomach muscles and making his thighs tremble. Their relationship would never be the same after this, he knew. As his body practically vibrated under John's hungry, rapacious gaze, Sherlock realized that it would be better than ever. John was a Dom, he was a sub.

They did belong together, and not just as flatmates any more.

In response to Mycroft's question, John nodded. I've waited for this long enough. But get that costume off of him. The girls may have had a giggle at his expense, but it does nothing for me.

The elder Holmes opened a panel in the wall and pressed a silent buzzer. A moment later two Diogenes attendants trudged dutifully up the stairs. After Mycroft instructed them, they opened a closet, took out a canvas bag designated for worn apparel and used toys, and divested Sherlock of the bridle, harness, saddle-corset, and tail plug. The latter's widest point was especially broad, and took some effort to coax out. Sherlock, whose cheek and shoulders were pressed against the carpet, grunted in discomfort, something John noticed.

I want to examine him before we proceed. He looks like he needs a good trip through the sheep dip.

Of course, John, Mycroft murmured. He dropped a red silk robe over Sherlock's shoulders and helped his brother rise. John eyed them both thoughtfully before striding over to the elder Holmes, pulling him away from Sherlock, and pushing him roughly against the wall.

Sherlock's mouth opened. He'd never seen anyone (anyone who wasn't made an unwilling guest of the British government afterward) tackle his omnipotent older brother like that. With a speed that would have done his army instructors proud, John grasped Mycroft's upper arms and tugged down until the taller man's knees were slightly bent and their faces were level.

Don't move.

No, John, Mycroft whispered.

Sherlock watched those sturdy fingers, which prepared his tea, dressed his wounds, and typed glorifying blog entries, now glide down Mycroft's forearms until their hands joined. John pressed forward, using his body to pin Mycroft to the wall, and slid one thigh between the other man's legs.

You're so fucking hard, he hissed as he rotated his hip to apply pressure. I assume you obeyed me in every respect.

Yes, John.

You didn't touch yourself for the entire week?

No, John.


John's mouth caught Mycroft's in a kiss that bruised the soft lip tissue and wrenched a desperate moan from someplace deep inside that rarely admitted to this kind of need.

Sherlock was mesmerized, temporarily forgetting his own desperate arousal. He wasn't surprised to see Mycroft yield to another Dom: power and responsibility were easier to handle when they could be periodically laid aside. But this was John making his older brother -the most powerful man in Britain- submit to punitive caresses and answer questions like an obedient schoolboy. John, whose laptop was a goldmine of decidedly heterosexual porn, was driving another man crazy with lust.

When dark spots appeared in his vision, Sherlock realised that he had forgotten to breathe. Watching John dominate his regal brother reminded him why he loved the forbidden so much: the only rules and restrictions were those that the players chose. Polite society had no words, let alone guidelines, for what the 'deviant element' did. There was no established protocol for seducing one's brother: he and Mycroft had acted on their lust for pain and each other via instinct alone. Now, a similar instinct drove him toward John, who'd always been untouchable for a myriad of reasons.

He wanted John so badly that he bit his lip. His need tasted salty and warm.

Suddenly John released Mycroft, who slumped against the wall, knees quivering and gasping for breath, and turned toward Sherlock. The flatmates stared at each other for one electrifying moment. Then Sherlock sank to his knees as if by gravity, unable and unwilling to stand in the face of such aggressive dominance.

John caught him around the middle and held him upright. Sherlock, he murmured against the detective's cheek. Are you ready for this? I think you are, but I want to hear you say it.

Sherlock swallowed once before letting go completely. His already-deep voice dropped to a cavernous, desperate baritone.

John, I want you to use me. I want you to make me feel pain, make me beg, let me come only when you say so. Please. I know you find me infuriating to live with, but I want to try to make it up to you.

John couldn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was ragged with desire. I understand that's why you're here tonight. To do just that. All right then.

He positioned Sherlock against the wall, beside Mycroft, and caressed his heaving chest before grasping his nipples and pinching lightly. Sherlock closed his eyes, whimpering when his cock brushed against the cold metal of John's belt buckle, and begged, Harder, please.

Mycroft's hand found his and squeezed tightly, silently transmitting warmth and reassurance.

When John's grip intensified, sending bolts of pain shooting through his chest, Sherlock threw his head back, dark curls gliding smoothly against the polished wood of the wall. He felt his friend's heated breath on his now-exposed throat, and choked back a groan when teeth clamped down, next to the livid bite mark Mycroft had given him.

So, John purred as his tongue soothed newly-bruised skin, you'd like me to do whatever I want to you tonight. Is that right? Treat you like royalty or use you like a cheap whore, whatever suits me?

Yes, John. Fuck, please.

When his nipples were released, Sherlock released his brother's hand, slid to his knees, and fumbled eagerly with John's belt. He'd seen his friend naked before- his penchant for barging into John's room without warning had left no physical secrets between them. But now he ached to smell, touch, and taste. The one orgasm Sarah and Mycroft had allowed him didn't take the edge off: it made it sharper.

Before he could slip the belt free of its buckle, John grabbed his wrists. Did I say you could do that?

No, John. As he spoke, Sherlock noticed that Mycroft was watching them avidly. The elder Holmes was so hard that the silhouette of his tailored trousers was misshapen at the crotch. Sweat actually beaded his high forehead.

You're always so impatient. I guess that means I'll never run out of reasons to punish you. Strong fingers grasped his hair and dragged him to his feet. Mycroft, let's go to that room. Now.

The elder Holmes stood up straight and rearranged his suit. Of course, John. This way.

John's hand fell from Sherlock's hair to his collar. He stroked the soft leather with one finger before gathering what little slack existed and drawing it tight, restricting the younger man's breathing. Sherlock tried to remain passive, but the need to breathe took priority and he struggled slightly. He gripped John's wrist, but did not try to pull it away.

John's own breath, so free and effortless, tickled his gasping lips. Good boy, Sherlock. You know I'd never harm you. He let go, leaving Sherlock coughing and gulping and grateful.

The room John had referred to was on the next floor. Sherlock let his flatmate place a strong arm around his shoulders and lead him up the stairs. I want to examine you so I can see how much more you can take, the doctor whispered. I'm betting you can do as well as your brother.

Mycroft, who was leading the way, hesitated for a split second, but otherwise he gave no indication of having heard.

You and Mycroft, Sherlock said drowsily, still reeling from the breath play. How often?

Only a few times. He doesn't need it as regularly as you appear to. John's arm descended to his waist as they stepped onto the landing. He says you're not a switch.


Neither am I. A warm hand fondled Sherlock's bruised arse cheek. The younger Holmes caught his breath again.

They followed Mycroft down the hall to a set of double doors at the end. After using an electronic key to deactivate the locks, he pushed the doors open with a flourish and gestured for Sherlock and John to enter.

The low-ceilinged chamber had exposed stone walls, with imitation gaslight fixtures casting a burnt glow on the blood-red carpet, antique sofa and chairs, and gigantic four-poster bed. Sherlock stared at the latter, which had gleaming chains coiled around the posts like metallic serpents and a beaded silver duvet that looked like chainmail at first glance. Light grey pillows with darker tassels were piled so thickly that the headboard was invisible.

A black leather-upholstered trunk stood at the foot of the magnificent bed. Mycroft had a similar one in his own quarters. Like his, this one probably contained more toys than their combined imaginations would know what to do with.

John's hand on his shoulder interrupted his ruminations. Go lie on the bed and wait for me. Knees up, feet apart.

Sherlock obeyed. The duvet's pebbled surface felt strange but luxurious against his back. He watched John go over to Mycroft, grasp the lapels of his three-thousand pound suit, and hiss, Kneel. When the elder Holmes obeyed, his expression slack and blissful, John manoeuvred behind him, produced a thick leather gag from one of his jacket pockets, and strapped it in place. Sherlock could see his brother's long fingers tremble, a sure indicator of excitement and even a little fear.

You did well tonight, John said as he grabbed a fistful of Mycroft's rich red hair and yanked his head back. At least that's the impression I've been given so far. But if Sherlock's atonement doesn't meet my expectations, I'll be disappointed. And you know what that means for you, don't you?

Mycroft nodded quickly. When John released his hair and stepped in front of him with a pair of handcuffs, he presented his wrists without hesitation. John indicated approval by stroking his cheek and saying, If your brother pleases me tonight, there'll be something in it for you. Or rather, there will be something in you. Would you like that? He fondled his crotch mere inches from Mycroft's nose.

The elder Holmes shivered and nodded again.

Then I expect perfect performance. From both of you. John stepped behind him again and picked up something off the hand-carved writing desk. Sherlock saw that it was a pair of blunt-tipped scissors, with long blades that reflected the pseudo-gaslight. But you can't play with so many clothes on, Mycroft. I'll have to do something about that.

Sherlock's eyes widened when John bent down and began cutting Mycroft's custom-tailored suit from his quivering body. The elder Holmes stared straight ahead, face flushed, and did not flinch as his expensive clothing was reduced to a pile of rags.

There, John beamed. Much better. He laid the scissors aside and circled the kneeling man once, eying his hard nipples and harder cock with approval. But look at how you're leaking! Makes me wonder whether you might come unintentionally while Sherlock and I are having fun.

Sherlock expected him to solve that little dilemma with a cock ring, and felt a perverse pleasure at the thought of his brother sharing the frustration he had known all evening. To the surprise of both brothers, John nudged Mycroft's legs further apart before dropping down on one knee behind him. Sherlock saw John rummage in his trouser pocket, withdraw a sachet of lube, and wave it tauntingly under Mycroft's nose.

Hold still. This is a delicate procedure.

There was a soft noise of ripping foil. Then John's right hand lowered to Mycroft's buttocks, and the latter's eyes widened in excitement and what looked to Sherlock like panic. His hips shifted uncomfortably, his thighs trembled, and he moaned faintly into the gag. John smacked one arse cheek with his free hand before snaking it around and gripping the base of Mycroft's erection.

Don't complain. I'm doing this so your punishment won't be worse than planned.

The drops of fluid trailing to the floor were now a steady, milky stream. Mycroft clenched his fists and shivered against John who, despite the harsh language, whispered encouragement against his sweaty neck. On the surface it looked like the elder Holmes was in agony: the muscles in his legs began to spasm and his face had gone from pleasantly flushed to scarlet red. But Sherlock could tell by the dreamy, vacant look in his eyes that his brother relished and badly needed the forced control over his pleasure.

The pool of seminal fluid on the floor widened.

Oh, yes, John hissed, while Sherlock watched and felt the cock ring become unbearably tight. So hot. And so ripe. I bet this feels lovely, doesn't it?

The prostate milking- with its accompanying sensations of pleasure and agony- made the normally indomitable Mycroft Holmes whimper and nod rapidly.

I think that's enough for now. John stood up, stepped back, and wiped his lube-slick fingers on a piece of Mycroft's destroyed suit. Time for me to see to your brother. You may sit back on your heels if that's more comfortable.

The elder Holmes sank down gratefully and bowed his head. Sherlock saw John fondle his brother's mussed-up hair before approaching the bed.

Now, he said, for you.

To his amazement, Sherlock began to shake all over. He was excited, turned on, and a little scared. John's medical skills were already first rate: the fact that he made Sherlock anxious now proved that his dominating ability was just as potent.

John turned the bedside lamp on. Let's look at you first.

Those were words that John had used frequently in the past, before prodding him for cracked ribs or inspecting a bruise or cut. But this time, firm hands grasped Sherlock's bony knees and pushed them obscenely wide.

Hmmm. You're still open. Slick too. But a little red. Hold still.

He reached toward the bedside table, where a package of latex gloves and bottles of expensive lube sat amidst more mundane amenities like tissue boxes and hand cream. Sherlock closed his eyes as he listened to John prepare, and sighed in both anticipation and relief when two warm, slick fingers slid carefully into his hole and began stroking that part of him that had known only partial relief tonight.

So what did they do to you tonight, Sherlock? he queried, keeping up with that sweet, devastating stroking. Tell me everything.

And Sherlock did. Everything. By the end of his litany, he was drenched in sweat and nearly weeping with his need to come. John, he begged, making the name sound like a plea and endearment combined, please.

You don't appear to be injured, and your recall is perfect as usual. John slid his fingers out, binned the glove, and stood. Sherlock, I want to punish you. Hard. Are you willing?

Yes, John.

Sherlock licked his dry lips as John straightened out his legs and rolled him onto his front. The duvet's surface tortured his erection, but when his best friend ordered, Hold still, he obeyed.

A metal fastening clinked as it was opened, followed by the hiss of sliding leather. Then something hard but supple- John's belt- slid over his arse, teasing the already-simmering nerve endings. Sherlock buried his face in his forearm and arched his back, signalling his trust in John and willingness to take whatever was inflicted on him.

The first blow was light enough to avoid bruising him further, but inflicted with enough force to send all rational thought rushing from his head. Sherlock's gasp came from deep within his gut as pain blossomed through his arse and resulted in a shower of endorphins.

Oooh… John…

John hit him again, vaulting him into a headspace where only the crack of leather, the burning ache of beaten flesh, and his own racing heartbeat existed.

He heard John's breathing become uneven, and not from exertion. If you want more of this, Sherlock, you have to ask for it.

Sherlock raised his head, relishing the pain that pulsed throughout his slender form and chased intrusive thoughts like fear and anxiety away. Please, John. Give me more. I need it.

Up on your knees then. Shoulders down. Hold your arse open for me.

Eager to lose himself in more sensation, the younger Holmes scrambled to obey. His fingers dug into his buttocks, exposing his hole to whatever his Dom chose to do to it. Sweat coated his face and plastered his hair to his cheekbones.

Bloody hell. John's fingertips grazed his opening gently. I wish I had a camera on me now. You look so gorgeous and filthy, Sherlock.

Then John's hand moved away, and the blows resumed. They rained onto his arse and thighs, carefully missing his hands and genitals. Tears gathered in his eyes and joined the sweat running down his face, but he was not suffering- he was soaring.

Suddenly the blows ceased. Sherlock heard the soft thud of the belt landing beside him on the mattress and felt John's sweaty fingers close around his neck, holding him in place.

Stay there and keep your eyes closed. I'm very pleased, Sherlock. You took that so well. John's other hand stroked his face tenderly, wiping the tears.

Yes, John.

Sherlock remained in place, revelling in pain's heated afterglow. He heard John cross the floor behind him and whisper to Mycroft. Then two sets of footsteps returned to the bed, and the leather trunk at its foot creaked open. Too blissed-out to be curious, he remained in place while someone- Mycroft- climbed onto the bed. There was some shuffling and rearranging, and then John whispered, Open your eyes.

Sherlock obeyed. Mycroft was lying on his back on the duvet, wrists secured to the thick headboard with expertly knotted nylon rope. He was breathing heavily and staring at his brother with equal portions of pride and lust.

Sherlock was mesmerized. Before tonight, he'd never seen Mycroft in a submissive role: the elder Holmes had always been a polite but foreboding figure to everyone except him. Rather than testing the bonds or trying to wriggle free, Mycroft gripped the ropes that connected him to his grounding point, like he was strapped himself in for an exhilarating ride.

John snapped a leash onto Sherlock's collar and tugged him gently toward his brother. Go on. I want to see the two of you together.

The younger Holmes surged forward eagerly, helped along by the hand that now gripped his head, and wrapped his soft lips around the fluid-glossed cock's tip. Mycroft hissed and squirmed as Sherlock teased the sensitive opening with his tongue while bobbing slowly up and down and letting suction build. John whispered encouragement in soft, breathy tones.

Good boy, Sherlock. Your brother deserves a reward for tonight, and I want you to give him a good one.

Sherlock bobbed his head more enthusiastically to indicate agreement. His right hand caressed Mycroft's balls, which were hard and drawn close to his body by this point. He started to slide off his brother's cock to give those delicate orbs a tongue bath when John pushed his head down abruptly, stuffing the entire length down his throat. Sherlock relaxed his jaw and subdued his gag reflex, but the suddenness of the plunge left him breathless and dizzy. He huffed wildly through his nose and his eyes watered, but John held him firmly in place and he soon stilled.

Fuck his throat, John directed. Mycroft arched his back on the mattress, driving his cock even deeper into his red-faced brother's throat. As he crouched there, unable to control either the position of his head or the depth of the thrusts, Sherlock once again felt intrusive, unnecessary thoughts flee his mind and be replaced with a glorious silence.

Give me your left hand, John ordered him. Sherlock complied automatically, too lightheaded to hesitate. He felt cold jelly being squirted onto his index and middle fingers before John grabbed his wrist and guided it between Mycroft's thighs.

Get your fingers in his arse.

Sherlock had never done this to his brother before, but he hastened to obey. He felt the slick sphincter muscle yield easily to his careful probing, and actually draw his digits inside. It didn't take long for him to find the swollen knot of nerves, which must have still been sensitive from John's ministrations. When he touched it, Mycroft gritted his teeth and fucked his mouth harder, forcing rivulets of saliva and pre-ejaculate past his lips.

Excellent, John whispered. Sherlock's heart soared at the praise. Now make him come, and then it will be your turn.

Faced with such an incentive, Sherlock tightened his lips around the sliding shaft and stroked Mycroft's prostate more insistently. This was as close to heaven as he'd ever been- better than the drugs, and even the danger. This was the perfect distraction: pain and sex and love. They siphoned away his nervous aggression and replaced it with mental calm and physical arousal.

He realized that he wasn't doing all of this just so he could get off, and hard. He wanted John and Mycroft to feel good, to be pleased with him. Pressure banked even more insistently in his groin as he revelled in the brutal thrusting and mild suffocation and whispered praise.

Suddenly Mycroft gave one last plunge and groaned. Sherlock felt salty warmth flood his mouth and throat, and held still as his brother continued to jerk lightly in and out, working through the lingering tremors. Finally Mycroft collapsed back onto the bed, cock wet with Sherlock's saliva and his own semen, and gasped, That was indescribable. Oh, God.

Sherlock slid his fingers out of that hot body and rested his forehead on the pebbled duvet. He was dimly aware of John releasing his head and climbing onto the bed behind him. He heard the rasp of a lowering zip before gentle but insistent hands parted his cheeks.

You're perfect, Sherlock. And from now on, you're mine. Would you like that?

Yes, John. Yes.

John shuffled forward on his knees and pressed lightly down on the younger man's lower back. Sherlock repositioned himself accordingly and waited breathlessly. When he heard the lube bottle snap shut and felt John's stiff, slippery cock push into him, Sherlock cried out and spread his thighs wider to make the angle perfect. The room was suddenly boiling hot, and his sweaty skin prickled with need.

Yes, John. Make me yours. Please. Yes, yes, yes….

After burying himself to the hilt, John tugged on the leash, forcing Sherlock onto all fours. Fuck, you feel perfect around my cock. Such a slut, showing me how you want me to take you. Lucky for you, you're due for a reward.

The doctor pulled partway out before thrusting back in hard. Then the fucking began- it wasn't making love, nor was it just screwing. Only the grip on the leash preventing him from tumbling onto his brother. John pounded him so roughly that he found it impossible to catch a proper breath, and soon he started feeling lightheaded again. The moment his vision started darkening and he reeled, the cock ring came off and he was free.

John lowered one hand and cupped his balls. You're so full. Come for us, Sherlock.

Sherlock's orgasm blasted through him like an exploding furnace, drenching his mind in white-hot heat. He couldn't think properly, all he could do was feel.

Feel every nerve in his body fizzle and sputter like freshly lit dynamite.

Feel semen rush through his sore and throbbing penis until it burst from the tip and showered his belly, chest, and even Mycroft with liquid warmth.

Feel his teeth close over his already-abused lip and draw blood in a desperate effort to keep his screams contained.

He was vaguely aware of John's hips picking up speed and the grip on his leash tightening. He felt his arse muscles spasm and shudder around the doctor's plunging erection and then John was coming too, grunting and gasping and cursing under his breath like a man instead of the devious, self-assured Dom of the past hour.

Fuck, Sherlock… you're incredible….

Sherlock tried to reply, but all that came out of his mouth was hissing air. He had not stopped floating since orgasm, and now mind and body combined to take him out of this room, to a place where there was only darkness, weary pleasure, and peace.

When Sherlock woke up, he felt comfortable and sated. His cheek rested against a goose-feather pillow and soft cotton sheets covered him to the shoulder. He shifted slightly, and discovered that two warm bodies rested on either side of him. One arm draped over his waist, while a muscled thigh lounged across his hip. Opening his eyes, he stared into John's face.

John's black ensemble was gone, replaced by a red robe that resembled one he always wore around the Baker Street flat after showering. The gently malicious expression he'd displayed all evening was also gone, leaving the patient and concerned visage that Sherlock had always associated with safety and security.

When he saw that Sherlock was awake, John's mouth tugged into his lopsided grin. Hey.

John. The younger Holmes touched his flatmate's bare chest in wonder. I haven't been dreaming, have I? Did we…. Did we really do all that?

Mycroft's lips brushed Sherlock's ear from behind. Indeed we did, little brother. All three of us.

John rolled onto his back and retrieved a bottle of water from the bedside table. Let's get you rehydrated, he said, sounding more like a doctor than a Dom. Sherlock raised himself onto one elbow, closed his lips around the bottle opening, and gratefully gulped down the cool fluid. Then he collapsed back onto the mattress.

Wow, was all he could say.

A common expression, but it suits the occasion. Mycroft kissed his shoulder. Sherlock, you never fail to amaze me.

And me. John hooked one finger under Sherlock's chin and levelled their gazes. I've known for awhile that you liked to be handled roughly. I've lived with you for so long that you can't keep many secrets from me any more. I saw certain bruises and marks on you, and knew what they were. Then Mycroft and I reached an… understanding.

The elder Holmes chuckled. An understanding that left me unable to sit down for days. John's so good for you on many levels, Sherlock. I wanted you to see each other like this, and understand that you can be more than just flatmates and friends.

Sherlock gazed at John. So I take it my Atonement satisfied you?

The doctor smiled. I never can stay annoyed at you for long, even if you can be the most ridiculous, aggravating idiot.

Sherlock clasped John's hand. At the same time, he reached back and touched Mycroft's naked hip. Thank you both for this. My God, the entire evening… I was never bored for a minute.

You have a high tolerance for being used, it seems. John wrapped his arms around the younger man and drew him close. And I look forward to exploring your limits further.

Sherlock smirked and nestled his face against John's smooth, warm chest. Just like I test your patience on a daily basis?

Something like that.

Mycroft pulled the covers back and sat up. I'd better go to my chamber now- Gregory's waiting. He patted Sherlock's rear and touched John's shoulder before rising and donning a robe. Let's talk more in the morning. Sherlock, be aware that you've got two Masters now. You'll be held to a more stringent performance level now.

Are you trying to intimidate me, or turn me on?

John chuckled and pulled him closer. We intend to do both.

Sherlock had never felt more daunted.

Or loved.