Mycroft sat behind his desk, poring over the paperwork on it. He was beginning to think that today's work was going to amount to nothing, shuffling through report after worthless report. He sighed softly as he set the last paper down, and leaned back in his chair.

Without warning, the door of his office burst open, banging off the wall before the intruder closed it (slammed it, really) behind him.

It was John Watson.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in surprise at seeing the doctor. The last he'd seen him (personally) had been at Sherlock's funeral nearly two months ago.

"To what do I owe the-", he cut off his question as he took in the man before him. John had a wild, almost desperate look on his face. His movements were jerky and tense, as if he wasn't sure what to do with himself, overdoing his movements when he fidgeted.

"John, what-", again Mycroft abandoned his question as John strode towards him, coming around the desk.

Mycroft relaxed his body as much as possible as the man approached. If John was here to perpetrate violence against his person, Mycroft wasn't going to struggle. He knew the anguish that his role in Sherlock's downfall had brought to John. He would take whatever punishment the doctor thought he deserved. He almost wanted it.

But he was surprised when, instead of being hit, he was pivoted in his chair to face John before the man dropped to his knees. Mycroft frowned down at the man. He was about to ask what he was doing, but John gave a violent negative shake of his head. He reached for the opening of Mycroft's trousers and brusquely unfastened them. Mycroft was brought out of his shocked stupor when the doctor reached through the opening and removed his flaccid penis from his pants.

He grasped John firmly by the wrists, preventing further assault.

John's features were tight. His jaw was clenched and his throat swallowed convulsively as he glared down at Mycroft's lap (as though his crotch was the reason for his displeasure). Mycroft held him still until John met his eyes.

"What are you doing, John?"

John promptly looked back down at Mycroft's exposed lap, his breath hitching in his chest. He seemed to be fighting tears. After a moment, John gained enough composure to speak.

"H-he's gone," he spat out. "He's gone and YOU took him and I'll never get him back and I NEED him. I have nothing. No one needs me. I NEED to be needed, to be USEFUL. Need to take care of someone and I HAD someone, then YOU took him from me."

His voice was getting softer as it choked up with emotion.

"Y-your fault he's gone...and I have NOTHING. I need to take care of someone and YOU took him from me...Please. Please, I NEED this. It's your fault that I need this, just...please, let me take care of you..."

He trailed off brokenly, his breathing uneven.

Mycroft's grip on John's wrists never wavered, but he felt a pang of remorse for this man, who had so clearly loved his brother and was so utterly devastated by his absence. He had never considered just how attached to Sherlock the doctor had been. Seeing this broken man at his feet pushed Mycroft to reevaluate his previous decision to cut ties with John.

He scrutinized John's face, quietly assessing , before releasing him.

If John needed to tend to him somehow to ease whatever...distorted...manifestation his grief had taken, then Mycroft would help him as best he could. He owed it to Sherlock to see that his friend didn't fall apart at the seams-as he looked close to doing.

Mycroft leaned back. He shifted his hips closer to the edge of the chair and laid his arms on the chair rests, waiting for John to continue.

John glanced up haltingly, unable to completely hold Mycroft's stare. He visibly calmed when he saw Mycroft's acquiescence. John shuffled forward awkwardly on his knees until he was as close to the chair as possible, deep into the 'V' of Mycroft's legs. Cautiously, he gripped Mycroft's flaccid dick.

He began to stroke and pet Mycroft's cock, getting more confident as he became used to fondling a member that wasn't his own. Gradually, it became erect and Mycroft's breathing quickened. He stopped breathing altogether for a few seconds when John leaned forward to lick the droplet of precome that had formed on the tip.

Mycroft stifled a moan as John trailed his tongue across the underside of his cock, tasting him from root to tip and back again. It had been years since anyone had touched him like this, offering to give him pleasure, and his body ached deliciously in anticipation.

One of John's hands was gripping Mycroft's thigh, steadying himself as he lavished attention on the hard cock before him. The other hand was wrapped around the base of Mycroft's cock. He pumped the shaft and ran his tongue around the fat, dripping head.

Mycroft clenched his hands over the ends of his chair rests to restrain himself from simply taking his own pleasure. The temptation to slam John's mouth down onto his cock or to work his hips up into that hand was incredibly strong.

But it wasn't what John needed. John needed to 'take care' of him. And it was taking every ounce of control that Mycroft had in order to let him do so.

However, when John opened his mouth wider, bowing his head to take the leaking tip into his mouth, Mycroft couldn't restrain his gasp of pleasure. The lithe tongue that had been teasing him began to undulate against his glans. Mycroft's hips bucked upward a fraction before he caught the withering edge of his control.

Seeming emboldened by the elder Holmes's reaction, John tightened his grip on the base as he took as much of the man's length into his mouth as he could.

His tongue rolled against Mycroft's shaft experimentally as he slowly bobbed up and down, soon finding a steady rhythm. When John finally ventured to apply suction to his cock, Mycroft tipped his head back, closing his eyes and groaning his approval up to the ceiling.

John had been tentative at first, despite his forwardness. But his growing confidence was bellied by the frankly enthusiastic attention he was applying to Mycroft's rock-solid erection. His pace quickened.

Mycroft's eyes shot open when vibrations erupted around his cock and a loud moan drowned out the wet, suckling sounds in the room.

He looked down at the man between his legs in confusion.

John's eyes were closed but his face had been transformed by a mixture of intense concentration and elation as he licked and sucked the cock in his hand, as though it was the most delicious thing in the world.

Mycroft focused on the doctor's lap. His trousers were tented by his obvious erection. A spot of precome was beginning to dampen the material. Realization thundered through Mycroft: John was aroused. The sound he had heard had come from the doctor, himself. And he hadn't stopped.

John had begun a constant stream of moaning as he worshipped the cock in his mouth. He had fallen into a pattern of licking the underside of the shaft, running his tongue across the head, and sucking the whole thing back down his throat then repeating the process, creating a circuit of pleasure.

Mycroft licked his lips and slowly rocked his hips up into John's mouth, unable to stay completely still. His hand cupped the back of John's head, petting and encouraging him.

As the eagerness John was exhibiting brought Mycroft to the edge, he fleetingly wondered if Sherlock had ever been at the receiving end of John's more pleasurable ministrations.

John took him deep into his throat, down to the base and swallowed around him.

That was all Mycroft could take.

He tried to pull John off as he felt his climax begin to overtake him, but the doctor resisted, sucking fervently around his girth. Mycroft shot his release down John's throat, back bowed nearly in half with the strength of his orgasm. Later, he'd be appalled by how loudly he'd shouted when he came, but presently he didn't give a damn.

He collapsed backwards into the chair, slumping as he rode out the last waves of pleasure. John had swallowed every drop. As Mycroft struggled to master himself, John cleaned the spent member with gentle flicks of his tongue, mindful of its sensitivity, before tucking Mycroft back into his pants, .

Mycroft allowed the doctor to redress him, but looked down curiously when he felt a touch to his thigh.

John was nuzzling his head against him, eyes closed with a small frown on his face. Glancing down at John's lap, Mycroft saw his erection hadn't diminished. It strained against its confines while John continued to kneel between Mycroft's legs, white-knuckled hands gripping his own knees. He hadn't made one move to relieve himself, just sat rubbing his head against Mycroft's inner thigh.

Time to retake his reins of this wayward pony, Mycroft thought.

His expression brooking no argument, he leaned down and pressed his hand against John's bulge. He was rewarded with a distressed whimper and a buck of John's hips. Making quick work of the man's trousers, Mycroft freed the erection, rousing half-hearted protests from its owner.

Mycroft licked his own palm and wrapped it around the base of John's cock, jacking the man to completion despite the awkward angle. It didn't take more than a few minutes, aroused as long as the doctor had been.

John came with a half-choked cry, fingers dug into his own thighs. An act of penance, perhaps? For attaining pleasure? Mycroft pondered as he cleaned them both up with his handkerchief.

John methodically arranged himself and his clothing before getting slowly to his feet, his legs stiff from his time on the floor. Without even looking at Mycroft, he turned and made his way to the door.

"I expect you back next Thursday, same time, John."

Startled, the doctor stopped and turned to face him, his disbelief evident. He gave Mycroft a searching look. Taking in the seriousness of the elder Holmes's expression, he nodded, turning away with a hopeful smile. John crossed to the door and left, allowing Mycroft to reexamine the visit in peace.

As unexpected and enjoyable as the events had been , they were a clear sign of how badly the oceans of John's existence had been churned. Something had broken inside John. How irreparably, though, remained to be seen.

Sighing at the brutal unfairness of life, he retrieved his mobile from his desk and sent a text:

Please be quick with your work. Your doctor needs you more than you think.

Until the traces of Moriarty's web were wiped out and Sherlock could return, Mycroft would have to look after his brother's keeper. And if this...arrangement...was what John needed, he would do his best to help the man, in Sherlock's stead.

Mycroft set the mobile down and returned to his papers as he waited for Sherlock's reply, a small smile on his lips.