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Chapter Text

“You waited all day simply to meet with me?”

A raised eyebrow. An echoing, full-toned voice.

William James Moriarty, recently revealed to the British Government to be one of the three individuals comprising the entity known as the Lord of Crime, listened to those words. He sat almost unnaturally still upon a chair in the Reading Room of the British Museum. That intentional decision was not lost on the man who had spoken, as he stood primly upright in the center of the room’s only entrance and exit.

William sat in the very same chair that Albert James Moriarty had earlier that day. The same chair Albert had sat in when he, for the first time, purposefully falsified an official report and openly revealed both his criminal nature and the full extent of their Moriarty Plan.

As if suddenly called to life from nothingness, William turned in his chair toward the visitor's voice. His waiting was over. A smile rose to his lips, lifting fair colored eyelashes around scheming scarlet eyes.

“I never once said anything about meeting you here, Director Holmes.” William spoke gently, though it was like cotton over barbed wire, paired with the sharp wit behind his every action. False innocence.

His eyes found the dark, authoritative gaze of Mycroft Holmes, the very embodiment of the government himself.

Mycroft’s own eyes narrowed slightly at that devil's smile, imperceptibly to most people—but William was not most people. Still, it was only a shadow of the enmity he had displayed in their earlier negotiations. If Mycroft was his baby brother, he would've laughed. Gleefully. Like a child.

“You didn't need to. We both know you invited me here.” He observed. Mycroft's unyielding stare flickered from William directly to the area in front of him and back.

William's offer to meet had been more than clear during their earlier gathering in this very room. The offer was silent, subdued, but so, so salient to both men extraordinarily gifted with natural intelligence. The time, place, agenda, participants… each wordlessly revealed through mere glances and body language alone.

All while avoiding the notice of Albert, Louis, and one Irene Adler, each dangerously intelligent by their own means.

A secret invitation, known by the two of them and only the two of them.

William rose from his seat out of respect for the other man, regardless of their difference in station. His motions were uniquely fluid as he pushed the chair neatly back into place and stepped before Mycroft.

Mycroft's typical smirk snuck its way back onto his face at these movements. How easy and how quickly it was that William was able to understand his orders, without so much as a word or explicit gesture. How simple and straightforward… Until it wasn't, of course.

William did not shy away under the scrutiny, standing perfectly upright as always. His voice did not waver as he observed in turn, "And you accepted that invitation."

A fair point. Even despite the havoc wreaked upon his already over-busy schedule as a result of taking the Moriarty Plan under his authority, Mycroft still managed to clear some time at the end of his night to meet with William privately.

Of course, it went without saying that the price went equally matched on both sides. William had also sacrificed his own over-busy schedule to spend the day in the archives awaiting the Director's favorable response. One day less of masterminding criminal plots to terrorize London into widespread social reform.

With no need for further prompting from Mycroft, William took yet another step closer. At the lack of distance now between their chests, William had undeniably chosen to forego any veneer of propriety between them. He pressed the tips of his fingers gently, reverentially, onto his own chest over his heart. An expression of deep love and care overtook his features, softening his dangerous edges.

All he offered in explanation for their meeting was, "Brother and I share the same soul."

There was no need for further explanation than that, as far as the two attendees were concerned; the meaning was perfectly clear to them. Similarly, there was no need to clarify which brother, exactly, was being referenced.

William was pronouncing his likeness to his older brother, Albert. It was the same reasoning that compelled him to stage the scene with him sitting in Albert's chair.

…because Mycroft Holmes had found himself profoundly, irrevocably enamored with one Albert James Moriarty, regardless of any criminal tendencies the man harbored—tendencies which perhaps indicated that it would be unwise to pursue a different sort of criminal activity with him at this time.

William's explicit acknowledgement of this raw, tentative, unexplored side to Mycroft’s psyche left a sour taste in his mouth. It was rare for people like them, so alienated from the society in which they lived, to find such true and equal companionship in someone, like they both had with Albert. And it was similarly rare to find someone who was able to brutally pick apart their brains and determine how they tick, like they did with each other on pure, cruel instinct.

It was a possibility, therefore, that this meeting would turn into the inverse of their earlier negotiations. Earlier, Mycroft had threatened his own retribution should the Moriarty Plan (and William in particular) step one toe out of line or cause unnecessary torment to his little brother, who had recklessly tangled himself up in all their plots.

Perhaps William intended to promise his own retribution for his own brother should any harm come to him. They were both quite protective people, especially when it came to their families. But that was only one possibility…

As if William had been following Mycroft's internal line of reasoning, he added, "And you and I are undoubtedly in agreement on one particular thing, if nothing else."

William fluttered his eyelashes slightly, referencing the common ground that had initially earned them each others' rapport in their original meeting that day. He knew Mycroft would follow his meaning.

One particular thing they both assuredly wanted was what would be best for Sherlock. They held a mutual understanding in this regard.

"And so you waited until we were proved allies, after all." Mycroft noted in understanding, following William’s internal line of reasoning, as well.

William smiled gently. “I thought it necessary that we be on equal footing before I made the offer.”

They had been testing each other up until this afternoon. Mycroft had presented Albert with the dilemma of Irene Adler and the infamous documents detailing the true impetus of the French Revolution. And in turn, upon making the decision to play allies rather than enemies—though truly they were neither—the Lord of Crime presented Mycroft with the entirety of the Moriarty Plan.

When William had entered the negotiation field at last, Mycroft took no efforts to hide his animosity with him for involving Sherlock in his deadly schemes. William then, contrarily, revealed that he harbored fond sentiments for Sherlock, much the same as Mycroft.

After returning the damning documents to the government and formalizing their deal, William asked Mycroft an additional question—about the reason for keeping the documents, rather than destroying them. This question of his had quelled any lingering concerns Mycroft possibly had of the Lord of Crime’s presumed malicious intent toward his little brother.

William had felt such overwhelming sympathy for the Holmes Family, for their perpetual safekeeping of the documents and continuing penitence sought through Mycroft Holmes.

Such empathetic compassion had likely shone through his expression at that time, for Mycroft, in turn, not only expressly acknowledged William's unvoiced deductions about his ancestry, but also proved them true.

William had been surprised at Mycroft's forthrightness. Such directness and candor, near opposite to his own behavior.

“I have not informed Sherlock of this yet, naturally." Mycroft had said, gazing at William from the corner of his eyes with an oblique and sardonic smile. “It’s better for him to live a life free of such burden.”

Subtly, he had informed the group at large to continue keeping such details away from Sherlock. Subtly, he had revealed to William the sameness of their interests and hopes, of their mutual care for Sherlock.

They both wished for Sherlock to live freely, and to protect their families from all things, including this world itself… Indeed, they shared quite the common outlook.

William had smiled at Mycroft in open appreciation and understanding.

They felt the same, and whether or not William was aware, they also both silently held a secret for the other. For it was that same directness that had seen steadfastly through William’s deceit.

“Robespierre’s final act… curtains at his own death…” William had revealed the Moriarty Plan, with his arms spread wide and his palms facing forward. “That is what we intend to do.”

Mycroft had reacted with an unreadable, dour look. His eyebrows had pinched in consternation. In that instant, he had deduced what Albert and Louis were both far too afraid to admit to themselves.

William intended for the Moriarty Plan to end in his suicide, and his suicide alone.

Once more, Mycroft felt the burden of his knowledge.

William and Mycroft both wanted what would be best for Sherlock. Therefore, neither wanted Sherlock’s relationship with William to progress any further than it already had, because it was certain to end in tragedy at the end of the Moriarty Plan.

Mycroft wanted to protect his little brother from the heartbreak, and William was simply tired of constantly hurting others. Sherlock would be better off without him.

He did not intend to sully Sherlock so frivolously. As brilliant and as enticing Sherlock Holmes was, William knew better than to let himself get carried away by his feelings. Give him an inch and he’d take a mile; he knew the mere presence of the detective was enough for him to lose himself and his constant web of calculated thought in favor of pure, simple fun.

And he… Admittedly, he was afraid of what Sherlock might think. Of how he might not feel the same. Of how he might. Of how disappointedly scarce his own offerings were in comparison to Sherlock’s radiance. But ultimately, it did not matter, for the outcome was already determined. Fate did not allow them to be close; he would not allow them to be close.

It didn’t matter, so he would not allow himself to learn the answer. Either way, devastation was imminent. Tragedy was destined. And he did not wish for Sherlock’s suffering, only for good and light and justice to triumph over curses and demons and evil.

He wanted to die, and there was no better way he could imagine than at the hands of Sherlock Holmes.

And so his only reprieve came when he was alone in his room, where he could secretly indulge in fanciful wishes for a fairytale romance and intimacy that would never be.

Similarly, Mycroft refrained from pursuing any further relationship with Albert—regardless of how they constantly skirted around the lines of harmless flirtation—because he already knew the culmination of William’s plot would leave Albert in a fragile state of mind. And regardless of whatever posthumous plan William might be relying on to ensure his brother’s continued existence on this earth… Albert, ever-repentant Albert, would undoubtedly blame himself and seek out his own punishment.

If Mycroft became too close to him now, Albert would be certain to deny himself access to his companionship, just as he would deny himself worldly comforts and the care of his beloved family. But Albert would need constancy, would need Mycroft’s staunch and unflinching support through his grieving. Mycroft already knew that he would have to balance himself on that razor-edge distinction between further pain and aid in order to trick Albert into accepting it. And Mycroft would be damned if he gave into instant gratification at the expense of Albert’s long-term wellbeing.

…that being said, Mycroft’s constant proximity to Albert left him at the end of his rope. And in contrast, William’s own hangman’s noose kept him at the end of his—William’s enforced distance from Sherlock did little to sate his yearning desires.

“Hm.” Mycroft let the sound rumble in his throat, appreciative of William’s efficiency in his explanation. “So you propose locum tenens.” He stated, rather than asked.

William smiled.

Locum tenens.

A latin phrase, meaning “to hold the place of, to substitute for.” Referring to one who temporarily takes the place of another. Most often used in reference to doctors or clergymen.

But not always.

Mirth shone in William’s eyes.

“I appreciate your prompt understanding.” William verbalized his own respect in return, as well as his proposal at last. Though, at this point, it was moreso to have it formally said aloud than any actual need for clarification. “We’re both at our wit’s end, and we very much need our wits about us. Thus, I do propose locum tenens. We sleep with each other in place of our respective brothers for the time being… To quell our desires, since we don’t wish any undue harm upon them.

It was… logical, in a twisted way. Fitting for a Lord of Crime.

They both considered each other for a moment, eyes traveling up and down and picking up all kinds of minute tells.

Mycroft stood in his usual suit and bowtie, buttoned properly unlike a certain relation of his. He appeared every bit the polished gentleman, but for the scratches on his shoes and the way his dark hair—cut shorter to hide its natural waviness—was subtly trying to curl free from many layers of carefully applied Macassar oil after a long day of being restrained. He had deep-set creases along the inner corner of his eyes, and his lips quirked up in a self-assured and superior grin.

His hands were clasped behind his back. He filled out his suit quite nicely—coiled power under fine fabric waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He stood upright with his heels together, barely any more casual than Albert’s military stance while at attention. In the strictest sense of M.F. Dickson’s words, he was tall, dark, and handsome. There were no curves, no jagged edges to his positioning—only direct, unwavering strength and authority.

In contrast, William’s fair bangs fell soft and loose over his forehead. Despite his status and wealth as a member of the nobility, the suit he wore, while expensive and of good quality, was mass produced. He was wearing sleeve garters to fix the length of his shirtsleeves and keep them away from the remnants of chalk around his hands. He was pale, and though there was definitely a darkness around his eyes from lack of sleep, it stuck to the corners and only served to further enhance his well proportioned features. His scarlet eyes shone bright and methodical.

He also stood with his hands behind his back, though his feet fell perfectly in line with his hips. He was thin but deceptively strong, lean muscle developed through years of training. His smile—near-constantly present—looked so much like Albert's own, they very well could have been identical. Charming.

Mycroft took a deliberate step closer. With the space between them already depleted by William earlier, their chests all but touched, though a hair’s breadth of space still prevented the physical contact they so craved.

“Very well, I accept your proposal.” Mycroft answered. William’s chin tilted up slightly to continue looking him in the eyes, exposing more of his pale throat above the collar of his shirt. His Adam’s apple shifted nigh imperceptibly at Mycroft’s agreement. “Though I will require us to engage in a completely ordinary verbal discussion of our interests, boundaries, and consent. While we may both know, nothing but explicit negotiation will be sufficient.”

“We’re of the same mind, then.” William gazed deviously through his eyelashes. They both had reached such a helpless and pitiful state at the merciless nescience of their prospective suitors that they were already breathing heavier at the thought. Mycroft’s pupils were steadily overtaking his already-dark eyes as he looked William over.

William, still just barely not touching Mycroft, teased, “Shall we make it a game to see how much we can guess right about the other? I can already assume several inclinations—”

“If I were to answer for you, it would be no game. I would be right.” Mycroft stated matter-of-factly, practically shutting down the idea then and there.

William was undeterred. His eyes sparkled. “So would I.”

Mycroft’s smirk widened, already pleased with the quality of his locum tenens partner. “Let us answer for ourselves, and in that way determine just how correct our deductions are.” He gestured back to Albert’s chair. “Have a seat.”

“With pleasure. Thank you very much.” William agreed politely.

As if the spell upon them had broken, William stepped back and widened the space between them once more.

He took his seat, and Mycroft pulled over another chair for himself, placing it in front of William and sitting down to discuss on even terms through the night.

Chapter Text

Mycroft’s personal home, rather than some obscure and discreet hotel, was one of the least expected places that Mycroft might choose to enact their locum tenens arrangement. Perhaps that was part of what made it such a genius move.

There would be no one else present in the house but for the household staff—Jane, his elderly, efficient maid and housekeeper who took care of Mycroft’s general livelihood, and Jones, his jovial, middle-aged chauffeur. Even then, it would be easy to send them off or to grant them the rest of the day as a holiday. Mycroft did that often enough, and they were so happily fond of him, that it would be stranger for it to arouse suspicion than not.

As a man who always prepared contingencies upon contingencies, this choice of location nearly baffled William with its vast scope of possibilities.

Why would Mycroft Holmes, the embodiment of the British Government, invite William James Moriarty, the Lord of Crime, to his personal abode?

He didn’t intend to arrest or incriminate William for sodomy, that much was so obvious that it wasn’t a thought worth entertaining. If that was a possibility, William would never have approached the eldest Holmes in the first place. Mycroft, in perhaps shocking similarity to his brother, held no reservations about breaking a rule if the rule itself was idiotic. Thus, despite the dubious legality of their agreement, he held no reservations in that regard.

The true sticking point was that he purposefully and willingly chose to reveal his address—the place where he ate and bathed and slept—to William. Certainly, it was dangerous to provide such vulnerable personal information to the Lord of Crime, who might very well want him dead in a bid to be free from under his all-powerful thumb.

Was he simply being careless? Highly unlikely.

Was it a sign of trust…? Or of distrust?

Was the Director simply that confident in his own abilities, that he need not fear a surprise assault or the looming threat that his sleep may one night become eternal at the very hands of the Lord of Crime himself?

Perhaps he maintained numerous properties, thus making the relative danger of this singular compromised location far less of a risk?

Perhaps this was not his abode at all, but merely a clever forgery ensured to be perceived as genuine due to Mycroft’s infallible intellect?

Was it perhaps another test, like with Albert and the documents, to determine the integrity of his patriotism?

…Between the two of them, which could William expect to outwit the other?

Mycroft’s ciphertext message, delivered directly to William’s office at Durham University among his regular post with no raised eyebrows whatsoever, was succinct and provided no further information than the address and the time.

William had then effortlessly deduced that said address was Mycroft’s personal living quarters. But beyond even his inscrutable reasoning for revealing as much, the question that naturally followed was…

How was he expected to approach?

Was Mycroft presuming that William would simply anticipate his every thought and thus discreetly sneak in through a window or the roof into his bedroom as he deemed necessary? Or was he simply supposed to slink in the servants’ entrance like some kind of personal rent boy?

William considered this once more as he paid the cabbie, who was in no way affiliated with the Moriarty family. His features were obscured behind the high collar of his coat and the brim of his hat, keeping his form largely indistinguishable. As the driver pulled away, William took note of the area.

Mycroft’s estate was in a quiet neighborhood that clearly catered to an older demographic. It was tranquil and secluded, and the houses were all far enough apart from each other that it would not be difficult to conceal even the vast-reaching extent of Mycroft’s particular line of work. Or… any other salacious activities that may or may not take place within the residence.

Though his head swarmed with the branching possibilities and outcomes, and the innumerable plans he had consequently created to counter them, William took Mycroft’s message simply for what it was.

A challenge.

He walked directly through the main entrance and used the lion-shaped knocker to signal his arrival at the front door.

Mycroft himself opened the door in no time at all, greeting William with a chipper smirk. In other words, he had already sent Jane and Jones away in preparation and had been lying in wait near the main entrance, where he had expected William to enter.

As they glanced at each other, it became evident that Mycroft found some sort of fiendish amusement watching the wheels turning in William’s head as he attempted to decipher the underlying meaning of his decoded message.

William smirked back, and they both knew it was because he had determined his response: that it ultimately did not matter. Those multitudinous branching webs all converged on the same point. The same outcome. He had not been cowed by Mycroft's threats nor his displays of intellectual prowess. He was as determined in this as he was in everything he did. And it was no consequence to be granted the knowledge of Mycroft’s address if they both knew it would never be used beyond this singular purpose.

Essentially, this choice of location merely spared them from unwelcome neighbors—from watching eyes and listening ears. Nothing more, and nothing less.

William smiled. “Thank you very much for inviting me, Director Holmes.”

“I believe it was you who invited me, but all the same.” Mycroft took a step back from the entrance, holding the door open to offer William a path inside. “Please, do come in.”

He hesitated for a moment more, speaking earnestly. “Perhaps you should blindfold me here.”

Mycroft let out a sharp breath in imitation of laughter. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

He said nothing more, which William aptly took to be further prompting to enter. He stepped inside, and tried very carefully to look at as little as possible, so as to not seem suspiciously like he was trying to deduce and pry into Mycroft’s personal affairs. He did not want to appear as though he were rooting around for any kind of weakness, for they both needed the reprieve each others’ company would offer.

Though, as Mycroft took his long, black coat and hat and the pair of them journeyed to the kitchen, William couldn’t help but notice out of the corner of his eye a small frame containing what must have been an overeager finger painting from Sherlock’s early childhood.

Ignoring the way the image instantly committed itself to his long-term memory, William took a seat as was offered to him by his host. The offer, however, was posed neither with words nor gestures, only by the way Mycroft's path varied slightly from the most efficient option.

“Would you like anything to drink?” Mycroft asked his guest politely.

“Some wine would be wonderful, thank you.” He responded back graciously. “A Madeira would be perfect, if you happen to have one.”

“You don’t need to act as Albert immediately.” He joked, disappearing for a brief moment to procure the bottle, a corkscrew, and two glasses.

When he returned, Mycroft sat directly across from William, separated only by the small, round table in the kitchen. “Though I see you’ve already had a few glasses.”

“I need to get into character.” William answered quite sincerely, standing from his seat to pick up the bottle and corkscrew, dexterously opening the bottle and pouring two glasses with little indication of the alcohol he had previously consumed. “And it’s still not as much as Brother Albert might have drunk. You’ll appreciate it. Your mind will take notice of those details when we begin.”

Mycroft hummed, picking up his glass and clinking the rim gently against William’s where it sat on the table. “Do you remember what you’ll say should you need to call the scene to a stop at any point?”

William’s face grew warmer with the thought, though he knew no color had yet risen to his cheeks. He took a sip of his wine to wet his lips and give himself plausible deniability.

“Lindenmayer.” He answered aloud. Internally, he reassured himself that even if Mycroft Holmes was aware of the connection between Lindenmayer systems and the Fibonacci Sequence, he had no way to assign any notable meaning to that choice.

But the truth of the matter was, Lindenmayer systems made William think of the Fibonacci Sequence, and the Fibonacci Sequence made William think of the golden ratio and a beautiful spiral staircase on an immaculate ship christened The Noahtic. Most importantly, it made him think of the breathtaking moment when a ridiculous detective arched his back into its own enticing curve, when his gaze met those sea-ravaged eyes, when his world had changed forever.

Calling “Lindenmayer” meant calling for Sherlock aloud, and so he would not use it carelessly. It meant a harsh return to reality, breaking from the fantasy like the shock of an ice-cold bath.

“And yours?” William asked in return, ensuring all of their failsafe measures were properly in place. Though the chance of either of them forgetting was nigh infinitesimal, they both were of the same sentiment that it paid to have safety measures in place. Checks and balances, much like the all-powerful government keeping his watchful eyes on a nation-wide criminal plot.

“Charlie.” Mycroft answered simply.

It was the name of the pigeon he had begun training for Albert, after all.

Named after the renowned author Charles Dickens, who was not only a favorite of Albert's, but whose writings expressed a fierce criticism of the social class system. That name would also intimate Mycroft's quiet support of the good Albert and his brothers were all struggling to bring into the world.

That pigeon, just old enough to begin training, would eventually allow Mycroft to write to Albert when he was—should he be—imprisoned for his crimes. Even when he—if he—denied himself his regular post in his efforts to cut himself off from the world, Mycroft would still have access to a means of communication. To be Albert's rock amidst the storm of torment in his mind.

It was a sobering reminder of why Mycroft was resorting to this locum tenens arrangement in the first place.

“Very good.” William smiled, taking another sip of his wine, staining his bow-shaped lips a darker hue and making them enticingly wet. “Since it is your turn first, Director Holmes, have you thought about what your scene might entail?”

The two men had decided to take turns amongst themselves, alternating which of them would play their own brother, in order to more fully immerse themselves in their playacting. With Mycroft receiving the burden of making all the arrangements for their meetings—due to a notable lack of brothers and other family members who might accidentally discover the true nature of these encounters lurking around every corner—they had easily agreed the first round should go to Mycroft.

Though they had thoroughly and categorically discussed what activities might or might not be on the table, they had also agreed to briefly discuss each engagement prior to beginning, in order to ensure the façade of the actor remained in place, that the scene properly fulfilled the desires of the non-actor, and that both parties assented to the plan on that particular day.

“Naturally.” Mycroft drawled matter-of-factly, making light of the way they both eagerly awaited this temporary release. “You’re still alright with kissing, I assume?”

“Naturally.” William echoed.

“Hm.” Mycroft muttered, as if taking careful note of that response in particular. “Good. I shan't restrain myself with that. And you prematurely conveyed your comfort with a blindfold earlier, but I will mention it nonetheless. As well as denying you from reaching crisis—”

“Yes, of course.” William whispered, responding a little too quickly.

Mycroft fixed him with a hard stare, and William subtly bit the tip of his tongue inside his mouth. He continued to stare through William’s eyes into his soul as he concluded, “I intend to assume complete control of your actions, ordering you to absolute silence and stillness, even as I have my way with you. I have no intention to bind you with ropes or any other material… I think it best to keep things fairly simple for this first time, no? I am thinking the tone will be deliberate, gentle… intimate. Nothing too intense, to break the ice. Do you agree to these terms?”

William nodded, answering aloud, “Yes.” His heart beat quicker in his chest.

They both took another drink from their glasses.

“By what name should I call you once we begin, Director Holmes?” William asked. “Would you like Albert to call you Director?”

Mycroft polished off his glass and stood to clean properly and return it to its place. “Mycroft will do. Do you have any additional questions before we begin?”

William took the final sip from his glass, as well. The intelligent shine in his red eyes was still not dulled by the alcohol in his system, only making him a little more forthright, if anything, “Just one. At what stage of the relationship would you like this scene?”

Mycroft paused before answering.

He moved to take William’s empty glass. “A sense of familiarity, rather than novelty, would be best for this fantasy, don’t you think?”

Chapter Text

It was little time after that which found Mycroft Holmes settled in a seat at the edge of his bed as “Albert James Moriarty” slinked around the bedroom door, careful not to make a sound as he toed across the wooden floorboards.

“Mycroft.” He acknowledged with a charming smile, before having the audacity to instead turn away and head over to the shelves that lined one side of the room, subtly but deliberately swaying his hips with each step.

“...” Mycroft simply watched him from behind, smiling in amusement. He waited, patiently.

William had chosen to wear a dark-colored suit, today, rather than his usual warm brown, lending further to the illusion that he was his older brother. He squared his shoulders to appear slightly larger, and he moved with a deliberate tension in his upper back that moreso resembled Albert’s military posture rather than his own academic roundedness. It was quite the accurate portrayal, enough that Mycroft could start to relax himself into the make-believe.

“What a magnificent array we have here! I do so love looking through your various collections from time to time…” Albert ran his long fingers along the dust-free shelves, clearly pleased, breezing them across the various knick-knacks on display like he owned them.

“It’s quite endearing, seeing what bits and baubles you choose to put on display. This one’s from your mother, I presume?” He briefly grazed his pointer and middle finger along a small porcelain statuette before moving to the next item. “Though this is not your mother’s at all, most assuredly. Your own, then?”

Mycroft could feel, rather than see, his smirk as he insinuatingly stroked those same fingers up the side of a tall, thin vase. Albert became rather preoccupied with circling his fingertips around the edge of the round opening, humming gently to himself.

Then he stopped, and turned back over his shoulder with a wide smile to look at Mycroft, carefully leaving his backside on display. His scarlet eyes sparkled with amusement. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mycroft, did you want something?” William’s voice pitched higher in the way Albert’s did when he was deliberately doing a god-awful job of acting. “You were staring ever so intently at this vase just now. Did you want my hands off it? Or did you want them on something else?”

“...Ho? You’re certainly in lively spirits tonight.” Mycroft chuckled, letting the deepness of his voice rumble through his chest and gently vibrate the bed. He patted one flat hand onto the top of his thigh, immediately attracting those red eyes to the toned muscles there. “Such cheap lines… Did you want me to scold you for touching something that doesn’t belong to you?”

He rested his elbows on his knees, folding his hands together between his spread legs. He practically preened as the motion captivated Albert’s attention.

William ran his hands along the front of his suit jacket, as if straightening it, continuing to give off all the tells of Albert rather than his own. He turned around fully now, grinning slyly and staring up at Mycroft through his golden lashes. William clasped his hands behind his back, the picture of self-discipline, and pushed his hips forward slightly to mirror Albert’s natural weight distribution.

“Perhaps I wanted to role model how one should touch their belongings.” He turned his saunter in Mycroft’s direction, now, and it was just as captivating from the front as from behind. His pupils had blown wide, yet still not enough to shadow the red of his irises, like freshly fallen blood, from view. “I think it only fair to show such lovely things some proper care and attention, don’t you?”

Mycroft sat upright as he stalked forward.

Albert placed one knee up on the bed, to the side of Mycroft’s thigh, standing close as if half-straddling him. “Though perhaps I should’ve directed my affections to this lovely thing over here.”

“Very good, M.” Mycroft commended, before finally, thankfully, placing his firm hands onto Albert’s hips and gently pulling him closer. “You should tell me everything you want. I'll give you that attention you desire.”

Mycroft had the pleasure of watching, from that close proximity, the way William’s face grew pink in imitation of Albert. For daring to want. The way his scarlet eyes flickered between the comforter, Mycroft’s suit, and Mycroft himself. What a right little actor William was turning out to be…

Despite this response, he still answered collectedly, with the forthrightness of a trained military man and a noble—two different kinds of battle—saying coolly, almost but not quite teasing, "Yes, sir."

Their faces slowly drew closer as if on instinct, until Albert stilled with his lips a moment away from Mycroft’s. Eyes all but closed, Mycroft nearly groaned in dour frustration as Albert drew his face back the slightest distance. He was already thinking ahead, as Albert was wont to do.

Mycroft's lips instead skidded by Albert’s left cheek, still careful not to make full contact. He brought his mouth beside Albert’s attentive ear and whispered, “I'm clean. Everything’s clean. The sheets are fresh, and I washed myself quite thoroughly prior to your arrival. I know you did the same, and I'm far from worried about any corruptions you may think you carry. Be at peace.”

Albert unconsciously exhaled a sigh of contentment. Lovely. The taut, deliberate restraint of his muscles relaxed slightly, and Mycroft put a little more strength into supporting Albert’s hips as he sank down exactly three-quarters of an inch. Albert’s strong hands found Mycroft’s shoulders.

“It wasn’t…” Albert murmured.

Mycroft leaned in fully, placing a soft kiss to the skin behind Albert’s ear, before the start of his honey golden hair. That singular motion was reward all by itself.

“...that I was worried… per say…” Albert continued, voice soft and slow with a cadence matching Mycroft’s movements. Mycroft’s lips trailed down from his ear along his neck, remaining gentle and light, each lingering with unspoken promises. Albert sighed softly as Mycroft’s right hand trailed up from his hips, along the length of his spine, providing gentle pressure to bring their torsos flush together. “...about you being dirty, it was moreso a general distaste for—”

William cut himself off as Mycroft stopped upon reaching Albert’s collar, pulling back to stare into William’s scarlet eyes. As their gazes met, William’s expression softened with fabricated affection.

Distantly, Mycroft wished it really was Albert’s eyes that he could stare into. A desolate ache stung through his heart like a pinprick.

They drew towards each other once again, slowly.

This time, when they were but a breath away, Mycroft was the one who pulled back. Albert did voice a complaint, and Mycroft internally appreciated the way William even pitched his noises to mimic Albert’s deep, masculine tone. His face faltered forward slightly as Mycroft drew back, as if pursuing the kiss that belonged there.

A silent laugh rose in Mycroft’s chest at the tease as he finally leaned in to claim William’s lips. They melted against his, much in the same way Albert as a whole had relaxed against him.

They separated from the soft kiss with a deep exhale, eyes still closed as they reveled at the sensation, before immediately moving back in for another. And another. And another. And another and another and another—

Mycroft made good on his promise from earlier, and didn't hold back in the slightest.

The kisses grew firmer, then gradually more open-mouthed. They continued to grow in passion with each press of their lips, but were unhurried and gentle, ever-gentle. Their movement was slow and gratified, savoring the sensation of each enduring caress. The taste of wine that lingered along the insides of William’s mouth indeed proved satisfying, for with his eyes closed and his senses preoccupied, Mycroft could truly imagine the lips he was methodically devouring were Albert’s himself. The tang helped him ignore the 18-pound difference he could so thoroughly feel in his arms.

Despite the fact he had yet to actually hold Albert with them.

Mycroft’s left hand trailed from William’s hip along his rear and up the bottom of his thigh, using the new hold not only to maneuver William closer, but to simultaneously force him to allow Mycroft to support more of his weight, open his legs further, and brush his fingers along the more sensitive skin of his inner thighs from below.

Albert pressed his next kiss into Mycroft even harder, more assiduously, hands moving from clutching the shoulders of his suit jacket to cupping his ears. That move, perhaps, served an ulterior motive—feeling and thus proving to a disquieted mind that the hair there was still slightly damp from water and soap, as promised.

William—nor Albert, had he actually been in this situation—in no way doubted Mycroft’s words or his cleanliness, but since Albert would have felt the inexplicable urge for tangible proof, William did the same in order to perfect his act. Though… ultimately, William found it distantly amusing to be thinking of Director Holmes as not yet dry behind the ears, as if he wasn’t at that same moment being expertly molded by him like a handful of clay under the fingers of a skilled artist.

Mycroft chuckled again at these antics, as if he knew the exact—fake—impetus behind that movement. As if he were stuck in Albert’s mindset of thinking, William couldn’t help but be overcome with the feeling as though he was not in the right place. Albert belonged here, truly. But such things could not be, because of the pain William himself would wreak upon him.

Not to mention that, vaguely, William felt as though he had heard Mycroft laugh more in this one encounter than he ever might have the chance to outside of it. It was… saddening, in a way.

Mycroft bit into his next kiss, as if to force the pitying thought away.

Perhaps in response to what would’ve been Albert’s response to Mycroft’s thoughtful preparation, or perhaps just in reaction to that deep noise, William became acutely aware and remarkably uncomfortable with the burgeoning tightness of his trousers. Especially with the way Mycroft’s hold forced him forward, causing the seam of his pants to press rather exactingly against his erection.

William used his grip on Mycroft’s face to push himself back, forcefully separating their mouths after such a long period of being pinioned together. He breathed harshly, gasping for air, using Mycroft’s arm along his back as support as he leaned backward along the opposite diagonal. Still half-sitting on Mycroft’s lap, William shifted his hips to press himself against Mycroft’s firm thigh.

“Mycroft—,” he gasped.

His movement halted.

A low, throaty noise escaped Mycroft as Albert desperately fisted the fabric of his sleeves and hung his head forward onto his shoulder as if surprised and even disappointed in himself for the undignified reaction, stopping before he could continue making a fool of himself.

Mycroft released his grips on William’s body, comfortingly moving his hands up his torso to either of William’s cheeks to coax him into lifting his head. “Easy, now…” he soothed.

When he finally moved back again, he seemed a little more controlled, though no less self-reprimanding. Mycroft took a deep breath as he stared into eyes that harbored all the right sentiments but displayed the wrong color entirely. As he heard breaths that were a little too fast-paced to be accurate.

But if Mycroft wanted things soft and deliberate, William would fulfill that desire. If Mycroft wanted Albert, William would act, perfectly, as was needed to temporarily serve the role of his brother.

“Oh, Mycroft… How lovely you are, indeed…” His breath slowly regulating once more, William ignored the way that leaning forward applied further tension upon his hardness, and carefully pressed his lips against Mycroft’s. Their mouths moved slowly against each other, in a lazy and intimate manner that would have felt… familiar, comfortable, were it not entirely illusory.

William couldn’t help but crave a pair of lips a little more chapped and neglected than Mycroft’s own. He moaned into Mycroft’s mouth, which caused him, in turn, to press his lips harder to William’s to swallow the sound.

Mycroft’s hands trailed from William’s cheeks down his neck and shoulders, slowly and deliberately beginning to unbutton his suit jacket. William released Mycroft's jacket from his clutches, moving his pale fingers upward to begin removing his own tie.

Mycroft halted in his actions, pulling back heavily to break their kiss. He fixed Albert with a dark stare. “Let me,” he commanded.

William froze at that look alone, but brushed it off with a cool chuckle from the back of his throat, doing his utmost to impersonate his brother’s charismatic tone. “I can at least help with—”

“—Albert.” Mycroft’s deep voice interrupted. “Let me.”

His overpowering stare left no room for argument.

And, well, who was William to argue when he was meant to be fulfilling Mycroft’s wishes?

His long fingers acquiesced and unlaced themselves from the deep green fabric of his tie.

Mycroft precisely unfastened the second and last button of Albert’s jacket, pulling him down into another kiss as his hands slid under the lapels over his chest and pushed the item of clothing off his shoulders. Mycroft’s hands trailed down Albert’s arms, feeling along each curve and joint as if trying to commit his entire body to memory.

William felt a slight chill, as if Mycroft could read into every indent, could find every scar, healed or otherwise, and deduce its meaning. He shuddered. Of course, such omniscience was not possible… William disguised any outward displays of his reaction as Albert's eagerness.

As Mycroft's hands moved, they pushed the suit jacket down, until eventually, gravity took care of the rest and the jacket fell to the bedroom floor. William started to move away from Mycroft’s lap, feigning Albert’s gut reaction to follow the garment to the floor. Indeed, his left hand was already reaching out as if to grab it again and put it away where it belonged.

However, Mycroft interrupted that motion by grabbing hold of William’s emerald green tie, forcefully pulling him back into place by the neck. Red eyes snapped up to meet blue so dark it was nearly black. William blinked once as if in surprise, but covered the reaction under a mask of collectedness—for much like himself, his brother wore many masks.

For a second, he held his breath.

“I just wanted to—”

Then, Mycroft surged forward into a kiss so searing and passionate, it took everything within William to keep up and try to maintain his act. Mycroft’s tongue found itself right at home lording over William’s ability to concentrate. The kiss was both a distraction and imprisonment, detaining Albert securely in place even as his thoughts instinctively flew to the misplaced suit jacket on the floor.

As William struggled to negotiate the sudden onslaught of passion, Mycroft made deft work of his tie, which quickly found the ground as well. Mycroft nimbly but leisurely unbuttoned his waistcoat before moving to Albert’s shirt, starting at the collar and working his way down. In a bid to try to stay focused on the moment, Albert pressed forward against Mycroft, his hands falling flat against the toned muscle of his abdomen.

William put more of the pressure of his body weight onto those hands, feeling along Mycroft's defined rectus abdominis and external oblique muscles. For a man whose job entailed politics and office work, intelligence and management, the sheer definition and power coiled beneath his hands just did not seem fair.

Mycroft smirked, prideful and most assuredly aware of where William's thoughts had flown. Smug, he tensed beneath William's long, nimble fingers, well aware that the strength felt there would simply be added to William's assessment of his abilities. Nothing more than data for future plotting.

Ignoring the melancholy that bubbled up along with his typical self-confidence, Mycroft buried his face into William’s neck, where there was less of his incorrect coloration and features visible.

He wished Albert were here.

William gasped for breath right beside his ear, and Mycroft’s lips settled comfortably in the place where his neck and shoulder met. He moved slower once more, mouth and tongue steadily mapping out the most sensitive areas of the body above him.

William sighed the beginnings of sentences that quickly died on his lips, “Oh, Myc— When you… Just like that, yes…”

His hands found William’s shoulders and chest, feeling over the smooth satin glide of his shirt. He toyed along William’s collarbone. Mycroft’s fingers carefully made their way to the next button, gracefully undoing the fastening to reveal an additional sliver of skin. His lips moved down with his hands, kissing along the expanse of William’s chest.

“Why—Why must you be so insufferably skilled in even this?” William gasped and shuddered pleasantly along with Mycroft’s painstakingly thorough exploration of his skin. His heart pounded in his chest.

Mycroft stalled for a moment, his confident grin pressing against the skin of his chest, right beside his now very attentive nipple.

"‘Why?’" He repeated. "I couldn't possibly leave you wanting."

And, quite smugly, as if to illustrate his point, he took the sensitive bud into his mouth.

William arched his back slightly, as Mycroft lingered in satisfaction, stopping to lightly nip or suck at those areas that caused William’s breath to hitch in his throat. Mycroft trailed down languidly, and gradually, his shirt, too, hung open along with his waistcoat.

Triumphantly, Mycroft’s warm hands finally slipped beneath the fabric and connected with the bare skin beneath. "Beautiful…" He breathed.

Albert sighed in contentment, his head hanging backward and exposing more of his throat. He groaned, quietly, at the uninhibited contact.

Those warm hands trailed their way up to his shoulders. Albert simultaneously pressed closer to Mycroft. This time, his lips met Mycroft’s neck, and despite the hardness Mycroft could feel trapped between them, seemed more than happy to remain for some time.

William gently moved his teeth along the skin there, reveling in the feel and the repetitive motion as Mycroft’s soft tissue gave way under his tender ministrations. Even Mycroft’s staid demeanor did not exempt him from temptations of the flesh; his arbor vitae had grown just as rigid as his own.

In a repetition of his earlier movements, Mycroft’s hands trailed along the bare skin of William’s arms. This time, however, they provided a certain pressure as Mycroft’s impassioned zeal translated into thinly restrained strength. As Mycroft's hands followed down the natural line of his appendages, the fabric of shirt and waistcoat gathered together, bunching up as it was pushed off.

William’s clothes fell to the floor.

Albert, now in a bid to distract himself from focusing on the clothes heap on the floor—where it did not belong—shifted, as if to move his standing leg to the bed to more thoroughly straddle Mycroft. His aim was as clear as anything—to gain a stable base so that he might, at last, grind down upon Mycroft with proper, controlled intent.

Mycroft’s hands found their way from William’s wrists to his hips, gently but solidly pressing into his hip bones to make him to step back instead, begrudgingly separating his lips from Mycroft’s neck. William’s hands found Mycroft’s firm upper arms as he rose to standing.

“Patience, Albert.” Mycroft stressed.

“Mycroft…”

His fingers trailed inward along the skin directly above his waistband. It was William’s turn for his abdomen to flex, albeit involuntarily, as if subconsciously seeking Mycroft’s touch.

Mycroft smirked at the reaction, looking every bit like the cat who got the cream.

William stared forward at him, taking in a deep and steady breath, trying to appear as calm and collected as he might be able to in this situation.

But when Mycroft—finally, blessedly—released the button of his trousers, William moaned in relief.

Mycroft’s thumbs hooked underneath his pants and underwear in one fell swoop. Rather than hurry his pace, Mycroft began to drag the fabric down with painstaking slowness, almost as if unaware of the friction it wrought upon William’s constrained cock.

He knew, though. Of course he knew.

Rather, he chastely pressed his lips to the corner of William’s mouth. Soothingly, he ran his thumb back and forth across the divot of his exposed hip.

“Must you take so very long to expose me at last?” Albert gasped gently, tauntingly, into Mycroft’s ear. His fingers tensed their grip against Mycroft.

“Strange words from someone always pestering me to linger and enjoy the finer things in life for once.” Mycroft dragged his lips up for another kiss below William’s closed eye, another on his forehead. As they did, he slowly dragged William’s clothes down another inch with excruciating precision. “I thought I was meant to appreciate my belongings more. I am simply doing so—and quite thoroughly, at that.”

“Too thoroughly; we have yet to get to the finer things you reference.”

“And yet, you endure so handsomely.”

A strangled sound escaped his throat, then, as Mycroft finally freed him from the confines of his trousers. His firm, widespread hands trailed down the skin of his legs until the cloth pooled at Albert’s ankles.

“So good for me.”

William shivered and quickly stepped forward out of them, bending down his blond head to remove his socks as well—the very last vestiges of coverage. He returned to standing upright, and his head twitched slightly to the side once more, as if to glance behind himself.

Albert tried very valiantly to ignore the way his mind demanded order.

He pressed his naked form flat against Mycroft’s front, feeling its resolute solidness beneath layers of fabric. (Wise, for it hid some of William’s more recognizable features from view.)

“I will show you just how well I endure, if you ever see fit to grant me access to that part of you that is just as hard as your ridiculously iron will.” As if to punctuate his words, Albert’s thigh pressed between Mycroft’s legs, thus pushing his own cock onto Mycroft’s thigh in turn. They exhaled together. “I am wretched and aching, and here you are, completely clothed, and you haven’t even touched me—”

“Yes, now imagine if I do.” He responded blandly.

"Mycroft..."

Albert was not an idiot.

Thank god, for if he was, Mycroft certainly wouldn’t have the patience or interest in entertaining him like this.

As such, he quickly noted how his persuasion was having little effect on Mycroft’s desire to hurry things along, and promptly changed tactics. A diabolical, coldly calculating demeanor settled into place at once. His voice pitched lower threateningly—the tone of the Lord of Crime himself.

“Mycroft, so help me God, I will ruin you.” He spoke dangerously, with the same deep tone used to terrify Irene Adler, directly into Mycroft’s ear. “I will take you apart piece by piece until you scream with agony, until everything that you are burns for me, until you are consumed by my memory even long after I have left you.”

Mycroft’s lips twitched further up into a smirk. Did William not know that he knew of the true Moriarty Plan, or was he simply playing up his morbidly morose role as Albert?

Whichever way, it was endearing.

“Is that a promise, M?” He questioned, far too put together, far too unfazed by Albert’s deadly warnings.

“It's a threat.”

In answer, he simply placed his hands onto William and turned him around. One of his hands found the small of Albert’s back. He rubbed there gently, leaning into Albert’s ear to whisper permission, “You can fold them and put them where they belong now.”

William blinked in surprise at this change of pace and turned his head to look at Mycroft with widened red eyes.

Mycroft’s eyes closed, and his smile turned softer. “Go on,” he coaxed. “Take care of them properly and let your mind be at ease.”

William pursed his lips as if caught, but did not argue against the direction. Mycroft watched as William set to folding his clothes with the utmost precision, focused moreso on each crisp line than the way he inadvertently showcased his nude form upon the floor. In the meantime, Mycroft removed his own suit jacket and tie while observing William carefully.

It was a strange sensation, to bear witness to this performance. How very similar the movement appeared to Albert’s—a lifetime of living together was likely to create some shared habits. But at the same time, those fingers were just slightly too pale, slightly too delicate to be a perfect match.

When William finished, he stood and walked the neatly folded pile over to a dresser nearer to the entrance of the room. He set them carefully down atop the surface, pressing and smoothing them out with flat palms.

“Albert,” Mycroft called.

William turned back around to stare at him with scarlet eyes. Mycroft’s shirt was unbuttoned now, revealing a tempting expanse of skin along his chest.

“Come here.”

Mycroft continued to remove his shirt, and Albert immediately moved to obey the command, taking a step forward unthinkingly.

Mycroft froze mid-taking off his shirt and fixed William with another look.

William froze under that stare, as well, quickly discerning the unspoken stipulation. He hesitated a moment more, trying to determine the correct reaction. His face flushed pink, but ultimately he decided to act as the perfect M and follow each task to the letter.

He slowly lowered himself to the floor and made his way across the bedroom on all fours, doing an admirable job of ignoring the way each movement jostled his erection. Not once did he break eye contact with Mycroft. His face burned hot with the humiliation of the movement… Albert, of course, would’ve found himself in equal parts perversely thrilled and irreparably embarrassed.

When he reached Mycroft’s feet, he sat back on his knees, staring up at the eldest Holmes, who now had fully removed his shirt.

“Would you like me to take care of everything for you, once again?” William asked temptingly, harkening back to Albert’s tantalizing promises to Director Holmes before even the founding of MI6. Scarlet eyes stared upward through golden eyelashes alluringly, playing up Albert’s pride, a beguiling smile twisting those clever lips—for all was fair in love and war. His head bore slightly to one side, as if openly baring his neck for Mycroft.

He knew exactly what he was doing. He had to.

How often did Mycroft harken back to that moment in his office, thinking of Albert’s deferential bow, of those long, dark lashes against the smooth skin of his cheek?

Of course, Albert’s offer had been all too good to be true. That exact enticement was designed to be a distraction, a manipulation… a temptation. Naturally, Mycroft was aware of this. An average man in his shoes would likely find himself in stunned awe at the miraculous talent and luck brought about by the presence of one Albert James Moriarty and the many convenient coincidences surrounding him.

But Mycroft was not an average man. He expected as much from Albert’s work—necessitated it, even. Simply because he was aware of the danger didn’t mean there was any need to deny himself such perks. He was clever enough to handle such a beguiling man, and enjoy the process of doing it. So he kept Albert close, reaped the benefits of all his inane coincidences, and both parties remained fully aware that he held the power to call an end to their game at any moment.

The only benefit he denied himself… was Albert.

And now, before him kneeled Albert’s little brother, mouth watering and lips parted slightly as he watched the bulge in Mycroft’s trousers swell with his thrice-damned scarlet eyes.

Yes, William knew exactly what he was doing to Mycroft. And that only dredged up a slew of muddled emotion within him as a result.

“In a moment.” Mycroft answered in a low voice, betraying none of his dismay. “First…”

He walked around to the bedside table, leaving William where he was, and procured from its drawer a long, dark cloth as well as a bottle of petroleum jelly.

“Ah, yes, of course…” William breathed out in understanding. He closed his eyes as if to hide them from view.

Mycroft deposited the bottle on the bed and walked back around to his spot before William, staring down at him. William rose further up on his knees as Mycroft walked closer, hands quickly tangling themselves into his belt.

Mycroft looked down at him, gently brushing back his blond bangs. William easily accommodated the movement, tilting his head up so that his hair did not fall back into place. The vulnerable, exposed line of his neck was beautiful. Mycroft ran his hands through a few more times, delighting in the soft feel of the fine strands of hair beneath his fingers.

William hummed pleasantly at the sensation as if savoring it, nearly a cat’s purr, and Mycroft leaned forward to plant a gentle kiss over each of his eyelids. William slowly opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling and the image of Mycroft looming above him.

Mycroft looked down to see one final glimpse of captivatingly red eyes before he, at last, hid them from view with the opaque fabric of the blindfold. When he was done securing the knot behind William’s head, Mycroft remained leaning forward and pressed another gentle kiss to the fabric over William’s forehead. He ran his fingers sideways through William’s hair, brushing it out of the way once more before pulling back to standing.

With the blindfold covering one of William’s most distinguishable features, it truly became apparent how his expression, how that smile on his face especially, looked exactly like Albert.

“Very well, Albert.” Mycroft stated, composed, as if this was no different than any other meeting. “Take me apart piece by piece, as it were.”

“With pride, sir.”

For a man wearing a blindfold, William removed Mycroft’s belt with impressive speed. Once it was freed from the belt loops, Mycroft relieved the leather from William’s hands. For a moment as their fingertips met, both gentlemen instantaneously considered numerous alternative uses for the accessory and mentally filed them away for another time.

Albert’s hands trailed down Mycroft’s toned stomach for a moment before they found the waistline of his pants. Albert smiled fiendishly, then slowed to a lackadaisical pace, in mimicry of Mycroft’s earlier actions.

Mycroft groaned and placed his hands upon the edge of the bed for purchase, but otherwise offered up no complaint for the taste of his own medicine. Once he was free, he quickly discarded the rest of his clothing items with the ones he took off earlier.

Albert sat up once more, eager to put his mouth and hands to effective use. As he reached forward, Mycroft put a stop to the motion with one finger on his forehead.

William stilled, unable to progress forward.

“Hands behind your back.”

Albert scoffed behind the blindfold. “What, am I still not disadvantaged enough to your liking?”

“Oh?” The challenge was clear in Mycroft’s voice. “Is this all it takes to make you admit defeat?”

“A Moriarty would never.”

“Then impress me.”

Mycroft removed his finger. Albert clicked his tongue and folded his arms behind his back. He then leaned forward once more, his tongue perfectly finding the underside of the tip of Mycroft’s cock without any fuss or fumbling.

Mycroft’s hands found either side of William’s head, pushing him back and forcing him away once more. He groaned lightly in complaint, but waited quietly for the reproval he knew was coming.

“...”

“...”

They stayed like that for a moment.

“...”

“...did you just use echolocation to find my dick?”

William tried very hard not to outright laugh at Mycroft’s tone of disbelief. He smiled up blindly in his best impression of an amused Albert—which was admittedly quite accurate. “I learned that from our good friend Q.”

Our good friend Q.

As weird as it was to think of the mad scientist Von Herder and his visual impairment in the midst of bedroom activities, that phrasing still found Mycroft hardening further.

His voice showed none of that, however, and if there was any small mercy to the blindfold in addition to soothing Mycroft’s overactive observations, it was that it made it all the harder for William to note any small emotional tells.

This relief was born not from a fear that William might someday use these emotional vulnerabilities against Mycroft in his masterminding criminal plan, but something far worse—that he might see these vulnerabilities and then sympathize with them once again, like he had his ancestry. Like he had with his laughter.

“Silence.” Mycroft bid. “I demand your silence.”

Albert chuckled, quite pleased with himself. “Well, now, I really have turned things on their head for you to be saying my li—”

Mycroft maneuvered his head back into place. “I said silence, M.”

William offered no further complaint, his tongue delicately finding the underside of Mycroft’s cock once more.

As amazed by its impressive size as he was when he blindly located it moments ago, William couldn’t help thinking that Albert would be quite pleased when it was finally his turn to make use of the massive thing. Being of the same blood, would Sherlock’s perhaps be similar? William licked a continuous path from the base along the length, feeling the nice, heavy weight there.

He eagerly took the whole head into his mouth, bobbing slightly and being very careful with his grin when a deep grunt escaped Mycroft’s mouth. Slowly, carefully, he worked his way further down, relaxing his mouth to fit as much of Mycroft’s sizable cock as possible down his throat. It completely filled him, and William nearly moaned as he relished in the sensation.

Mycroft’s hands still remained on either side of his head, and he quite enjoyed their warmth as they simply rested in place for the time being. William ran a sly tongue around his girth, and it was when Mycroft slowly groaned with satisfaction that he forced his mouth down even further and began to suck.

Hands still gripping onto the opposite elbow behind his back, William moved his head back and forth along the sizable length, slurping his fill. It was immensely gratifying to so easily feel the effect he was having, as Mycroft’s cock swelled further within his mouth. Mycroft was getting closer, and god if that wasn’t a wonderful feeling. William redoubled his efforts, eager to see a payoff at last.

William could feel himself dripping down his thighs, nearing his own climax after Mycroft’s neverending preparations earlier, but with his mouth so full, he was happy to ignore it in favor of chasing each deep, loaded exhale of Mycroft’s. As he felt himself harden further at the thought, Mycroft’s grip in his hair hardened as well. William moaned gently around the cockstand in his mouth.

Slowly, without a need for words, William began to move his head less as Mycroft started to take control of his movements, using his hold on William’s head to direct them both.

As they lost themselves to sensation, Mycroft manipulating the movement of William’s mouth, Mycroft couldn’t help but consider William’s perfect little performance as his brother.

“Does he think himself a sacrifice in place of Albert? In hopes to spare his brother from further heartbreak when he, himself, is lost?” Mycroft thought as he shoved his cock roughly forward into the man’s mouth. He tried looking at this situation through William’s twisted perspective. “I wonder if he fancies himself a martyr, the burning ember singing off the frayed ends of my unraveling desire.”

William choked, his gag reflex causing his throat to convulse around Mycroft’s cock. Mycroft began to pull back, but William pushed forward against the grip in his hair nonetheless.

"No… That's only part of his mindset right now." Mycroft carefully filed away those somber deductions, because he was supposed to be looking at Albert right now.

His movements turned more gentle, and he moved his hands to grip the front of Albert’s hair rather than the sides.

With the blindfold now covering his eyes, William’s hair was the most prominent feature that distinguished him from Albert. William absently wondered if Mycroft pulling on his hair was a purposeful move to cover more of it from view with his large hands, so that he might lose himself in the fantasy once more.

William sucked more intensely in a renewed attempt at distracting Mycroft’s thoughts. But Mycroft kept pulling, until eventually the burning at William’s scalp forced him to remove his lips entirely before either of them had a chance to spend. Despite the lack of touch to any of his own sensitive parts, William found himself surprisingly close to release… Perhaps this was the real reason why Mycroft had separated them.

William’s mouth hung open from where it had become accustomed to being stuffed, awaiting Mycroft once more in the vain hope to finish him. But his sharp mind knew better than that. William sucked in a breath, closed his lips, opened them again to speak…

And was met with Mycroft’s finger on his lips.

Silence, right.

William’s tongue snaked out to give that appendage a soft lick as well, quickly taking it into his mouth as a replacement. Mycroft let him.

Silence was easier said than done, of course, especially as Mycroft removed his slicked finger from William, pulling him up from his knees and laying them together on the bed.

Mycroft admired the vision before him.

Elevated heart rate. Tension in all the right places. Albert, licking his lips temptingly as if treasuring the remaining taste of him…

He leaned forward to claim those lips. Slowly, thoroughly.

Albert was blatantly enjoying what Mycroft did to him, losing himself in the pleasure of it all… But Mycroft wanted him even more desperate, writhing and begging beneath him for more. To slowly take him apart, piece by piece, just like Albert had threatened previously.

Mycroft would show him wretched.

His hand moved downward to find Albert’s cockstand. Albert moaned loudly as he felt the contact he had been waiting to receive.

At the sound, Mycroft promptly released him, raising a hand to harshly pinch his nipples instead.

William arched his back, legs bending beneath him, but he kept his lips firmly pressed together in quick understanding—he needed to stay silent.

Once he quieted again, Mycroft’s hand returned, pumping William to the brink and then stopping whenever he heard the faintest whine or sigh, or whenever William simply got too close.

“The silence is exquisite, don’t you think, Al?” Mycroft whispered, husky, into William’s ear. He sighed in satisfaction, “Allow me to savor it…”

The quiet settled over them and rang in William’s ears as Mycroft stroked along his cockstand once more. His eyelids fluttered, and he swallowed deep in his throat as he forced himself to obey, crushing down the humiliating urge to plead for anything Mycroft might give him—his pride would hardly allow it.

Their breathing sounded together and synchronized in the hushed environment, and Mycroft closed his eyes as if relishing the quiet and the simple feeling of the person beneath him.

While losing one sense is meant to heighten the others, the resulting lack of both his sight and, effectively, his hearing caused each touch to feel all the more electrifying to William. He felt utterly surrounded by the subtle scent of coconut and aromatic spices emanating from the Macassar oil in Mycroft’s hair. The lingering tang of Mycroft’s precum filled his mouth. William had been utterly consumed by Mycroft—inside and out.

And yet, still not where it mattered.

Denied release once more, William felt himself twitch around nothing.

He nearly cried out when Mycroft twisted just so, the intense shock of pleasure and the internal battle to remain quiet almost concealing the small sounds of the petroleum jelly opening.

William pressed his hips down onto the smooth material of the bed, in a bid to stop himself from mindlessly jerking them upwards, silently begging Mycroft for his masterful touch there.

Mycroft smiled. No acting was really necessary here. William, much like Albert, was very stubborn. And there was nothing more gratifying to Mycroft, nothing quite so rewarding, as carefully unraveling Albert—beautifully stubborn Albert—until he yielded at last.

Mycroft was patient.

And so he took his time exploring William’s body, savoring each reaction, carefully noting his every sensitivity. Mycroft found himself incredibly pleased watching Albert inchingly fall apart.

He coated his fingers thoroughly in the petroleum jelly, taking his time so that William would be forced to listen to the fluid sounds of the gel and anticipate the enticing torture that was still to come.

Mycroft took his time bringing his fingers to William’s entrance and building up a solid layer of the lubricant there. William silently keened between the unnecessarily thorough and, therefore, unfulfilling preparation of his opening and the purposefully frustrating way Mycroft toyed with his junior. His hips stuttered between the two sensations against his conscious choice as he sweated with the exertion. In response, Mycroft placed a soft kiss to the corner of his pursed lips.

Mycroft circled his fingers around Albert's rim. A teasing smile curled his lips, though William could not see it. He continued to glide his fingers just barely over the skin there and taunted, “Most assuredly, this isn’t my mother’s at all. It must be mine, then. Why else would it be displaying itself so openly in my room?” He harkened back to William’s earlier exploration of his shelves.

This caused him to break, at last. William made no sound beyond a sharp exhale, but he arched his back attractively, his hands flying above his head to tug at the sheets there. His legs twitched involuntarily, and his hips moved up to meet Mycroft’s fingers.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Albert, did you want something?” Mycroft teased him with his own words, pushing the tip of one finger barely inside William. He bucked his hips forward, but Mycroft drew his hand back altogether, expecting as much. “Did you want my hands off it?”

Albert’s hands hit violently against the bed underneath him as he thrashed, but to his credit, he didn’t fall to such easy baiting, and his mouth stayed firmly shut. Mycroft didn’t think he’d ever seen such an appetizing sight.

Breathing heavily, even beneath the blindfold, it was clear that Albert fixed Mycroft with a look.

Mycroft laughed, overwhelmed with feeling for a man who wasn’t even there, and leaned forward to claim William’s lips in another soothing kiss.

“Very good, Albert. So good for me.” In reward, he pressed the first finger in, leisurely allowing it to slide as far as it could into William before pulling back out, repeating the motion with an even, unhurried pace.

Albert pursed his lips in a blatant need to protest the lethargic rhythm, but remained silent even as he was pushed to the brink and back over what felt like an endless length of time. Mycroft pressed in deep once more and casually moved his finger about in a slow circle, exploring the warmth within.

Partway through this exploration, he found William’s prostate. Mycroft allowed his finger to move just as slowly along the sensitive area, as if entirely unruffled by the reaction it wrought from him, the way his mouth opened in a silent scream and an urgent, noiseless cry for more.

Mycroft gave him more… of the same treatment. The same, irritatingly consistent treatment.

“This is an apology from William.” Mycroft deduced, staring down onto William as he blindly fought to take whatever desirous attentions Mycroft focused onto him. “A means of safeguarding his plan from any overeager action on my part, sure, but ultimately and more pressingly, he feels responsible for keeping me and Albert apart. This is his attempt at making amends, without being able to say as much. How very clever… And how very stupid…”

Eventually, Mycroft saw fit to add a second finger, and at the same unfettered pace, at that. Albert found himself unable to maintain such appearances of collectedness any longer, and canted his hips upward desperately.

He was smart enough not to attempt to touch himself, knowing it would incur Mycroft’s cool, merciless wrath. He was also smart enough to foresee Mycroft’s inevitable retribution at the desperate action he did take; though he still thrust his hips up hopelessly into nothing, Mycroft expectedly withdrew his fingers from William entirely.

The whine died in William’s throat before it even had a chance to come into being. His fingers wound themselves into his own hair and tugged as he struggled to maintain a semblance of control over himself despite being clearly at Mycroft’s mercy.

Silence reigned.

Mycroft’s steady hands found William’s hip bones, gently pressing him back down to the bed. He rubbed his thumbs along that divot placatingly, offering only comfort and no further stimulation.

Instead, his hands moved to grasp Albert’s wrists—gently rather than demandingly, knowing they would undoubtedly concede under his direction. Rather than pushing them up the inch it would take to hold them in place over his head, William’s hands were guided forward, toward Mycroft. William released his harsh grip on his own hair, allowing the fine golden strands to pool upon the linen sheets instead.

Once disentangled, Mycroft allowed his hands to slip down so that they cupped William’s own. They were pleasantly cool against the overwhelming, burning heat William found himself in. His hands were pressed flat together, almost as if in prayer, as Mycroft’s encompassing hold grounded him.

“Please, don’t hurt yourself further, my dear Albert,” he whispered, and softly pressed his lips to the side of both of his hands. His tone was so genuine and devout that it made William’s own heart feel heavy in his chest.

Mycroft leaned up and pressed two more kisses into his hair where his hands had been. Despite already wearing a blindfold, William closed his eyes, overcome with the guilt of wanting to indulge in such tender care for himself. The guilt of stealing it from his caring, generous brother. The guilt of selfishly wishing for such attention from someone both so alike and so dissimilar all at once to the man who loomed over him.

Such things were not meant for someone like him to enjoy.

William’s attention returned to his current enterprise as Mycroft separated his hands once more, placing them flat upon the bed, harmless and visible at his sides.

Mycroft’s weight shifted above him, and William felt the unexpected sensation of two fingers at his entrance once more. He jumped slightly, the blindfold making each simple touch not only harder to follow while distracted, but also much more intense than usual.

Those fingers drove back and forth at an even pace. Though they still moved unhurriedly, the pace was definitely quicker than before—amidst the haze of pleasure as Mycroft ghosted along his sensitive spots, William wondered if this was a testament to his own waning grasp on control or Mycroft’s.

William twitched around Mycroft’s fingers, trying to cope with the lack of release while still keeping his mouth firmly shut. Mycroft, meanwhile, groaned freely at the sensation, as if testing his willpower.

William breathed heavily through his nose, and Mycroft observed his various struggles—physical and otherwise—with a peculiar expression.

Albert and William James Moriarty—so similar it was no wonder the public believed them to be biological siblings—were both so doomed to tragedy, so intent on self-sacrifice… Mycroft wished to drive it all out, to fill Albert with such longing that he instead turned to Mycroft, to indulge him more and more and more, into oblivion.

Mycroft’s fingers slid deeper into William, and William’s chest constricted with effortful silence.

Mycroft was confident that even amidst Albert’s self-punishment and the introspective sorrows that awaited him post-Moriarty Plan… Charlie would be there, and eventually, Albert would return. He must. Secretly, Mycroft had always loved to place Albert into impossible missions, to see his brilliant mind wage war and overcome the most difficult of problems. To see what he might do when backed into a corner. Here, too, Mycroft needed to allow him to struggle and figure things out on his own.

But Mycroft suffered in the meantime.

Enough to necessitate this pitiful arrangement.

He added a third finger inside William, eyes gone dark with cold calculation. Mycroft watched William tremble involuntarily beneath him, as he leaned forward to one exposed ear and whispered in his low voice, “Good. Just like that. You’re doing so well…”

William’s next exhale sputtered out of him in short, shaky bursts that forced him to inhale a large gasp of breath immediately after. Despite the slight noises made by William’s rushing breaths, Mycroft continued his unending teasing.

As he watched, Mycroft had a strong and lingering suspicion that William’s eyes were damp beneath that blindfold. He kissed the dark fabric there, the presence of the salty solution proving him right as always. It only made him want to keep going.

This—this locum tenens—allowed him a cheap reprieve against his yearning and the torment of Albert James Moriarty’s proximity and constantly tempting behavior. Ironically enough, the primary subject of Albert’s self-blame happened to be the very same person who now lay beneath him. Yet even Mycroft couldn’t manage to blame William entirely for the damage caused by the Moriarty Plan.

For if there was anyone who could understand that lonely, uncharted realm of ethical grayness—of being a sacrifice for family and country alike—it was Mycroft Holmes. Even now, no matter how powerful his position, he could not protect everything. Not even what was most dear to him. He could not keep everyone safe forever.

This time, William did miss the sound of the petroleum jelly altogether, even amidst the silence. As such, it came as quite the shock to him when Mycroft pulled all of his fingers entirely away, leaving William’s hole gaping and empty.

His back arched in complaint, writhing upon the sheets and presenting more of himself freely for Mycroft’s taking.

Mycroft thoroughly covered himself with the gel, knowing how essential it would be for this next process. Even after having time to cool down from the scorching heat of his locum tenens’ mouth, he was incredibly stiff and aching for some stimulation of his own.

“Shhhh,” he hummed, both soothing William and masking the low hiss he released as he finally stroked along his own hardened cock.

Once he was lubricated to his satisfaction, one of his hands found William’s hip and firmly pinned him into place on the mattress. His other hand found the base of his erection.

William stilled obediently, as if his addled mind had finally caught onto what was happening amidst the haze of near-orgasm after near-orgasm and didn’t want to risk Mycroft changing his mind. As expected, Mycroft’s hand guided his dick to ghost along the outer edges of William’s opening, simply rubbing there in promise of what was to come.

William’s whole body was tense, like a string pulled tight, and for a moment as he waited with Mycroft lined up against his entrance, he did not dare inhale.

Mycroft, of course, carefully tracking William’s wellbeing throughout the scene, noticed this. He caged William further into place with his upper body, gently resting his nose onto William’s.

“Breathe, love.” He ordered softly, seeing only the black material of the blindfold with this new closeness.

William sucked in a deep gasp of air. Simultaneously, Mycroft pushed his lips forward into a tender kiss, and the very tip of his member began to breach William.

William was grateful for the consuming way that Mycroft’s tongue entered his mouth, for it kept his voice quiet even as Mycroft inched with excruciating restraint into him.

He knew, from earlier, that Mycroft was big, but now, he felt huge.

He breathed deeply, trying to relax himself as much as possible. Mycroft clearly was aware of the stretch of William’s muscles, pausing in place after barely moving any further, until he had adequate time to relax and adjust, and then repeating the process.

With such a prolonged amount of time for very little progress, Mycroft busied himself by becoming further acquainted with William’s lips, pretending they were Albert’s, instead—the ones he had longed to caress for a nearly embarrassing length of time.

As Mycroft pushed forward, it took longer and longer before he could move again, due to the depth of him already buried within William’s straining entrance. He slid forward another few millimeters, watching Albert’s upper body tense against his will and then relax once more. Albert’s mouth fell open in reaction, quickly closing again to prevent the saliva from their previous snogging from dripping out of his mouth and causing a mess. His tongue, then, darted out to lick his lips, completely oblivious to the effect this entire show was having on the man above him.

Mycroft stopped once more, kissing his flushed cheeks and allowing the time for Albert to properly acclimate himself with this newest shift. He broke their latest kiss to rasp, “You’re almost there. You’re taking me so well, Albert. Just keep breathing…”

He eased slightly once more, but Mycroft barely moved forward again, taking extreme care not to overdo his actions. His hands moved upward and busied themselves with gently brushing William’s sweaty hair back off his forehead, distracting himself from the throbbing heat he felt around his most sensitive organ.

William, evidently, had enough of Mycroft’s cautious and tender care, and simultaneously grabbed onto Mycroft and lifted up his hips, forcing himself further down Mycroft’s member until he reached the hilt, despite the pain it clearly caused him. He ground his teeth together, but not a peep escaped him.

Rather than pulling back, Mycroft pushed William further into the mattress, glaring at him for purposefully going too fast in order to make it hurt. William smiled at Mycroft as if proud of his own accomplishments. His cock pushed in as deep as it could go, as Mycroft now lay with his lower body flush against William’s.

Once he had a proper grip on the scheming genius, Mycroft pulled out, purposefully dragging himself along William’s prostate on the way. William’s gritted teeth went slack as his mouth opened helplessly. Mycroft maintained his control of the situation, returning William back to a state of pleasure rather than one of self-harm.

He growled, “None of that, dear. Might I remind you that it is my turn to ‘take care of everything,’ now?” Mycroft toed dangerously close to the line of breaking their play-acting scenario, underhandedly telling William he needed to keep performing his role. Mycroft placed two of his fingers into William’s mouth, which he instantly began to suck with abandon, as his hips grinded desperately along Mycroft’s cock. Mycroft smirked fondly, “Or are you too far gone to keep track of such things?”

“Ahhhh…”

Mycroft removed his fingers, and Albert released a sigh like he was savoring a particularly good wine.

“Ah, ah.” Mycroft chided gently, his hands finding the baby hairs on Albert’s neck and cupping along the back of his blindfolded head. Despite Albert’s cry, he didn’t remove his touch, which had William speeding up his hips as the slide of Mycroft’s large cock became steadily easier. He ordered, “Be still, Albert.”

His smooth hands straightened out William’s straining neck, found his jerking hips and firmly held them down to force the desperate thrusting to stop. “Be still.”

Mycroft pulled back.

William did not whine.

Mycroft thrust forward.

It was difficult, but William did not move. His toes curled at the intense sensation, at Mycroft’s impeccable aim.

Mycroft waited for a moment there. Whether the reprieve was merciful or cruel, William could no longer distinguish.

Mycroft pulled back once more, slowly, and gave another firm thrust forward. William’s throat tensed, but he didn’t arch his back.

Mycroft continued his powerful thrusts, picking up speed but never making it to a hurried pace. He moved evenly, as if luxuriating in the sensation. His hands lovingly trailed along his body, softly brushing against his skin with deceptively gentle care. Mycroft’s actions spoke so loudly to his feelings, and William saw stars as Mycroft began to target his prostate.

He had never felt so filled in his life, and so his toes clenched desperately and his fingers clawed into the smooth sheets beneath him as he carefully prevented any cries from escaping his lips or any stuttering thrusts of his pelvis. He was tense. He was so close.

Mycroft stopped.

Tears already trailed down the sides of William’s hidden eyes, but now he only barely succeeded in stifling the loud wail that threatened to leave his throat.

Mycroft’s hands, which had steadily grown warmer throughout this exercise, pressed firmly on William’s clawed fingers from above. The pressure detangled William’s hands from the sheets until they were pressed flat under Mycroft’s own.

Though no further words were spoken, the order was clear—stillness meant stillness. Even the meager, inconsequential attempt at grounding himself by clutching the sheets would not be allowed. No movement—even if that movement didn’t interfere with their actual coupling.

Mycroft would allow him no outlet.

A beat passed, in which Mycroft made sure his directive was clear and that William was given a chance to use his safeword if needed. But William remained silent and still, indicating his permission to continue with the scene.

Mycroft’s hands remained over William’s to stop his twitching fingers from attempting further movement as he resumed his leisurely, sumptuous pace. Once he had worked back up to a steady rhythm, it wasn’t long before Mycroft saw fit to start bullying William’s prostate again—all the while still neglecting his straining cock.

William did his best to stay still, trying any technique and strategy he could think of—focusing on his breath, mentally reciting Shakespeare’s 154 sonnets, distracting himself by reconstructing Mycroft’s foyer from the little he’d seen and deducing everything he could from the pieces. None of it worked, and his attention could only remain on the physical sensations that overwrought his every thought—if he even was thinking. He struggled to breathe steadily and the only thing he could seem to keep track of was the unvarying back and forth of Mycroft’s enormous cockstand.

William tensed involuntarily around Mycroft, squeezing even further around the sensitive organ before relaxing once again. Mycroft moaned openly at the tension, and a helpless feeling of both jealousy and attraction rose up in William’s chest. William’s body shook and his legs spasmed slightly beneath him, but Mycroft made no complaint at the uncontrollable tremors.

William was trying very hard to fulfill Mycroft’s fantasies for him, but he was certain he was going insane in the process. He was going mad, overloaded with sensation and the lack of release—wasn’t the point of this arrangement to get it out of their systems? What good was all this restraint when it did nothing to actually satiate their urges?

Then, something clicked in William’s brilliant, pleasure-blinded mind.

Mycroft had turned this scene they had written into a meta one.

Through the circumstances themselves, through William’s current casting as his older brother, through having him follow these impossible instructions, Mycroft was thus exerting his control over William himself, in that meta sense.

Because he knew that William’s role was to fulfill his desires, helpless in every way except for one loaded word.

He was dominating Albert, and he was dominating William, all at once.

William’s mind raced, buzzing at the challenge and the danger of being so viciously and precisely picked apart. He would retaliate—by adding some reality into the fantasy… which, in turn, would only make it even more of a fantasy.

“At what stage of the relationship would you like this scene?” William had asked earlier, perhaps as a safeguard for this exact scenario.

“A sense of familiarity, rather than novelty, would be best for this fantasy, don’t you think?” Was Mycroft’s response.

Intoxicated with pleasure, William felt the ridiculous, manic chuckle that bubbled up from his chest nearly exit his lips. How stiff, how gawkishly indrawn Mycroft must be—to not be able to admit when he was in love…

“Albert will be good for him.” William thought definitively.

He focused back on the problem at hand.

“Albert wouldn’t simply take such treatment.”

Mycroft craved after Albert’s love—which William was not exactly fit to give—but he certainly knew enough to provide the experience of what it might be like.

William smiled darkly as Mycroft thrust deep inside him once again. Like before, he tensed in overwrought reaction, taking in a sharp gasp of air, his walls squeezing around Mycroft’s member and trapping him in that warm, wet heat.

Mycroft’s deep voice came out raspy at the increased pressure, “Bloody hell… God, Al, you’re so tight…” His coarse words proved him no gargoyle after all; he was no more immune to their activities than William himself, and he also had yet to finish even once.

He leaned forward to give William a tender kiss, hands still flat upon William’s. But when he pulled back, he had clearly caught onto the fact that William had yet to relax once again, still clenching around him without reprieve.

Mycroft fixed Albert with a look, and Albert maintained his smile with a satisfied air that all but said, “But you told me not to move!”

Though, of course, he didn’t say it. Mycroft told him not to speak.

For a tense moment, nothing happened. William couldn’t see past the darkness of his blindfold to gauge Mycroft’s expression. Then, Mycroft broke out into soft laughter above William, allowing his weight to fall heavy over him. The crushing feeling of Mycroft’s body felt grounding rather than unpleasant, like it probably should have.

Mycroft let his head flop heavily beside William’s, which allowed him to listen with perfect clarity to his labored breaths. William melted further into the mattress, permitting himself to be carried away by this bizarre lightness Mycroft seemingly only carried around his brother.

“Very well, Albert.” Mycroft grinned, pressing his smile into the side of Albert’s neck and pressing a faint kiss behind his ear. “You’re free to move and speak once more. Beyond that, even—I’d say you’ve earned yourself a reward.”

Albert in love… With that particular thought in mind, William gave a slight twist to his hips to tease. Mycroft’s hands tensed onto William’s upper arms. “Careful, pi— Careful, Al.” Mycroft grumbled out a warning as he shook with his own restraint.

Albert reached his hands up, feeling along the contours of Mycroft’s face carefully, as if mapping them all out in his blinded state, taking in each detail with tranquil affection.

“What a kingly reward.” He whispered lovingly, fingertips ghosting up to find the soft, curling strands of baby hairs around his hairline. William still could see nothing, but he felt when Mycroft pushed backward, recoiling slightly away from his touch. Instantly, his mind conjured the image of Mycroft clenching his eyes shut and tensing his lips.

“Stop, please.” Mycroft said quietly, in a strange and unusual tone. A tone that sounded… small. Insecure.

His eyebrows furrowed. His features scrunched at least enough that William could feel it under his fingers as he smoothed them back out.

“What’s wrong?” William asked.

He knew. So would Albert. But Albert would ask.

“My stupid curls.” Mycroft grumbled, sounding almost like a pouting child. The petulance and frustration had William thinking of Sherlock once more, but Mycroft’s tone was darker, more acrimonious and less explosive.

Albert smiled gently, hands brushing back through Mycroft’s hair, which he could now feel had come quite loose from its usual styling. “They’re romantic.” He stressed, allowing himself to indulge in the rare and soft vulnerability of Mycroft’s self-doubt. His features softened in amelioration.

Mycroft twitched inside of him, and Albert’s supportive smile turned sultry and teasing.

“Oh?” He asked, his voice pitched upwards again in Albert’s particular style of speaking as though he were trying to act and doing a piss-poor job of it. “What-ever could this be?”

He grabbed tighter onto Mycroft’s hair and shifted his hips playfully once more.

William could practically feel Mycroft’s need to shake his head as his voice rang out blandly in response, “Ah, yes, what will the Lord of Crime do when faced with my massive cockstand?”

Albert tilted his head up, meeting Mycroft’s lips in a kiss that started gentle but quickly turned intense, his fingers raking back through Mycroft’s dark curls and clenching sections of it in his fists. Preoccupied as they were by the passionate embrace, Albert took the opportunity and swiftly pushed off from the bed with trained strength, flipping their position until he was Riding St. George.

A dastardly smirk found Albert’s lips as he exuded the mysterious and conniving aura of the Lord of Crime, his thighs straddling either side of Mycroft’s own as he returned Albert’s expression with a pleased smirk of his own.

“Slake myself on it with wild abandon, of course.” Albert answered, his final words slurring slightly as his lips sought Mycroft’s once more. He murmured, “It wouldn’t do to limit myself to only certain types of crime.”

Albert slowly began to lift himself up from Mycroft’s cock, and Mycroft’s hands went to his sides, gripping harder as he asked possessively, “And as M?”

They both knew where the codename “M” originated. “Moriarty,” yes, but also from “Mycroft.” It was yet another way for Mycroft to stake his ownership, to mark what so clearly fell under his authority. The two of them always reacted well to that connotation, the way it grouped them like they belonged together. Albert hoped Mycroft’s claiming hold might leave bruises tomorrow.

“As your M—” They both let out a choked-out sound as Albert punctuated his words by lowering himself back down onto Mycroft. Those words alone nearly unraveled Mycroft, with the way they affirmed Albert as his.

Mycroft expected he’d say something teasing along the lines of, “follow your orders perfectly,” but Albert James Moriarty never failed to go above and beyond. His answer, as usual, did not disappoint.

“I must ensure it isn’t boring.”

Albert pressed his hands down to create a stable base and started moving faster, bouncing himself up and down around Mycroft. His eyes lowered deferentially, in that way that always tested Mycroft’s self-restraint, as he reminded, “I believe—I believe I told you that I would resolve everything for you.

“It— Oh, God in heaven— wouldn’t do to— Ah— neglect such a— Lord— a pronounced need of yours.” Albert moaned as Mycroft’s hips bucked up to meet him.

“So you assume I won’t take care of it myself.” Mycroft grunted out, his words matching his tempo as he began to speed up, focused on gratification at last. He smirked, teasing, “You’ve yet to see me in action, Colonel.”

“Jove’s angels—” Albert exclaimed, gathering himself enough to cheekily quip back, “I thought you didn’t—ah—want me to call you Director, sir. What happened to Mycroft?”

“I think it got stuck in your throat. But no worries,” Mycroft flipped them over and slammed Albert back into the mattress, thrusting with renewed speed and power now that he did not also have to support Albert’s weight and balance. He rammed into Albert, a far cry from his earlier even-paced motions. Albert loudly cried out as Mycroft finished smugly, “I’ll help dislodge it from those lips until you’re screaming my name.”

“God have mercy— Fuck— Mycroft—”

“Nothing too intense,” Mycroft had said during their initial discussion. If this was “not intense,” William was scared to find out what did fall under that description.

“Mycroft! Heaven almighty—” Religious cries continued to spew from William as he reached his peak, and despite the differences, the act was so very Albert that Mycroft couldn’t help but love him.

Mycroft rasped hoarsely, nearing crisis himself, “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you,” Albert answered so earnestly that it pushed Mycroft over the brink immediately, spilling hot inside of him. At the sensation of being filled even more by Mycroft’s finish, William was close to follow, shaking with the powerful sting of pleasure.

Their breaths came heavy, and slowly, they rolled over to their sides. Feeling lethargic, Mycroft slowly pulled his lobcock out from William, watching the fluid drip down his pale thighs enticingly. They collapsed into each other’s arms, relaxing there after all the exertion.

Once he had the time to collect himself, Mycroft shifted over to retrieve the water basin he had prepared and cleaned them both from the lingering, sticky mess they had made. His voice was quiet as he made sure it was okay to remove William’s blindfold and did so, setting it down on his nightstand to be dealt with once he had more energy.

He returned gratefully to William’s side.

After being done in so thoroughly, William himself felt consumed by a great hollowness. Mycroft laid out beside him, losing himself in the rosewater that William had used as perfume. But rather than comfort them, a sharp sting of sadness raced through them both.

Chapter Text

“Did you really think you could keep it a secret from me?” Sherlock’s eyes sparkled tauntingly once they had entered the room together, alone.

William blinked, turning to face him. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Holmes.” He responded coyly, voice light and sharp eyes gleaming through his eyelashes. Holmes was dangerous, and William internally thrilled at the risk posed by such a challenge. His guard was immediately raised; the thin, translucent veil of innocence swiftly draped over his form and taunted the man who could see through to the silhouette underneath.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, hands twitching in his pockets. “Come off it. You know exactly what I mean—”

“I haven’t the slightest. Apologies, but you’ll need to be clearer with your words if you want—” But William cut himself off as those twitching hands whipped free and roughly grappled him around a full 180 degrees so he was facing the wall once more. William’s reflexes sprung into action, and his hands quickly rose to prevent his head from slamming into the surface as a result. Sherlock quickly pressed in with his entire form, broad shoulders forcefully caging William in place.

It was a far cry from their standard, amicable public interactions.

Of course, even then, they had skirted around the traditional rules of what society deemed polite and proper etiquette—though a majority of such behavior could be attributed to Sherlock’s flippant, rebellious attitude. This, however, went beyond a casual dismissal of propriety. This was openly accusing and confrontational.

A hand slipped carelessly around William’s torso, sliding under his jacket and wrinkling and bunching up the perfect, pressed fabric of his waistcoat. Sherlock pressed against William’s chest with intentional force, pulling him back until they were pressed tightly together. William’s mouth, gone dry, closed on its own, and his face felt hot even though he was certain it sported no visible color on its surface.

William didn’t kick backward—though he certainly could have—and therefore continued to uphold his blameless façade.

Sherlock’s warm lips brushed against his ear. An imperceptible shiver raced down William’s body as the tobacco-scented breath washed over him. “William James Moriarty. I know that you are the Lord of Crime.”

Exactly as planned.

“Is that all?” William’s voice breezed just as casually as it had before he had been manhandled against the wall, as though he were entirely unaffected by the compromising position he now found himself in. William turned his head slightly, the look in his gaze revealing his thinly-veiled desire to roll his own scarlet eyes. “If I recall,” said William, his tone conveying that he always did, “you’ve made that claim once before. Unless you happen to have actual evidence for your case now, nothing has changed.”

An ecstatic charge like electricity practically crackled through the room as the man behind him thrilled with fresh excitement—so much so that William nearly felt offput. His teeth grinned by William’s ear, still, sharp and dangerous as if on the hunt—as if on the chase.

“I know when I’m right, too, Liam.” He sounded playful, now, and all the more menacing for that. “And I know just where to find the evidence.”

He jammed the fingers of his free hand—the one not across William’s chest and wrinkling his pressed suit—coarsely into William’s mouth, tugging at one cheek from the inside.

“Just have to convince these lips to spill the truth.”

The truth.

It was strange enough to hold such feelings for a detective, his enemy, but it might’ve been weirder still the way that Sherlock’s incessant and unyielding drive to find the truth was one of the many, many things William found himself compelled to love about him. Perhaps it was an odd thing altogether to be attracted to, but William never held fast to the conventional.

And Mycroft had naturally been able to deduce as much through some means or another.

William moaned aloud despite himself, and one of his hands slipped from the wall to reach back and grab the short, black strands of Mycroft’s hair as he stood in Sherlock’s place.

Admittedly, when William had first laid eyes on Mycroft for their now-standard preparatory conversation, hair ungelled and outfit unkempt in a facsimile of Sherlock, he had almost broken out into peals of good-natured laughter. Unlike William and Albert’s likeness, Mycroft’s appearance felt so wildly out of character that it became nearly comical.

Mycroft’s hair, when left untreated, was wild and untamed like his brother’s—worse, even, on account of its shortness. It didn’t have the same weight to it as Sherlock’s ponytail, thus allowing each small strand of twisting curls to stick out at every given angle without the pull of gravity to tame it.

William carefully did not express his merriment and whimsy at the sight, knowing from his adventures as Albert that the cowlicks were a bit of an insecurity for the otherwise unflappable Director.

It was honestly endearing that Mycroft would go so far to hold up his end of the deal—so much so that William couldn’t help but smile at the sight as he placidly explained what he wanted for his turn.

“I want to take a flyer.” William had stated calmly, like he was merely commenting on the weather and not at all talking about the enticing romance of two lovers so passionate they can’t even manage to take their clothes off before making love. He took a sip of his tea. While that was a beautiful thought, he didn’t want something so purehearted. “And I want the pace to be demanding—ruthless and punishing.”

William snapped his racing thoughts back into the present moment as Mycroft pulled their hips flush together. William felt Mycroft’s hardness—he must have done something beforehand, he wouldn’t be this worked up already otherwise, does that mean he was prepared for this exact plan—against his back and grew flushed despite the relative innocence of that move compared to the rest of everything that was currently and would be happening.

William chuckled once, the rush of air whistling by the space where Mycroft’s fingers pulled his cheek to the side. He pulled his face away by turning it the opposite direction of that hand. Mycroft allowed his fingers to slip out without contest, but only a moment later gripped William’s face with that same saliva-covered hand. Just like Sherlock, taking little issue with allowing a mess and perhaps even relishing in the chance to muss such unnatural pristineness.

At the prompting of Mycroft’s pull, William turned to look at him over his own shoulder. Despite the grip on his face, William smirked darkly as if the entire unfolding of events had been arranged according to his calculations. A morbidly enticing aura surrounded that masterminding gaze, that diabolical smile.

William’s voice sounded in the silence with the deep, charismatic tone of the Lord of Crime.

“Do your worst, Mr. Detective.”

The response neither confirmed nor denied the accusation, Mycroft noted. How fitting.

He chuckled, and William tensed slightly beneath him. The tone was too deep and the laugh too dark to be accurate. Out of sight Mycroft grinned wickedly like his brother.

William understood Sherlock at his heart, but he still had yet to see everything.

“Y’sure you’ll be able to handle my worst, your lordship?” Mycroft forewarned ominously into William’s ear. He waited expectantly for his reward, which came in the form of William tensing further in his grip—such rigidity was a detriment to any defensive stance, and thus indicated William’s naive, stargazed arousal at the direct sounds of a Cockney accent in his ear.

It was amusing, in a sense, to see the similar sexual hangups between “Albert” and “William.” William could boldly proposition Mycroft in a government building, but heaven forbid he admit to his own attraction—in a scenario explicitly designed for him—in a straightforward and unobscured manner.

William returned the hand in Mycroft’s hair to the wood in front of him, pressing so hard he could feel the detail of the grain. Despite his typical speaking habits, Mycroft’s depiction of Sherlock’s coarse Cockney accent was shockingly accurate. William felt himself go wide-eyed. He hadn’t expected to lose so much ground in this game so quickly.

But “Sherlock” would have none of this running away. He quickly unbuttoned William’s trousers with ringless fingers, shoving his hand inside to feel the rigid outline pressing against his undergarments. His movements were as rough as his accent. William gasped, a hand raising to cover his mouth.

Mycroft’s hand ran over his underwear, rubbing against his erection with dextrous fingers. “Look at you, already hard…” He grinned, “You clever bastard, you already know exactly how I’m planning to make you spill.”

“Mr—” William cut himself off as Mycroft pulled his cock free from its confines. He shuddered as his arousal was bared openly to the cool air of the room. “Mr. Holmes.”

“Hmmm, what was that?” Mycroft shot back teasingly. William’s cock wasn’t exposed for long, as it was quickly covered by Mycroft’s fist. Two of his fingers were still slightly damp with saliva. He began to pump back and forth without any delay.

Even if his spontaneous selective hearing wasn’t clear enough, it was evident to William that Mycroft found that form of address strange. And truly, William could not fault him for it—who would expect to hear shouts of “Mr. Holmes” in the throes of intimate passion?

In a better world than this one, William could call Sherlock by his name, or, better yet, by a sweet nickname… One that demonstrated to the world just how close and special and beloved he was in William’s eyes. A name with dearness equivalent to “Liam.” William wanted nothing more than to use a name like that, which was all the more reason not to allow himself to do so.

And “Mr. Holmes” also forced him to recognize which Holmes was truly doing this with him.

William moaned, rolling his head back onto Mycroft’s shoulder at the onslaught of pleasure.

“This is,” a series of choked noises escaped William’s pink lips. Mycroft began to grind against his backside in sync with his movements along William’s front. “Haa—Hardly proper…”

Mycroft laughed audibly—so different from his own polite, muted laughter. “Ha ha ha! Since when do you care? No one can see, anyway.” He ran his tongue sloppily up the length of William’s neck. William raised his chin pridefully as if to distance himself from the action, but, in doing so, purposefully provided more surface area with which to work.

His left arm, still drawn across William’s chest to cage him in place, unbuttoned a section of his shirt. Mycroft’s hand snuck under the fabric to feel along his chest; each motion of his tugging against William’s clothing as if to remind him of their presence.

The slide of Mycroft’s hand came easily with the wetness there. They both gasped for breath. The trail of Mycroft's saliva along William's neck felt cool against the heated air. Mycroft's pace increased, threatening to bring William to a quick end.

“Hardly proper investigation.” William finished his thought, groaning deeply at a particularly devious twist of Mycroft's fingers.

“Since when do I care about propriety?” He pushed forward with a little extra force, boxing William in closer against the wall. “You certainly don't. Not with the way you're pulsing in my hand.”

Mycroft squeezed tighter at that, as if to enunciate his point. William sucked in a gasp of air, overwhelmed with the glorious pressure.

“Heeyyyyyy, Professor…” Mycroft nipped the top corner of William’s ear mischievously. “Wanna make this a contest to see who'll outlast the other? That's a real mystery if you ask me. And you know me when it comes to mysteries. It puts you at something of a disadvantage, though, since we all know how nothing can stop me when I'm offered a mystery.”

Despite his body’s reactions to the ongoing ministrations and his impending crisis, a small pout began to make itself known on William’s face.

He was being obnoxious, purposefully.

“C'mon, it's obvious that you're close. You can tell from the way you've risen up onto your tipto—”

He was being too obnoxious, purposefully.

“Mr. Holmes, don't you think that's going a bit too far?” William asked without breaking character, reminding Mycroft of his own role in which he was cast. He stared at the elder Holmes over his shoulder.

Mycroft smirked widely, purely himself, yet the cheeky grin only served to make him seem more like Sherlock than he likely realized or intended. He had made his own fun with his brotherly teasing, and now stepped back and returned to the undertaking at hand.

Rather than see things through here, Mycroft switched tactics. He raised his hand from William's cockstand, paying no mind to the breathy whine that accompanied its loss. His soaked fingers found their way to William's lips, resting there delicately.

“Go on. Suck.” Mycroft's fingers began to press more insistently. William opened his mouth to gently lick at their surface, but like before, Mycroft was quick to thrust his fingers inside, almost as if uncaring about William's personal experience. William was given no leeway to adjust as Mycroft's fingers explored the depth of his mouth, forced to taste himself on the unyielding fingers there.

He did his best to swallow around the appendages, one hand slipping down from the wall to grab onto Mycroft behind him.

Mycroft, as Sherlock, watched in fascination as his fingers disappeared into William's mouth. A series of strangled noises arose from his throat as he appreciated the sight.

He didn't linger for too long, though, shortly thereafter removing his fingers and dislodging his other hand from William’s shirt to roughly shove it down his pants. The clothing was forced down just enough to provide access, with neither Mycroft nor William bothering to move them any further out of the way.

There was some part of William that liked the way his movement was limited as a result of the waistband around his thighs.

Mycroft wasted no time swiftly inserting a finger, moving to prepare William as expediently as possible. His other hand trailed up the pale expanse of William’s neck, feeling along the contours of his Adam's apple and the hollows of his collarbone and throat. William strained backward toward Mycroft, who leaned in to gently bite his ear and place hot, mouthy kisses around the skin there.

His breathing was heavy, indicating his eagerness as much as the deep, relentless back-and-forth motion of his finger—regardless of how artificial this whole display might be. A thick, labored Cockney accent rumbled in William’s ear, “Your fingers, now.”

Mycroft's grip trailed up from his neck and found William’s cheeks once again. He squeezed enough to direct William’s mouth to open. Still not slowing in the slightest, and almost as if to ensure he would actually listen to the instruction, a second finger joined Mycroft’s first inside William.

Exactly as expected, in an effort to keep himself from openly crying out in pleasure, two fingers of William’s left hand were quickly shoved into his own mouth as he keened under the harsh preparation.

Mycroft steadily increased his pace as William swirled his tongue around his own fingers, lost amidst the sensations and the way his jacket rode up against his back as Mycroft pressed forward. He matched the motion of the fingers in his mouth to Mycroft’s behind him, as if being used from both ends at once. William felt as Mycroft continued to mouth along the juncture between his neck and shoulders.

“That's enough of tha’, now.” He mumbled gruffly, removing his fingers entirely with the same speed he had forced them inside.

William sucked in breath around his fingers, expecting the pain of a premature and unlubricated entry. Instead, he grabbed William’s left hand, pulling the soaked fingers from his mouth and maneuvering them behind him.

Once positioned behind him, Mycroft clasped William’s hand in his, intertwining their fingers until they laced perfectly together. William felt his face grow hot as he understood Mycroft's intentions, and adjusted his own grip accordingly. His torso slinked further down the wall until he was less upright and moreso bent at the hips.

“Holm— Mr. …Holmes—” William gasped as he battled with himself internally.

Mycroft's other hand found William’s golden hair to push his cheek down further against the wall. With their hands now conjoined, Mycroft pressed forward into William once more, unconcerned about the additional stretch as a result of their entangled, saliva-covered fingers.

Hand in hand, now, he thrusted William's pointer and middle finger along with his own. William drew in deep, shaky breaths in a pitiful and useless attempt at self regulation. His fingers and Mycroft's moved together, as one.

William knew that this action from Mycroft indicated awareness of that particular desire of his… Hand in hand with Sherlock as true equals, true friends…

He practically screamed as Mycroft found that place inside of him and continued to abuse it without reprieve. He spasmed under Mycroft's careful grasp.

It was too much… But at the same time, how could William complain about such an invasion of mental privacy when it felt this good? It would only be hypocrisy to fault Mycroft for such perceptions, anyway, after he had done the same last time.

William himself didn't know if the sound he released was one of relief or disappointment when Mycroft eventually yanked their fingers out without finishing him.

He rose slightly, and glanced back over his shoulder as Mycroft tugged on his belt just enough to release it from the clasp and furtively shove down his pants.

Unlike last time, there was no cloth over William’s eyes for the sake of maintaining the illusion. Nothing obscured his sight as Mycroft pulled out his member and gave it a few furtive strokes. But William’s scarlet eyes fixated instead upon Mycroft’s face, his expression…

It was nearly shocking how their faces looked so similar, the largest distinction being the creases and crow's feet around Mycroft’s dilated eyes. Mycroft looked up and met William’s piercing, longing gaze.

Following his line of thought, Mycroft promptly scrunched up his forehead and nose in distaste at the comparison, doing himself a disservice by looking all the more like Sherlock in one of his fits of frustration.

“Just what are you thinking about?” He grumbled, surging forward and pushing himself into William without further delay or waiting for him to accustom himself to the fuller stretch.

It burned. William released some pained noises, his hands curling into fists and his thighs shaking involuntarily. As they had discussed prior, though, Mycroft did not back off. He pressed onward, immediately beginning to thrust into him, each time brushing up against the pooled fabric around their legs.

William moaned, interrupted himself with his own hitched breath, moaned again. His attempt to vocalize an actual response to Mycroft’s open ended question fell flat.

An uncharacteristic and roguish laugh escaped Mycroft’s lips, “Perhaps it’s better we make it so you can’t think at all, eh?”

William’s breaths turned loud and gasping as Mycroft steadily increased his pace, building up speed as far as the growing slickness between them would allow.

Mycroft grabbed onto William’s hips for leverage, hands splayed over both skin and cloth. The sounds of his groans mingled with William’s cries and gasps. Despite already being bent over, William pushed his weight harder into the wall, fighting to keep his legs from giving out beneath him.

Mycroft studied these mannerisms with a trained eye. His movement was more fluid here than when he was playing Albert, Mycroft noted, captivated and enthralled with dissecting the mind of the enigmatic man he was currently frigging.

Albert was reminiscent of smooth vanilla with the acidic tang of citrus; but with William, there were less of Albert’s sharp outbursts of irritation and self-loathing. William himself was more nebulous and untamable, like a radiant fire burning out before his eyes.

He punctuated his next few thrusts, aiming them precisely where he knew it would make William see stars. William shuddered, crying out wordlessly and tensing beneath Mycroft with the agony of bliss.

Mycroft did not slow his momentum as he saw William come; in fact, as William heaved out a satisfied sigh and began to lift his torso upright once more, Mycroft shoved his palm overtop of his honey gold hair and shoved his back down into place, keeping him bent over.

He continued thrusting into William’s tensing hole, and the pace he set was punishing.

Now William knew what Mycroft meant by intense.

Any notion of a criminal confession was long forgotten—that was never the point, inside the scenario or out of it. But William all but screamed at the brutal treatment, the lack of reprieve. It was intense, alright, and overwhelming in the best of ways.

And it was exactly the treatment William had expected. Because he knew that underneath it all, beyond governments and class systems and Plans, beyond his unwavering strength of will and character—Mycroft must be upset, and he must be angry. He deserved to be. And he deserved an outlet.

Mycroft wanted Albert to stay, and to live. He wanted Sherlock to stay safe and free to solve his silly little mysteries with childlike glee. He wanted to do more to intervene with this suffering despite knowing what was realistically best for the country as a whole. He understood and respected the Moriartys’ patriotism, but at the same time, he was feeling all these things and he didn’t know how to say it or express it properly, and certainly not in any way that would not sow further destruction…

And thus he was angry, taunted by the shadowy vision of what he wanted and what would soon fall apart, day in and day out. Certainly, that had to be worse than knowing it would never be a possibility, as was William’s case.

Mycroft Holmes was used to putting Sherlock first, to putting his country first. Mycroft Holmes did not take breaks, did not rest, did not break down or indulge in personal issues when there was work to be done. Mycroft Holmes was steady and unyielding amidst chaos. He pushed down his emotions until he was nearly numb to them for the sake of what must be done.

William, of anyone, could understand that sentiment.

Mycroft wouldn’t attempt to change the nobility on his own, despite his support of the Moriarty Plan, not after the lessons bestowed upon him by Sherrinford Holmes. Much in the same way he didn’t trust himself to give into his emotions, to make the first move toward Albert…

As much as Mycroft admired the Moriarty Plan’s drive and conviction, he hated its stated outcome. But he controlled those emotions, too.

Mycroft Holmes needed the catharsis, William thus concluded. And he had certainly earned it.

William screamed.

Mycroft showed no mercy.

He continued to thrust relentlessly, pulling William flush against himself. William strained underneath him, rocking back to meet his movements and allow Mycroft to use him however he saw fit.

Mycroft drove in deeper, rough and hard, chasing after each of William’s cries as he was overcome with his own need.

“Liam,” he groaned. Nearing his own climax, Mycroft angled himself to hit the spot that would make William’s vision blur. “You genius above all geniuses…”

His need was matched only by the other. Mycroft’s breath came in heavy pants, his cock squeezed as he gave William no chance to gather himself.

“You criminal above all criminals, you mystery above all mysteries…”

William shuddered.

“Liam,” he cried out as if begging. “Liam, Liam, Liam…”

William’s closed eyes—when had he closed them?—snapped open.

This wasn't Sherlock.

Mycroft pounded into him, ever-powerful.

And it never would be.

Mycroft came inside him, his warm, sticky release dripping out of William and along his thighs, mess trailing down to the gathered clothing there. William followed shortly thereafter, clenching his muscles and feeling the tremor travel through his body for the second time in a short while.

His release was even more intense than the first, lasting longer as he struggled and gasped for breath and lost all sense of anything beyond pleasure.

William’s breathing came shallowly.

“Liam…” Mycroft moaned, his cock shifting inside William as he leaned closer with that accent and prepared to start back up again.

William gasped breathlessly, “Lindenmayer!”

Mycroft immediately stilled, ceasing all motion at once.

He paused, hands caged around William’s torso and sweaty, clothed torso against sweaty, clothed torso.

“Was that too much?” He asked with a tone of mild surprise and concern, almost despite himself. He had expected himself to observe when he was pushing William’s physical limits. “Would you like me to pull out?”

The Cockney accent was nowhere to be heard, replaced with his typical posh modulation.

William shook his head in the negative, biting his lip and blinking back tears before he would inevitably have to turn around and look Mycroft in the eyes. He would not cry in front of the Government. “No…” He said, voice more breathless than he would’ve expected or liked. “No, you’re fine. It wasn’t that. Please… Please stay where you are.”

“Of course. We’ll just stay here for now. Can you tell me where we went too far?” Mycroft crooned softly—sweeter than William had anticipated his voice might ever sound to him. Anticipating William’s needs and his next request, he slowly and deliberately removed his arms from the wall, wrapping them around William comfortably and adjusting their posture to a more upright position.

William allowed himself to be held from behind in this embrace, feeling secure with the way it surrounded him. He said, “I don’t think I want you to call for me like that.”

Mycroft blinked, his features scrunching up slightly as he processed those words. He tucked his face around to catch a better glimpse of William’s expression. “But will that not ruin the illusion? Knowing my brother, he’d want to call your name as much as possible—”

“That’s what I thought, too, but I can’t… I can’t do it.”

Mycroft stopped trying to sneak his face over William’s shoulder.

Ah.

Of course.

"Do you want me to call you…"

"No, not that either…"

William shook his head slightly as he spoke, continuing to stare forward rather than at Mycroft but carefully keeping himself from lowering his gaze to the floor.

“Very well,” Mycroft’s voice sounded a bit too businesslike, even to his own ears, but he had no way to miraculously fix the damage he had already dealt. Better to keep a stiff upper lip and not dwell on the vulnerability. “Perhaps I simply try to avoid all terms of address for the time being.”

He could practically feel the soft, tepid smile that grew on William’s lips. “Yes, I think that would be best. Thank you.”

Mycroft’s lips pursed and his eyes narrowed distrustfully from behind William. Why did that basic statement somehow make him feel like he was the one being comforted? It stirred up an odd sensation in his chest.

William shifted marginally, moving himself a little further back onto Mycroft’s cockstand. They both released a heavy sigh, and Mycroft ran his hands down William’s arms in a manner intended to be soothing rather than anything expectant.

“Would you like to stop here for today? Or did you want to continue?”

William shifted some more, arching his back slightly further and humming as he tilted his head to glance sideways at Mycroft, as if he were taking his time before deciding. He said, “If you would like to continue, I want to, as well.”

Mycroft frowned sourly at the elusive answer—because it was William, and his response included a conditional which he knew better than to blindly trust, and therefore, it was elusive. It also sought Mycroft's returned assent, which could’ve been its sole intent, but William was clever enough to include that prompt both genuinely, to ask, and disingenuously, to distract. Phrasing was almost always intentional when it came to William; it was no mistake that he did not freely express his own desires here. He was almost Shakespearean, in that regard.

Mycroft found himself as pleased with the display of mutual respect as he was vexed by the noncommitment. He did not play games when it came to consent.

“Though I would advise that I am quite sensitive from our previous activities, should you also choose to continue.” William added, relaxing his back and sighing softly at the resulting minute movement inside of him.

“Hm,” Mycroft hummed, abstaining from further comment on William’s addition, or how it clarified his willingness—“should you also choose.” He knew that his theatrics had upset Mycroft, and chose to augment his statement before it could be called out for its ambiguity.

Purposeful ambiguity, then.

How dramatic—just like a certain other Moriarty he worked with.

“Would you like me to go a little easier on you, then?” He asked after taking a moment to himself, slowly beginning to pull back out of William so that he might readjust his weight and allow his legs a small chance to stretch after that exertion.

Once they were separated once more, William shifted his own stance, bending forward, removing his own shoes and socks, and leisurely turning around to face Mycroft. He took hold of the hem of his pants and slid them downward, smiling beguilingly up at him as he neared the bottom.

“Just the opposite, Director Holmes.”

Something dark stirred within Mycroft.

“Let us relocate ourselves, then, before we continue,” Mycroft said, easily throwing off Sherlock’s open jacket and quickly unbuttoning the few remaining buttons of his dress shirt. “You’ll want a flat surface for support rather than slipping down the wall when your knees give out.”

They quickly undressed further as they made their way to Mycroft’s bed, ultimately doffing to only their shirts, which they left hanging open loosely. The material was already sweaty and creased from their earlier roughhousing, so there was truly no reason not to prolong the novelty.

Their mouths met furiously as they collapsed on the bed, minds elsewhere, consumed by fictitious imaginings. Their bodies worked twice as fervidly as if to overwhelm the disconsolance in their hearts.

With some effort, Mycroft pulled his face away from the temptation of William’s hot mouth.

“C’mon,” He said coaxingly, the casual affectation of a Cockney accent obscuring all sounds of Mycroft once more. “Lemme grab some vaseline.”

As Mycroft leaned over to his nightstand, William’s lips simply relocated to his neck. His hands roamed freely across Mycroft’s torso.

William bit down harshly, kissing and sucking along Mycroft’s neck—marks that, of course, would remain hidden once he redressed. He continued along Mycroft’s collarbone, leaving a small collection of the red welts behind in his wake. Something about the feat seemed to satisfy him, some show of possession or belonging that he admired both in act or in outcome.

William stared at Mycroft as he bit and caressed at his neck, eyes sparkling and full of all the fascination of a spider watching a butterfly struggle within its web. There was something soft there, too, hidden behind the arousal, something small and melancholy that could not be reached by anything.

In the meantime, Mycroft grabbed the vaseline from his nightstand, quickly coating a layer over his cock, which had softened to half-hardness in the interim. Between the sensations of William’s sharp teeth marking him and the jerk of own hand, Mycroft steadily worked himself back up to full hardness, his gaze dark and forebodingly promising after all the provocation.

Mycroft’s hand cupped the side of William’s head, guiding him up from his neck so that he might claim his lips once more. They pulled back from each other, and Mycroft started to say, “On all fo—”

“Ahead of you, Mr. Holmes.” William cut him off earnestly, already in the process of arranging himself onto his hands and knees.

Mycroft shuffled closer, positioning himself at William’s entrance before steadily pushing in.

He groaned as he bottomed out, “Bloody hell, you feel so good around me…”

“Mr. Holmes…” William sighed into him as well, curving his head backward in Mycroft’s direction the moment he began to speak. He turned slightly to the side, lips parted, and Mycroft easily took the opportunity to grab his chin and kiss him sloppily once more. His mouth tasted of cigarette vapor, the lingering taste of smoke trailing from his lips to the inside of William’s lungs.

William’s fingers bent reflexively beneath him, sliding along the material of the bedsheets—it seemed like he nearly felt everything twice as intently in this new position of theirs, the depth of the intrusion, the easier slide of Mycroft’s dick.

“Mr. Holmes!”

Mycroft gradually resumed his earlier movement and mouthed at the back of William’s neck in return. He preened under the ministrations, so Mycroft left bruising marks of his own as he slid back and forth into William the first couple of times, in order to build up their speed to where it was once more.

It wasn’t long before Mycroft chose to forego such considerations, instead wildly bucking into him. Vocalizations escaped William’s lips against his will, as Mycroft drove into him in passion, in rage, in retribution. He spurred his motions rougher and faster, motivated with everything he felt but could never openly express.

“Good,” William cried, choked out between thrusts, “yes,” he moaned, “use me however you want—”

This overpowering, physical action proved catharsis for Mycroft, who rammed into William repeatedly. He at last had an outlet to express his frustrations at Albert’s inevitable, macabre, self-imposed fate despite his altruistic drive for freedom and equality.

“Holmes, Holm—” William began to sputter in pained, pleasured outbursts before promptly shutting himself up.

Mycroft thrust into William all the harder, as if his impossible wish for Albert to suffer through less pain after the Moriarty Plan, to choose happiness, and his desire to continue living as they had up till now could simply be impelled into him. As if he could force Albert to change his mind without ruining everything that he had initiated and built up arduously over the course of his entire life.

…so help him, Mycroft was like a dragon—some selfish creature of great power, who understood this Plan’s service to the greater good of the country, yet wanted Albert to remain unharmed in all ways to exchange clever retorts with him forevermore and the Plan’s rewards both.

M was his, after all.

His to keep safe, his to keep happy.

And Albert, like a bird, was at his best when he could fly—when he, too, was free.

“Al—” He groaned out, the name almost slipping from his lips as his thoughts were carried away by his unvoiced exasperation with House Moriarty’s characteristic self-punishment and self-sacrifice.

And speaking of self-sacrifice… Mycroft’s eyes gleamed portentously.

William was still playing the martyr.

He tensed around Mycroft, muscles twitching and spasming uncontrollably. His eyes rolled back and then closed tightly as William finished explosively upon the sheets below.

William howled out a pained cry at the release, struggling with the climax itself and the relentless overstimulation as Mycroft continued mercilessly, provoked, chasing after his own completion.

Mycroft was ruthless, just like William had asked. He didn’t slow the slightest, regardless of how William’s body twisted and protested, as if this were all for “Sherlock’s” pleasure rather than his own—as if his experience in this process was altogether inconsequential.

Mycroft couldn’t help thinking that it almost felt unfair, like he was getting a second turn despite their arrangement, which only agitated him further. Their partnership as a whole was meant to be satisfying, but somehow they seemed to be doing a grand job of staying miserable despite the objectively good frigging.

Despite this charade meant to appeal to his fantasies, William was still acting ascetic. William was acting like this was a punishment. He was trying to punish himself out of his desires, to manipulate himself out of getting carried away with Sherlock.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes slightly. Regardless of William’s martyred behavior, he would always remain vigilant around the Lord of Crime, trying to determine just how much of a threat this man posed to his little brother…

William pushed back against him, opening his legs wider as his body tremored from the onslaught of ecstasy. He offered himself freely as Mycroft erratically fucked into him, as always, craving sweet death in whatever form it might come to him.

His shaking arms gave out beneath him, his mind instead focused on the sensations behind him. William collapsed forward onto the bed, cries growing, and Mycroft descended upon his felled person rapturously.

Saliva dripped from William’s open mouth onto the sheets as he was entirely enveloped and possessed by Mycroft. He whimpered softly, pleased.

All of William’s movements, all of William’s actions, heaved a ceaseless cry of “I do not deserve him.”

“I am not worthy of Sherlock Holmes,” his every soundless cry and curve of his body seemed to scream in Mycroft’s ear. It was so loud it succeeded in the impossible, nearly overshadowing Mycroft's brotherly, overprotective worries.

Mycroft slammed forward into William with forceful punctuation, watching his whole body shift forward in response.

Sherlock was smarter than even William, who admired him so wholly, realized.

Another pointed thrust.

Sherlock would catch on to William’s plan before long, Mycroft was certain.

…the question was moreso what reckless move his little brother might make in response. Sherlock was extreme, and, much like William, would be swayed by his emotions… and he would only be spurred all the farther by the intensity of William’s convictions.

Mycroft didn’t want him to get hurt.

Didn’t want him to get led to his death by the allure of the Lord of Crime’s mystery.

William seized beneath him, thrashing as his orgasm tore through him after so many times already tonight. His body fought against the oncoming wave, squeezing around Mycroft’s cockstand.

His head was turned to one side so that his cheek pressed along the mattress. William smiled villainously, an edge of near-hysteria to his eyes—because much like Mycroft, he, too, had made meta-manipulations within this scene.

His use of Mycroft’s outrage over Albert’s self-punishment in this scenario had thus made Mycroft all the more infuriated when he inevitably pieced it together… William had suggestionized it throughout the evening through various frustrations, angering Mycroft further, prodding him since he finally had a safe and guiltless chance to vent these emotions.

Keeping up with his mind-blowing and pitiless assault—an expression of this rampage—Mycroft flipped them over, quickly pulling completely out and thrusting all the way back in to do so. He grabbed onto one of William’s legs, lifting it up to press all the deeper inside of him.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop—” William breathlessly repeated on a loop in spite of the way he twitched with aftershocks.

“It was a nice release at first, but,” Mycroft thought, nearly sighing, “I’m too old for this…”

They faced each other, and Mycroft took in the way William’s eyes, the color of freshly fallen blood, had gone glassy in the meantime.

William was falling apart, pale fingers clawing at his own teeth from the inside of his mouth. His golden hair was strewn about him, rendering him the image of a fallen angel.

“You’re beautiful,” Mycroft said, choosing to do the cruelest and kindest thing he could. It was devastating. Was this retribution? “Fuck, you are somethin’ special. Ahh— So proud of ya’—”

Tears visibly welled in William’s eyes for the first time that night.

This time, he was unable to stop them from rolling down his cheeks in rivulets. William was obviously aware of Mycroft’s strategic choice to sneak in some soft nothings in Sherlock’s voice here, where William could not complain without interrupting his primary goal of satisfying Mycroft—even despite William’s attempts to guide Mycroft away from speaking as anyone other than himself.

“Do you think you can keep going?” Mycroft asked even as he kept using William’s body for his own pleasure. With slow efforts, like this, seeing what he might be missing, William’s mind might eventually change. Perhaps he might rethink his Plan, after all.

William nodded, lips pursed together and throat tense with all the words left unsaid. It didn’t matter how the tears streamed down from his scarlet eyes, he would force him to continue. William’s hands found Mycroft’s dark hair, like Sherlock’s in all but length, tugging desperately at the strands.

“You’re doing so good—” Mycroft uttered, despite the way he internally cringed at the grammatical error. “Making me feel so damn good—”

While Mycroft markedly didn’t want Sherlock to be hurt… This was not all just vicious retaliation against William. Honestly, he didn’t particularly want William to be hurt, either.

But William was resolute in the solitary fate he had chosen long ago.

In one great heave, Mycroft came inside William. It was earth-shattering amidst all that build up, both parties clinging to each others’ sweat-soaked shirt desperately. Mycroft coated William’s insides, continuing to thrust at a slower pace as they both came down from that high.

William muttered beneath his breath.

“Good, good… Good…”

Sherlock and Mycroft.

They were simply good.

And once again William was reminded that the reason he liked Sherlock was the very same reason they could never be together.

“Yeah, that was good?” Mycroft smirked. He continued to thrust lazily into William, enjoying the sensation, and he curled his head into William’s neck, pecking soft kisses along his jawline. He spoke gruffly, rendered just as undone by their activities as William had been. “Did you like me as your mollisher, then? I’ll be your mollisher any day, you enticing villain. I’ll be whatever you want, should you just say it. Damn, you’re incredible. I’ve never met someone so interestin’—”

Mycroft quieted as bliss crashed over William once more, causing him to shudder violently. His cock strained, but released no ejaculate, bled dry during his earlier climaxes.

“Did you just come again?” Mycroft asked softly against William’s cheek as he analyzed that reaction, his accent a strange mix between Sherlock’s and his own. Perhaps that was how he would truly sound if he had chosen to keep his accent, like Sherlock, rather than correcting it to the ideals of a corrupt society.

“Barely.” William whispered in answer. Then, he amended, uncharacteristically clumsy, “...just aftershocks.”

Mycroft pulled his upper body up, then, slowly dragging himself out of William. The emotional crash after such high energy activities came on quicker than expected, and William found himself already fixing for the next time they would be able to meet amidst their other responsibilities.

Together, Mycroft and William shed their soiled shirts, cleaning each other off and replacing the linens so that they might rest comfortably on the bed. They worked together quite easily, without having to think through their actions too deeply; Mycroft gathered up their belongings to start them soaking, and William procured them both a glass of cool water before they regrouped to simply lay in bed for a time.

William lay on his back, pulling the sheet up to his chest as he stared upward in concentrated thought. Mycroft, meanwhile, lay halfway propped against the headboard, drinking from his glass of water. William’s sat on the nightstand, remaining untouched after his first few sips.

“I’ll be damned for this.” William spoke quietly to the ceiling, arms crossed over his torso. His breaths sounded at a slow and even pace. “But I don’t want to stop. I’m not going to stop.”

This was just another self-destructing behavior, like any other. Just like forgetting meals, or staying up too late grading papers and making plans. Surely, William had already pieced together that Mycroft would dig into his mind in this manner? Was he really trying to help, or was he just trying to excuse using Mycroft in this way? It tasted like smoke in his lungs, made him feel dirty all the way through.

Where Mycroft viewed their arrangement as an agreement between two consenting adults, however melancholy and out-of-touch they might be, William viewed his actions as a betrayal of Sherlock.

God, he couldn’t wait; he wanted with all his being for Sherlock to kill him.

“It’s too early to begin your turn as Albert.” Mycroft spoke dryly, setting down his water glass and folding his hands beneath his head.

Silence.

William stared forward heavily and did not say a word.

Mycroft twisted his lips slightly, readjusting his approach. He had reverted to a light taunt, as he would naturally with Sherly, but that kind of response… Mycroft nearly felt bad for William, but he also knew better than to let himself get swayed by that tenderness. That was how WIlliam accumulated his followers, and Mycroft would never allow himself to be ensnared in such a manner.

He already had his own loyalties, his own people to protect, his own livelihood and his own Moriarty to pursue. And, as the Moriartys’ primary check and balance, he could never afford to be blindsided by their allure.

“Same soul, indeed, then.” Mycroft murmured gently, referencing William's own comparison between Albert and himself.

The air shifted slightly, then, losing some of its dismal tension, and when Mycroft next glanced down at William, a small, introspective smile graced his handsome face.

A comfortable silence passed over them, until Mycroft finally spoke, “Sherlock would be beside himself to know that I beat him once again—beat him to you.”

William’s smile widened slightly, somewhere between amused and self-reproving. He responded in kind, “And Albert would…”

He trailed off, and a portent smirk of dark thrill steadily grew on Mycroft’s face as he understood the meaning nonetheless.

Mycroft finished William’s thought for him. “Albert would be even more thrilled to know I've had you. And he would have… ideas. Unholy ideas about being had twice at once.”

William shivered. Excitement raced up his spine, but at the same time, he felt overcome with an oppressive feeling of shame. He did not deserve it; he felt that, truly, even despite his magnanimity, Albert should get mad at him for standing in the way of his happiness.

As William grew quiet once more, Mycroft considered how his strategy this time around—those retaliatory meta-manipulations of his—conveyed his acknowledgement that Mycroft knew of his true Moriarty Plan.

…it was exactly as Mycroft had expected and predicted, if he was being honest.

“Hm.” Mycroft hummed, once, to himself in contemplation. William had a tendency to grow quieter and more internal on the rare occasion he was backed into a corner… Mycroft huffed out a breath of air, smiling to himself.

Sherly would enjoy pushing this man beyond that brink.

“You’ve no need to fear sabotage, if that has been on your mind.” Mycroft said aloud without context, the meaning behind his words being thankfully understood by the professor at his side. “I already promised my silence, after all.”

Mycroft knew about William’s plan from the moment he spoke about Robespierre’s final act. His agreement at that time had been to allow the plan—the true plan—provided it served the interests of Great Britain.

As much as these excursions provided a reprieve, they did nothing to change the reality of the situation—that Mycroft needed to prioritize the welfare of the nation.

“...And you’ve my silence, as well.” William said mildly, voice soft and insinuating.

That was true—in turn, he had also earned William’s silence regarding the deductions he had made either prior to and/or during their locum tenens agreement, as he had never once brought up the way Mycroft had almost affectionately referred to Albert as pigeon.

As William felt the lure of sleep begin to coax his eyes closed, he was quietly, bittersweetly relieved; Albert would need someone strong and dependable like Mycroft Holmes when William himself finally took his long-awaited last bow. Albert needed someone sharp-witted and attentive, someone with a strong willpower, to watch over and ensure his longevity even through the depth of his grief.

…Locum tenens, indeed.

For they would continue fulfilling each others’ temporary needs until they reached a more… permanent solution, for the both of them.