Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Is it done?”

“Well, sir. Not exactly.”

That was not the answer Mycroft had expected to hear. Or wanted to hear.

Grabbing his phone harder, he hissed, “What does that mean, Withers? Is my brother okay?”

“Well, um. This question is not that easy to answer.”

“Answer it, now, or you’ll be fired in ten seconds!” Mycroft tried not to yell into his phone. But how was he supposed to not do that? Sherlock had jumped off a rooftop for god’s sake. It could not be that difficult to tell him if he had broken his neck!

“Sorry, sir, I don’t want to be difficult. It’s just… He was not injured when he jumped. He landed on the air pillow as planned.”

“Fine.” Mycroft relaxed. That did not sound too alarming, did it? “And then what? Take your time.” If Sherlock was alive and more or less well, he could be generous.

Agent Mark Withers sounded very relieved when he went on talking. “Dolan and Fitch got him to bring him to the car. The corpse was put in his place. John Watson bought it. The sniper who had targeted him was arrested.”

“Good. That’s good. Everything according to plan. So what is the problem? Is my brother not on the plane already?”

“No, sir. Actually, as we’re speaking, he is being driven to Whitehall.”

“He’s coming here? Why?!” Sherlock was supposed to go on a mission. A mission to tear down Moriarty’s network of crooks and criminals. Oh, it had not been Mycroft's idea. In fact, he thought it was a really stupid idea… Sherlock was not an agent, he was a detective! He should sit in his chair and listen to more or less interesting stories of desperate people, or he should roam crime scenes and impress the police with his marvellous deductions (and insult their intelligence, as he so loved to do). Not go undercover and risk his life and play dead… But as this had been Sherlock's wish, Mycroft had grudgingly agreed. Had built a safety net all over Europe so Sherlock could be rescued if he got in trouble. Well, at least the kind of trouble that didn't involve being shot in the head right away by Moriarty’s accomplices… The sheer thought had made him feel sick, but his brother had been so determined to hurl himself into danger that nobody, let alone Mycroft, could have talked him out of it. Mycroft had no idea what Sherlock wanted to prove with that, but he had given in, as he had really not had a choice. He knew a losing battle when he saw it...

So why was Sherlock now on his way to him?

“Because,” Withers stammered, “he doesn’t know who he is.”

“He –… What?!”

“Yes, sir. He’s lost his memory. I don’t know how that happened, but he must have hit his head when he landed on the pillow, even though there is obviously no apparent injury. Not even a bump. Maybe… it’s a psychological problem.” He sounded very reluctant at his last words.

Not surprising. One didn't just-so suggest the British Government’s brother had lost his marbles…

But Mycroft could not rule that out. Maybe the confrontation with Moriarty, ending with the man’s suicide, had disturbed Sherlock so much that he had decided to forget everything. It was not that out of character for him, after all – he had also forgotten that he had a sister, and he could not remember the existence of poor little Victor Trevor, either. Perhaps having exposed his best friend John Watson to allegedly seeing him die had driven him over the edge again. Who knew?

They would figure it out. Sherlock would get the best care so he would hopefully regain his memory very quickly. But until then, there was no way to be idle. Things had been set in motion, as soon as possible, and of course Mycroft had had a plan B from the beginning on. It would now become plan A, and there was no way to dawdle as lives and the success of the mission depended on it.

He bade Withers goodbye after telling him how vital it was that everybody who was not directly involved in the operation would still think that Sherlock was dead. Giving away his survival would endanger his friends, and Sherlock would never forgive him if John, Greg Lestrade or Mrs Hudson were harmed.

Then he talked to Anthea, who rushed to implement the alternative plan – agents taking over the operation Sherlock had been prepared to execute. Which would have been the better decision anyway. Moriarty’s soldiers would fall, one by one, simultaneously at best, and probably the entire unpleasant affair would be home and dry a lot faster than it would have been if Sherlock had targeted all those crooks all by himself.

Now, little brother, whatever was wrong with him, could focus on healing – in Mycroft's house, obviously; there was no other place for him to go. If he didn’t have to stay in a hospital, that is. He would have all the space he needed.

When Sherlock’s discreet arrival at the office was announced, Mycroft took a deep breath and hurried to meet his brother in a room hidden from all the others, used only for emergencies.

And somehow, this surely felt like an emergency...

*****

“Ah, Mr Holmes, here he is,” Withers said, smiling a little insecurely. His usually meticulously neat blond hair was tousled as if he had ruffled it quite heftily, and there was a slightly haunted look in his attractive blue eyes.

Mycroft nodded at him before he focused on his brother, who was cowering in a chair like a child that had lost its mother in a shopping centre. He was gnawing on his bottom lip, which looked very sore already. His eyes were unsteady, his black curls an unruly mess, and his face was ghostly pale. Sherlock’s entire body was shivering. It was a horrible sight.

“Holmes,” he mumbled now, his voice deeper than Mycroft had ever heard it. “They said that was my name…”

“Thank you, Withers, I will take care of him now. Please get in contact with my assistant to help coordinate Operation Napoleon, version B.”

“Of course, sir.” Withers turned to glance at Sherlock again. “I’m not sure if he needs to see a doctor in the end.”

“If so, I will make sure of it,” Mycroft said, and Withers nodded and hurried out of the room, clearly relieved to leave the crazy brother of his frightening boss in said boss’s care.

Mycroft locked the door behind him and turned to his brother, who was mumbling their mutual last name over and over again. Was he in shock? It surely looked like it. But why? They had planned this operation for weeks. Had discussed any possible outcomes in great detail. Given code names to every scenario. On the rooftop, Sherlock had texted him to let him know that Lazarus had to be set in motion. Which meant Moriarty was dead and Sherlock had to jump to fool the man’s snipers. What had happened to make him turn into this ball of fright and confusion?

But then again – Sherlock had done this before. Deleted memories he could not deal with. In all probability, he had not only done that with Eurus and Victor. Who knew what else had been pushed from his mind over the years. Still – it was a mystery. Nothing that might have happened since he had texted Mycroft could have possibly been bad enough to make him delete the memory of his own life. And still it had obviously happened.

“Holmes!” Sherlock suddenly yelled and jumped out of his chair.

“Yes, Sherlock, that is your name. You are the world’s only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.” Mycroft was trying hard to sound calm and composed, even though he was completely out of his depth.

“And you –…”

“I am Mycroft Holmes, your –…”

“...husband! How could I have forgotten that we’re married!”

Mycroft was speechless for a moment, and he winced when his right hand was grabbed by cold, hard fingers.

“Why are you wearing a wedding band? I’m not. And it’s on your wrong hand.”

“It’s too big for my left hand,” Mycroft said spontaneously. “I lost some weight and it slid off my left ring finger.”

In fact, he had never worn the ring on the left hand. It was, after all, not a wedding ring, even though it looked like it. It was a ring Uncle Rudy had bequeathed him, along with the house he lived in. It was a long story, and Sherlock didn’t know half of it – and now he had forgotten even that half. “And, um, you never wanted to wear yours. It… distracted you too much, you said.”

What was he doing here? Where had those words come from? It was madness to let his brother believe they were married; nobody had to tell him that. Sherlock could always remember that they were brothers along with everything else that had momentarily escaped his memory. And even if he didn’t – someone could tell him, like Anthea, for example. She would most certainly not drop by at his house, but who knew if Sherlock did not answer his phone when he was out of the room? Mycroft could hardly ask her to let Sherlock believe he was his husband… And sooner or later, Sherlock would have to return to Baker Street because his friends, whether he remembered them or not, could not be left thinking he was dead forever. It would be hard enough to explain to John Watson why Sherlock had pretended to commit suicide right in front of him… At that point, it would all come out, and it would not be pretty...

Mycroft had to correct Sherlock's misconception at once; there was no doubt about that.

But… He couldn’t. Not while Sherlock was still holding his hand, looking at the ring he had allegedly given him in wonder.

Not when Mycroft had loved him forever, and not just in the way a brother did.

Letting him go on believing they were a married couple was wrong, it was insane, it was unforgivable. It was like those proverbial two angels sitting on his shoulders, the good one hissing that he had to tell Sherlock this instant that they were brothers, not a couple, while the bad one reminded him of the fact that he had wanted to be with Sherlock ever since baby brother had been a teenager and that he would never get this chance again if he threw it away now.

And Mycroft was simply not strong enough to tell the evil angel to leave him alone… He felt confused and overwhelmed and out of his depth in a way he had never felt before.

“Mike, what is happening? I know that people usually wear their wedding bands on their left hand. I remember what year it is. Can see that Mark Zuckerberg type in my mind’s eye. Could recite the Periodic System. But I have no idea who I am. Can’t recall a single thing about you, or anyone else I might know.” Sherlock sounded so utterly defeated that Mycroft's heart broke.

He didn't even correct the name. “I know, it must be very scary. I think you need to be examined,” he said half-heartedly. He could summon some trusted government doctor to make sure Sherlock did not have a concussion or anything more serious. But that doctor might tell Sherlock that Mycroft was his brother...

“No! I’m fine, besides not remembering anything about my life. About you. I don't want to go. Don’t send me away! Only you can help me. You’re my husband; nobody knows me better than you!”

Mycroft stared at him. He had never heard his brother sound so desperate and pleading.

Eventually, he nodded. “Okay. We will get you to my house.” That was, of course, the only possibility. He would tell his housekeeper that she could take a week off, for starters. Create a bubble. No interference. And a safe space for Sherlock anyway, who was supposed to be dead, after all… Sherlock surely didn't have some serious illness, did he? Just some memory problems, which were apparently very selective on top of it. There was that bump that Withers had mentioned, but it was already subsiding, and Sherlock didn't behave as if he had a concussion. Nothing a doctor would be able to do anything about. Or so he told himself...

“Your house? We don't live together?”

Oh dear… How was he getting out of this? There had been no time to think this through, obviously, and there would be plenty of things that did not add up… But he could have hardly told Sherlock they were living together when nothing in his house belonged to his brother. “No. You, um, said you wanted your freedom. Our… interests and habits are quite different. So we are not currently living together.”

“But I want to live with you!”

This had to be a mad dream. Only that it wasn’t. And he had to tell Sherlock the truth; his conscience was eating him alive. Little brother would only get more confused, and that was highly unfair to him. He knew that all very well.

But it was too late to clarify things now, right? He would look like a total jerk if he now corrected Sherlock's misconception. Little brother would be so upset that he might just storm out and give away that he had not actually jumped to his death.

Mycroft had to go with the flow, as they said, and make the best of it as long as it lasted. Sod the consequences – he would talk himself out of it when his lies were inevitably exposed in the end. Until then… He would enjoy it. Everybody thought Sherlock had died today, and the few people who knew about their plan, like their parents, Molly Hooper and some guys of Sherlock's homeless network, thought he had left the country. The perfect timing for this strange thing to happen.

For now, it was only Sherlock and him. Like he had always wanted it to be. For a short period of time, he would not have to share Sherlock with John and his other friends. Well, in fact, he had never even had a little piece of Sherlock ever since his brother had grown up, and little brother had despised him and given all his affection to the people he called his friends, which had always been a source of depression for Mycroft. Right now, only he existed for Sherlock, and he liked that quite a lot. Did he even have to tell Sherlock about the stocky doctor, the annoying old lady, the grey-haired cop and that corpse cutter? Yes, he did, he decided, blushing a bit. Sherlock would ask about his past, and Mycroft would not lie to him. At least not about anything else… Or much else, if he thought about it...

“Of course, Sherlock. Of course you will live with me.” And he hoped he did not sound as excited as he was, as much as a tiny inner voice was screaming at him not to take advantage of a little brother who thought they were in a romantic, sexual relationship...

Chapter Text

“I need a drink.”

Mycroft hesitated. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“Please. I’m not on any medication, so what is the harm? Just one little whiskey.” Sherlock's tone was as pleading as his look. “I’m fine, well, except for not knowing who I am.”

“As you wish.” Mycroft got up to retrieve the tumbler and two glasses. He surely needed a drink as well. This crazy day had taken its toll on him, and even more so on Sherlock, clearly.

Seven hours ago, he had put the exhausted, amnesiac detective into a car, his house being the destination. He had told the driver to not talk to Sherlock so as to not confuse him even more. In truth, he had not wanted the man to mention that Mycroft was Sherlock's brother, obviously… But Sherlock had dozed off as soon as he had dropped on the back seat, safe in his belt, his head resting on the back of the seat.

The driver had put little brother to bed in Mycroft's large ensuite guest room and left him alone after reactivating the alarm system. Mycroft had made sure that Sherlock had a phone with his number as the only contact in case he needed anything. A few weeks ago, he had cloned Sherlock's phone, knowing it would probably get destroyed on the rooftop. But there was no way he would give that clone to him anytime soon. There was nobody for Sherlock to contact right now anyway. Not only because he didn't remember any of his friends, not even his parents, but because they all thought he was either unalive or unavailable. And yeah – because Mycroft could not risk Sherlock talking to Molly Hooper, for example, to ask for information about his life.

Mycroft had spent the day delving into organising the mission of dismantling Moriarty’s web with Anthea and some other agents he trusted. There could not be any failures – they might backfire greatly and endanger Sherlock and his friends. Nobody outside a very exclusive circle was allowed to know that Sherlock was not dead. Knowing that little brother could have lost his life for real while dealing with dangerous crooks all over Europe, Mycroft was more than happy that his brother would not leave his house for the time being, the little unexpected complication (or gift?) that Sherlock thought they were husbands aside. Sherlock was safe and would remain safe, and that was what counted the most for Mycroft.

When he had come home, bringing dinner for baby brother and himself, Sherlock had still been sleeping. Mycroft had watched him for several minutes, seeing the exhaustion and worry on the detective’s pale face, wondering how this was going to play out. He knew he was in the wrong to let Sherlock believe they were a married couple instead of siblings, and he also knew that when Sherlock remembered that fact or was told about it in a situation Mycroft could not control, he would probably hate him forever and cut ties with him completely – he knew that was the most likely outcome. Sherlock would not take having been lied to well, and the consequences would be dire. Mycroft could not even imagine how bad he would feel then.

But it would be too difficult to come clear now. And maybe, in the back of his head, he hoped Sherlock would never remember the truth. Perhaps, he even wondered if there could be a situation in which they had to flee the country so Sherlock would never meet anybody who could tell him about it… It was delusional and insane to even consider this, but Mycroft could not help it. He was not a man who used to live on a fantasy island and dream things up, but to come this close to something he had always wanted was just too tempting to be rational, it seemed...

Eventually, Mycroft had reluctantly woken Sherlock up and asked him to come downstairs so they could eat. He was starving after that busy day at the office, and Sherlock had not eaten anything either, and to his pleasant surprise, Sherlock had wolfed down the Chinese takeaway and drunk two glasses of water. Usually, Mrs Carlson, Mycroft's housekeeper, prepared dinner for him before she left, but Mycroft had originally planned to spend the evening at the Diogenes, getting seriously drunk, so he had told her he didn't need a warm meal. And now she would not come over for at least a week so he would make sure they got their dinner every day, but that was a task he would gladly take care of.

In between taking bites of his noodles with vegetables himself, Mycroft had told Sherlock the basic facts of his detective life, watched by stunned blue-green eyes. He had explained how Sherlock had met John Watson and decided to move in with him. Sherlock had asked the obvious question – why had he wanted to live with somebody else when he was married to Mycroft? Mycroft had flippantly said that John Watson was more a useful servant to him than anything else, being a doctor that could give cues at crime scenes, an ex-soldier who was always willing to chase after criminals, and patient enough to deal with Sherlock's mess in their flat, and Sherlock had nodded as if that made perfect sense. Actually, Mycroft thought that it was close enough to the truth. Sherlock surely liked the man, god knew why, but he certainly took advantage of him in many ways as well. It was just what little brother did with people.

Mycroft had also told him about Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Molly Hooper, trying to hide his contempt for those people – which was born rather from jealousy of their friendship with Sherlock than any actual flaws as he very well knew, and had described his Baker Street home in detail to him.

He had ended with explaining to him what had happened on that rooftop with Moriarty, as far as he could tell, that is. After all, he had not been there to witness their conversation. He had left out the information that Moriarty had met their sister in Sherrinford, of course, since Sherlock had no idea Eurus existed.

In fact, he had avoided even thinking about the implications of that connection ever since Moriarty had started to target Sherlock. He knew he could not postpone that for much longer, but right now, he was content knowing that Moriarty was dead – his corpse had been recovered from the roof and identified by its fingerprints and DNA – and having made sure that sister dear was safely locked up in her cell on the deserted island. Why she would want Moriarty to harm Sherlock was a question he could not answer, but he knew he could hardly rule it out. He would have to make sure she was really incapable of messing with their lives, not that this was very probable anyway. The camera feed had shown her sitting behind glass like a lizard in a terrarium, so it should be fine for now.

While he was providing them with drinks now, he winced when a thought hit him. Perhaps Moriarty had told Sherlock about Eurus on that rooftop. Perhaps that was the reason for Sherlock to lose his memory! But it didn't make much sense, did it – Sherlock had texted him the Lazarus code word before jumping. He had clearly not suffered any memory loss at that point, and he would have known about their sister if Moriarty, who had been dead at the time already, had mentioned her. But he could not exclude this possibility completely, either.

This day had been a total mess. The craziest day of his life. And he knew they would get to the craziest point now when he had sat down next to Sherlock on the large leather couch. So far, they had not addressed the topic of being husbands. But Sherlock's curious looks told him he would get to this very quickly now.

“So,” Sherlock began, and Mycroft braced himself. “Why do you expect me to sleep in a guest room?”

Mycroft swallowed hard. He had not quite expected this question. “Ahem… I just thought… Since you don't remember… us , it would be the reasonable solution for now.”

Sherlock nodded. “I see. Maybe tonight. That should do.”

So Sherlock was going to sleep with him from tomorrow on? A million images presented themselves, one more alluring than the other one. And more frightening than the other one… Sherlock so close to him? The whole night? Naked, perhaps?

Before Mycroft could come up with a reply or slid off his seat, fainting, Sherlock fired off the next question. “How did we meet?”

Dammit… Mycroft had had no time to prepare himself for this conversation. He would have to improvise once more. “You, um, worked for me.” Where else had they been supposed to meet? He could hardly tell Sherlock it had been at a mutual stroll at the London Aquarium. Well, maybe he could have...

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “I did?”

“Yes,” Mycroft nodded. “From time to time, we have to outsource, um, tasks, and your name was mentioned, and I asked you to work for the government for one particular matter, and we got closer.” Dear lord. This was as clumsy as it could get. Thankfully, he remembered every mission he had ordered, so he would be able to come up with some details.

But Sherlock didn't ask for that. He tilted his head instead. “Isn’t that sort of… forbidden? Having sex with a subordinate?”

Mycroft tried to keep his brain from short-circuiting at Sherlock's choice of words – and the ironic little fact that it was much more forbidden to have sex with your sibling... “Ahem. Probably. But we did not… do that. Not until you stopped working for me.”

“Ah, I see. So do you do this often? Hook up with a minion?”

Was Sherlock actually jealous ? He surely sounded jealous, and the way he was narrowing his eyes… “No. Never before. And never afterwards,” Mycroft hurried to add, realising that the hand that was holding the glass was shivering a bit.

“I should hope so,” Sherlock said sternly. “I don't share you.”

“Neither do I,” Mycroft assured him, grimacing a bit at the sad truth that Sherlock had basically cut him out of his life a long time ago. They had worked together so well recently, planning Sherlock's mission. During those weeks, they had come closer than they had been for a very long time – as brothers, naturally. But Mycroft had never harboured any illusions that this would not change as soon as Sherlock was on his way. For however long Sherlock would have been gone, Mycroft would have heard very sparsely from him, and only about the progress of Operation Napoleon. Little brother would have returned from his dangerous adventure (if he would have returned at all) to pick up where he had left off – living with John Watson, working for the Met and private clients, living at Baker Street, all but forgetting that he even had a brother.

“Why were you willing to let me go?” Sherlock asked him now, and Mycroft winced. Another question he had not foreseen.

Sherlock nodded. “On that mission. Faking my death, risking to be killed for real. Besides, Moriarty could have shot me instead of himself.”

He was asking the really edgy questions now. And of course he had every right to do that. It was unfathomable why Mycroft should have allowed his husband to risk his life in this way. And it would have been a totally legitimate question from one brother to the other, honestly. Only that Sherlock was his own person, whether he was his partner or his brother, naturally. A strong person with a very strong will…

“I had no choice,” Mycroft said, truthfully. “You were so eager to do it. I could not talk you out of it.” Well, he had not tried that hard to do that, knowing that he would never be able to influence Sherlock's decision. The adrenaline-addicted detective had wanted to do it with all his heart. Not just because he lived for adventures, the more dangerous the better, and the thrill of the chase, but because he had wanted to protect his friends.

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment. “I don’t seem to be a very good husband,” he said then, sounding rather meek.

“No, that’s not true. You’re the best.” This was the most insane conversation he had ever had, and that included dealing with the most moronic Prime Minister in history on a daily basis...

The look his brother gave him was even fiercer. “You mean that.”

“Of course I mean it.” And he did, he realised. Of course Sherlock was not his husband. And not a brother who cared about his sibling. But he was still the best...

“You really love me.”

Mycroft’s throat was suddenly very dry. “I do,” he said eventually. “I love you. More than anything.” He almost crumbled under the even more scrutinising look he received for that blatant truth.

Then Sherlock nodded. “So do I. I can feel it, even now. Even though I remember nothing of our life together.” He got up. “I think I should go to bed now; I’m still tired.” He gestured at the plates. “Shall I…?”

“No, I’ll take care of that. Goodnight, Sherlock.” Mycroft was surprised that his voice was even working.

“Goodnight, Mike.”

Mycroft did not move for another half an hour when he had watched Sherlock leave the room.

Chapter Text

Sliding onto the back seat of his car felt like an escape. Actually, it was… Escaping from so many nosy, faux-sympathetic people who had offered him their condolences for the alleged death of his brother. Some of them had even appeared to be really sorry for his loss, which had been quite surprising. Mycroft had been able to avoid most of them the evening before as he had hidden in a meeting room with the inner circle after Sherlock had been brought to his house, but today they had caught up.

Especially one certain lady, who had forced an embrace onto him, sobbing that she would be there for him if he needed someone’s shoulder to cry on.

Mycroft was well aware that what Elizabeth Smallwood, married or not, was offering him was not her shoulder, and he had shuddered and disentangled himself from her, just short of right-out pushing her away. He had thanked her, with a forced smile, for her sympathy in this trying time (and had wondered how she would react when she found out that Sherlock was not actually dead) and asked her to excuse him as he really could not talk about his loss.

She had not been happy about it, but she had reluctantly let him go and left after pressing his hand once more and purring some words of comfort, and Mycroft had sighed and dropped back into his chair when the door had shut behind her. Anthea had given him a sympathetic look when she had let the lady in, mirth in her eyes. She knew how much he loathed being fussed about, and as much as he valued Elizabeth’s intelligence and work ethics, he surely did not want to get into any physical contact with her...

Concentrating on his usual tasks had been a true challenge. His mind had gone astray constantly. While it had been possible to focus on anything related to the mission Sherlock had not gone on as it was so important, anything else seemed trivial in the light of the unexpected developments he had been dealing with.

He was appalled by his own lack of decency. Wasn’t it bad enough that he had lusted after his little brother for more than a decade and a half? Of course it had been more than lust – it had been love, pure and simple. But did that really make it better? People were not supposed to love their siblings in any romantic way, which definitely included wanting to make love to them… How could he let Sherlock go on believing that they were lovers? In the very least, he should have told him they had never consummated their marriage as they were both asexual.

Because that was the truth. Irene Adler had called Sherlock ‘The Virgin’, which had been hitting the nail on the head; Mycroft was sure that Sherlock did not have any sexual experience. She had also called Mycroft ‘The Iceman’, which might be a rather apt nickname for him in general, especially given the fact that his code name was ‘Antarctica’… But in fact, the mocking name she’d had for Sherlock described Mycroft to a t, too. He had never had sex with anyone. Why would he have wanted that? People were beneath him. The sheer thought of being intimate with anyone, exchanging bodily fluids and having clammy fingers all over his body made him shudder with disgust. With only one exception… And that exception seemed to be determined to henceforth spend the nights with him… And what was he going to do then? He could hardly reject Sherlock forever. But he could also not physically love him, knowing that sooner rather than later, Sherlock would find out what they really were…

But dammit… He longed for it. He wanted it, wanted it so badly that the sheer thought of it had made his pants get tight, right behind his desk. Very inappropriate, surely, but unavoidable, it seemed...

Mycroft winced when the back door was opened.

“We’ve arrived, sir,” his driver said, looking at him full of sympathy. Of course he thought he had been driving around a man who was burdened by immeasurable grief.

On their way, the tall man with the silvery hair had stopped the car and gotten out to retrieve the Italian dinner Mycroft had ordered during the day from his favourite restaurant. Otherwise, he had been very quiet during their ride, which had suited Mycroft just fine. He did not like to make conversation on his way home, worn out by all the chatter he’d had to endure during a long work day. Still, he usually didn't close the privacy screen as it seemed impolite; only when he had an important phone call to make, he shut out the driver.

“Thank you, George. See you tomorrow.”

His briefcase under his arm, having grabbed his umbrella so hard that his knuckles turned white, Mycroft stalked up the pathway to his house, having no idea what to expect.

Perhaps Sherlock had already remembered the truth about his life? But then, Mycroft was sure he would have heard from his brother…

*****

“Hello, Mike!” Sherlock, clearly freshly showered with his hair still a little damp, smelling delicious, beamed at Mycroft as soon as he had entered the house.

So baby brother, who had still been sleeping when Mycroft had left the house in the morning, had clearly not regained his memories… “Hello, Sherlock. Um… It’s Mycroft, actually.” He closed the door with his heel, not bothering to lock it or switch on the alarm just now.

Sherlock, looking more than tasty in clothes Mycroft had never used – a sweatshirt and jog pants he had fished out of the depths of his closet in the morning and had left with a note for his brother to wear; he really had to get Sherlock some more comfortable clothes of his own – tilted his head. “Does that bother you?”

Yes! Mycroft wanted to scream. He hated his nicknames, like Mike and Mikey. Sherlock had never used them, but their mother did. After giving him such a crazy name, she could at least be bothered to actually call him that, couldn’t she? Struggle all the way to the end, please?

“No,” Mycroft mumbled. “I just wanted to make sure you knew my actual name.”

“Do I not have a pet name for you?”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft had not even put his umbrella in its stand, much less getting rid of his coat. Standing in the dimly lit hallway, fully dressed, getting interrogated by his clueless little brother, made him feel rather uncomfortable. And out of his depth, and what else was new...

Sherlock shrugged. “I guess that’s what people do when they love each other.”

Mycroft winced. “Ah.”

“You know, use the short form of their names. Or call them ‘darling’ or ‘love’. Or something really silly, I suppose. Do we not do that?”

Not exactly, Mycroft thought. If you talk to me at all, you just call me lazy and mock me with my diet and weight. “We did not. But… We can try.” Why ever not? It would not make this situation any more crazy. “As long as we are alone, that is,” he hastened to add. Eventually, Sherlock might meet Anthea. Well, not if Mycroft could avoid it...

“Of course. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you,” Sherlock nodded. “So… What would you like me to call you?”

Mycroft was at a loss for words for a long moment. “Um… I could live with ‘darling’, I suppose.” The endearment made him stammer and blush. The sheer thought of being Sherlock's darling was so ridiculous. But somehow… nice.

Sherlock beamed at him. “Great! I shall call you ‘darling’, then. And what would you like to call me?”

Mycroft's heart clenched. If he were a better man, his answer would have been ‘little brother’. Because that’s what Sherlock was. Nothing less, and nothing more. But there was no going back from him supporting Sherlock's misconception. There was no going back from lying now, was it... He had to stick to this farce until the certainly bitter end.

“What would you like to be called?” he turned the tables. There were so many names he could imagine calling Sherlock. ‘Love’, most of all. Because that’s what he did. He loved his little brother. What kind of man did that make him?

“Well. Not sure. How about… Lock?”

Mycroft closed his eyes briefly. He had used this name when Sherlock had been little. Then he tensed. Was Sherlock starting to remember his past? But the innocent, affectionate look on his brother’s face was telling a different story. “I think that’s very nice.”

“Great! So… You brought dinner again? Do we never cook?”

“Um. No. Neither of us can cook.” Mummy had never taught them. Actually, she was not a great chef herself…

“Shame. I will learn it. I have plenty of time.” Sherlock’s face darkened. “I can’t just sit around for… weeks?”

Mycroft nodded. “It will take some time.” He and Anthea had spoken with several members of law enforcement in the countries his agents had to strike in. Most of them had been very forthcoming and had assured them of their will to assist them. After all, it was in their best interest to get rid of Moriarty’s criminal accomplices. But even with a combined effort, it would not be done within just two weeks. People had to worm their ways into the respective organisations first, or find other ways to target the heads of the cells. And Sherlock would go mental if he had nothing to do. After all, he was not just used to solving cases. He also loved to experiment on all kinds of things. But Mycroft would not get him any rotten body parts he could cut apart on his kitchen table, so much was sure...

Then he had an idea. “I will fetch your violin from your flat. I’m sure Mrs Hudson will let me have it.” He dreaded going there and meeting the grieving inhabitants of 221B Baker Street, but it would actually look weird if he didn't show up there eventually. And… There had to be a funeral. He dreaded that even more...

“I play the violin?”

Oh, right … Sherlock did not remember anything… “You do, and very well, I might add.” Just not when I am at Baker Street. Then you make it sound like a tram crashing into a lorry to drive me away, and I bet you and John Watson are laughing about me when I’m gone…

“You think I could still do it?” Sherlock sounded pensive, and Mycroft felt the overwhelming urge to touch him.

And then he remembered that he could actually do that now. They were husbands, weren’t they? At least in Sherlock's mind. And a good husband had to comfort his beloved when they were hurting, didn’t he?

So he gingerly put an arm around Sherlock's muscular shoulders and pulled him into a light embrace, not wanting to intrude too much. “There is only one way to find out, Lock. I will get it for you.”

And Sherlock snuggled against him, his arm sneaking around Mycroft's waist and pressing it. “Thank you, darling.”

Baby brother was so beautiful and warm, so trim and appealing. His curls were silky and shiny, like the wings of a raven. He smelled so good, and he fitted perfectly into Mycroft's arms. Gently, Mycroft leaned his cheek against Sherlock's forehead, breathing him in.

How to ever let go of this again? Mycroft had no idea. But for now, he was holding the man he loved, his entire body vibrating, his heart full and almost achy with affection, and he wished this would never have to end.

Chapter Text

“Ah, there you are. Found the good stuff, I see.” Mycroft smiled at his brother and gestured at the bottle he was carrying, but then he saw Sherlock staring at him with his eyes narrowed. “What is wrong?” His heart had instantly begun to beat faster. Was this now the moment Sherlock would accuse him of being a liar and abuser? Would he throw the bottle at him in anger?

But Sherlock pointed at Mycroft's neck. “Why is there lipstick on your shirt collar?” He sounded very much not-amused.

Mycroft instinctively reached up to the collar in question. When he had let Sherlock go, with reluctance, he had stored his brolly and taken off his coat, had rushed to the bathroom to wash his hands and then hurried to lay the table while he had asked Sherlock to get some wine for dinner. He had not had time to change into more comfortable clothes and had not paid any attention to his mirror image.

For a moment, his mind was blank. But then he grinned. “Oh, that.”

“Yes. That. Care to explain?”

Dammit. Judging by his fierce look and tone, Sherlock was really, truly jealous, and it was glorious and astonishing. But then – Sherlock thought they were married, after all. Any man would get jealous in such a situation.

But… If Sherlock did not love him in a romantic way, would he react like that? He may not remember his feelings and thoughts from the past, his entire life, as it was, but he obviously did feel something for Mycroft now! The sheer logic of this conclusion took Mycroft's breath away.

“Mike! Tell me. Are you leaving me?! Because I can’t remember us?” Sherlock's voice broke, and Mycroft hurried to step to him and take him into his arms again.

“No, no, nothing of the kind. I would never! This was a co-worker. She… hugged me.”

“Did she... I wouldn’t have taken you for the touchy-feely kind.” Sherlock didn't sound convinced.

“I am not. Only when it comes to you,” Mycroft hurried to add. “But I suppose she is interested in me that way.” He damn well knew she was…

“Maybe I should talk to her,” Sherlock grumbled, his arm firmly around Mycroft's waist, and it felt wonderful. “I told you I’m not sharing you! You are mine!”

Perhaps he had died and this was heaven, Mycroft pondered for a moment. Then he imagined Sherlock accusing Lady Smallwood of trying to steal his man, and getting in a cat fight with her, and he giggled at this absurd picture.

“I’m sorry?” Sherlock did not sound overly amused. Well, who liked allegedly being laughed about...

“I am sorry, little br… Lock.” Dear Lord. He had to do better than this, or this ruse would not just blow up in his face but explode. Said face felt very hot right now, actually...

“Little what?” Sherlock said, staring at him.

“Ahem, well, I actually do have a nickname for you,” Mycroft stammered. “But I only use it when you’ve been naughty or just silly. Little brat, that’s what I call you.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, and there was a sparkle in his eyes that confused Mycroft. And then his brother laughed. “Oh, that’s great. I guess I need to be very naughty so you can call me that.” His voice had dropped to a very seductive lowness at the last words.

“That would be… lovely.” He had gotten away, thank God; his thinking skills had not completely left him (yet...). But he had to be much more careful… And did Sherlock mean he wanted to sleep with him? Not just next to him, but with him? The thought made his knees go weak.

“So… You are not cheating on me?” Sherlock all but purred, and Mycroft felt the overwhelming wish to kiss him. And do some even nicer things to him, actually.

“Never. You are the only one for me. Always have been.” And wasn’t that the truth?

“Good for you,” Sherlock smirked, and then he pecked Mycroft's lips, and the British Government, as Sherlock had called him in what now felt like another life, needed every bit of his strength to not faint at this casual but loving first kiss of his life.

*****

During dinner, Sherlock asked incessant questions about the progress of the mission he had ended up not being involved in. Mycroft filled him in, thinking that he had no wish to have his agents succeed in taking down Moriarty’s web so quickly. In fact, every day their efforts went on, he would be able to go on living this wonderful, fascinating lie. If Sherlock did not regain his memories, that is.

When they were finished, Sherlock leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about my family, Mycroft. Who are they? Where are they?”

“Oh. Well. You are an only child,” Mycroft said. He was prepared for this question for a change.

“Am I?” Sherlock tilted his head. “Must be why I’m so spoiled, huh?”

Mycroft smiled. “I think you are onto something, my dear. You like to say your parents stopped after receiving you, because it could not get any better.” Fleetingly, he wondered whether he had chosen to tell Sherlock this because he could as well be an only child. After all, he had deleted Eurus from his memory altogether, and as far as he, Mycroft, was concerned, he could as well not exist, either. For almost all his adult life, Sherlock had not wanted to do anything with him… And little brother would not be here now if he did not have amnesia.

“Well, that makes sense. Are my parents still alive?”

“They are. They live in Namibia. As missionaries.” It was not easy to say this with a straight face, but Mycroft had plenty of experience in staying earnest in the most absurd situations.

Sherlock gaped at him for a second. “Do they now… Am I religious, then, too?”

“Not exactly. In fact, you loathe everything that has to do with religion.” There was no need to lie here. And in reality, their parents were not in any way religious, either. But it was most convenient to let Sherlock believe they were far, far away now… In reality, he would call their mother every other day to keep her informed about Sherlock’s alleged progress on his dangerous adventure. That would keep her from calling him in the evenings, as she only ever used his landline… Sherlock would probably not answer the phone – he was amnesic, not stupid – but Mycroft didn't want to talk to their mother in his presence, so much was sure… And telling her that Sherlock was with him was out of the question. She could insist on dropping by...

“Interesting. I’m a rebel, then, eh?”

“Definitely.” And he was. Sherlock had rebelled against everything, all his life.

“You sound a tad bitter,” Sherlock remarked. “Did I use to rebel against you, too?”

Oh you have, brother mine. All the bloody time… “No,” Mycroft said nonetheless. What was one more lie? “You’d gotten over that particular trait in your youth.”

“In which way exactly?” Sherlock took a sip of his wine.

“In every way you saw fit,” Mycroft retorted almost snappishly, unwilling to talk about it. It was a throwback at bad old times, and he did not miss them.

“Drugs,” Sherlock said quietly, and Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment.

“Yes. Every drug you could get your hands on. You made your parents go mental.” And me… You scared the living hell out of me. You overdosed. I had to have you committed.

He would never forget how horrified he had been, looking down at his beautiful brother, so pale, his greasy black hair a damaged halo around his face, his long, black lashes a stark contrast against his ghostly-pale face. The thought of losing him had made him choke up. At that point, he had already known that he loved Sherlock beyond the brotherly scale. But even if not – Sherlock had always been a part of his very soul, and a world without him would have been a world not worth living in.

Realising that Sherlock was staring at him, he cleared his throat. “Would you like some more wine?”

Sherlock shook his head. “What about you? Any siblings who wrecked your last nerve?”

“A brother and a sister.” Why had he even said this? Had he now finally lost the rest of his mind? This was not the time to be honest, and he had certainly not planned to do this. To maintain a lie, one had to keep it as simple as possible.

Sherlock’s pupils widened for a moment. “You do? Are you close?”

“Not particularly, no.” My brother doesn’t like me, and my sister is incarcerated in a high-security prison for the hopelessly deranged… One could say we are quite the fucked-up family, if you pardon my French…

“Tell me a bit about them. Are they older or younger than you?”

“Both younger. By a lot.” Better stick to the truth now as much as possible. “They are one year apart, my brother is seven years my junior, my sister eight years.” Too much honesty, again… What if Sherlock asked him about his own age and Mycroft's? Mycroft would have to make himself a bit younger then and not change Sherlock's age, he guessed, as the detective could always google himself. But Sherlock might get suspicious if he told him the truth. It would be too much of a coincidence, and the universe was rarely so lazy...

Thankfully, Sherlock did not change the topic. “That is a big gap. What do they do?”

“Not much. My brother is…” Wonderful, super smart, very successful in the rather unusual profession he chose… Mycroft shrugged. “He does this and that. He hates to be committed to anything.”

Sherlock’s face showed a tiny frown until he smiled again. “He sounds like a challenge.”

“He is. But he is a good man. He doesn’t like me, though. I’m too stiff and boring for him.”

“I can barely believe that. You are neither stiff nor boring, as far as I can tell.” Sherlock seemed to be quite appalled at this criticism of his spouse.

“You don't know me very well, though,” Mycroft smirked.

“I married you, didn't I?”

Not really… “You have a point. Well, my sister is married with children, and lives in the States.” If only… That would be clearly preferable to her sitting in a prison cell for the rest of her life…

Sherlock smiled. “So you are a proud uncle?”

Mycroft grimaced. “I have never met them. And I am really not very keen on it. Children are not my area.” In his mind, he saw sticky infants with chocolate-smeared faces sitting on his lap, infecting his impeccable clothes with their dirtiness. The thought made him shudder.

“I get that. Annoying little brats. Do you have pictures? Of my parents? And your family?”

Great… Mycroft had thought of this, but at that point, he had not known he would tell Sherlock that he even had siblings. “Our families are not big on doing photographs. But I do have one of you and your parents. And me and my father. My mother died when my sister was only six months old, and all pictures of her seem to be lost.”

Sherlock looked stunned for a second, and then he gestured for Mycroft to get the photographs.

Thankfully, Mycroft and Sherlock did not look alike at all, but Sherlock looked like a mixture of both their parents. And funnily, Mycroft looked a lot like Uncle Rudy, Mummy’s flamboyant and very homosexual older brother, so he had rummaged in the drawer in his home office until he had found the only picture that showed them both. Mycroft had been hardly more than a teen. And Rudy had not been in drag for a change...

Sherlock stared at the photographs as if they contained all the mysteries of the world. “Does not ring a bell,” he mumbled. “Could have as well never seen them in my life.”

“That was to be expected,” Mycroft said gently. Mummy would be devastated to learn that Sherlock had forgotten her. And himself, too. No need to tell them now, of course. And Mycroft wished he would never have to tell them. That was an illusion, though, and he knew it. As soon as Moriarty’s web had been torn apart, there was no way to not face the truth. And endure the consequences…

“So this is your dad. He’s still alive?”

“Oh yes. He lives in Shetland. Refuses to use a computer or a cell phone.”

Sherlock tutted. “In these times. Unbelievable.”

Yes. Well, they wouldn’t be able to call Rudy either way. He had died ten years ago…

“So you really have no pictures of your siblings?” Sherlock inquired.

Just look into a mirror… And I could show you the camera feed from Sherrinford… “I might have some, but I don't know where.” Sherlock would forget about it, hopefully. But Mycroft might just organise some snapshots from a random young man and woman who resembled him, perhaps even some mediocre children. He was good at such things. “What would you like to do tonight?” he asked Sherlock, changing the subject.

His brother shrugged. “I guess we should just relax a bit. You had a long day. Watch some telly? Cuddle?”

Oh dear lord… Would his heart be able to take that?

Well, Mycroft was surely willing to give it a try…

*****

Mycroft took a deep breath. He had no idea how he was supposed to go into his bedroom now. Where Sherlock was waiting for him. Clad in a pair of Mycroft's pyjamas, which looked much better on him than they did on Mycroft himself.

He had let Sherlock use the bathroom first, and there had been an embarrassing moment when they had met at the door, shyly smiling at each other, little brother smelling like mint toothpaste and deodorant.

Mycroft had taken a very hot shower – even though he should have probably turned the water to iceman-cold instead – and shaved his stubble off, brushed his teeth and put on his own nightwear. And now he had to join his brother. In bed.

He had no idea if Sherlock would initiate physical contact. While watching telly – and Mycroft could not remember a single thing of what had been shown – they had been holding hands, with Sherlock’s fingers caressing his knuckles, and his head had been leaning against Mycroft's shoulder. It had been simply wonderful.

And they had kissed. Much more elaborately than in the hallway. It had been the very first tongue-kiss for Mycroft, but surprisingly enough, it had gone very well. Their mouths just… fitted. They had explored each other’s mouths, their tongues examining each tooth of the other one. It had been a bit silly and a tad too wet, and they had both chuckled, and Mycroft's heart had been flooded with happiness.

But making love would be an entirely different story. Breaking the law was only one aspect of this. When Sherlock eventually remembered how closely they were related, he would accuse Mycroft of breaking his trust. Abusing him. He would disown Mycroft, and Mycroft would deserve it.

And still he knew he would do it. What sort of man did that make him? A man desperately in love, one could say if one was generous. A horrible, awful man, if one was honest… Perhaps there was a middle ground, though? A mixture of the good and the evil angel?

He should not have worried, at least not for the moment. When he entered the room, Sherlock was fast asleep, cuddled into the pillows.

Mycroft was both relieved and disappointed. And moved. Sherlock still looked so exhausted. All those weeks of planning to confront Moriarty. The prospect of leaving his home and his life for a mission that could have very well claimed his life for real. The worry about his friends. He did not remember any of this, but it was nevertheless still taking its toll.

Very carefully, Mycroft crawled under the blanket, and he brushed a kiss on Sherlock's forehead before he closed his eyes, enjoying the closeness of the man he loved. A forbidden fruit. But weren’t they always sweeter?

Chapter Text

It was a weird sight – Sherlock holding his precious violin as if he had never seen it before.

Little brother had learned to play the instrument at the age of five, before Eurus had torn his childhood apart. He had not had a teacher for more than one session. As with everything else, he had preferred teaching himself. An autodidact if Mycroft had ever seen one. And now he regarded the bow with deep suspicion before he gently put it away along with the violin.

“I brought some more stuff,” Mycroft said, opening the travel bag he had taken to Baker Street after work. “Another coat. Some shirts. Underwear.” It had been a very strange feeling – rummaging through his brother’s belongings. But at least it had distracted him from all the pain in the house, and his guilty feelings…

When he had entered the house, Mrs Hudson had just been about to leave. The old woman had looked terrible. Her hair an unwashed mess, her eyes red-rimmed and full of despair.

She had been all over him, sobbing her heart out, and he had clumsily patted her back, mumbling, “There, there”, and had wished himself far, far away.

When he had managed to free himself from her iron grip, he had told her he wanted to go upstairs to pick up Sherlock's violin – for his mother, allegedly. Mrs Hudson had only cried harder and told him he could take anything he wanted as her ‘dear Sherlock’ did not need it anymore, and that he would surely have his white violin in heaven know, playing for the angels.

Finally rid of her, he had climbed the stairs, just to stand eye to eye with Doctor Watson, who had been slumped on the couch, a dead look on his face, smelling like a distillery and looking like a zombie on a particularly bad day.

Mycroft had stopped in his tracks, stupidly surprised by the man’s presence, and had braced himself for being shouted at, perhaps even shot at… He had not forgotten how John had confronted him at the Diogenes, had accused him of having betrayed his brother, not knowing of course that it had all been a scheme, hatched by Sherlock himself. So now, after Sherlock's alleged suicide, John had to be furious at him, and had perhaps waited for this moment so he could harm him.

But John had done nothing of the kind. He had not even moved. And Mycroft had seen that he had something in his hand, twisting it, caressing it. Sherlock's hat. The hat baby brother loathed.

Having no idea how to deal with the devastated man who had been looking right through him – and honestly, Mycroft would have preferred John yelling at him to this (un)dead look – Mycroft had shifted from one foot to the other like a schoolboy who was waiting for the headmaster to call him in and punish him for being a miscreant. Eventually, he had mumbled that he was there to retrieve Sherlock's violin as their mother wanted to have it, but John had not reacted in the least. The doctor had probably not even heard him, perhaps not even seen that he was there.

Feeling uncomfortable to the bone, Mycroft had rushed into Sherlock’s bedroom and stuffed some clothes into the bag he had brought, as well as Sherlock's laptop and some books, and he had picked up the violin case, always fearing that John would appear behind him and attack him.

But when he had left the bedroom and stalked back to the living room, John had not moved. Mycroft had breathed a ‘goodbye’ and had left the forsaken flat with its inconsolable inhabitant, grateful for not running into the equally suffering landlady again. He had stalked to his car and thrown everything on the backseat, including himself. It had never felt better to close the door and be driven off...

On his way home, he had had the car stop to get fish and chips – his secret ‘to go food’ when a day had been especially challenging. Tomorrow, he would finally get some groceries, including vegetables, so they would be able to cook a real meal. But tonight, he needed something greasy and salty and heavy and simple.

Sherlock had rummaged in the clothes and other things Mycroft had brought without showing any reaction. He had put the laptop onto the table, and had skipped through one of the science books.

Now he sat down on the couch and patted the space next to him. “Sit with me, darling. And thanks for the stuff.”

“You are welcome.” Mycroft placed his behind on the sofa as well, smiling coyly as Sherlock immediately took his hand. “We should eat before our dinner gets cold.”

“In a minute. How are they, Mycroft? John Watson and… What was her name again? Oh, yes, Mrs Hudson.”

“Hudders, you call her,” Mycroft informed him, not having missed that Sherlock did remember the doctor’s name.

“Is it an endearment? Or a curse?”

“A little bit of both, I’d say,” Mycroft mused. “She is a very annoying woman. Very nosy, and not very forthcoming if she doesn’t like you.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “You sound a tad bitter. So she doesn’t like you?”

No, because you have always treated me like crap, and she is definitely on your side… “Not very much. But she loves you dearly. You are the son she never had. Or grandson, if you want.”

“Poor old girl. She must be devastated.” Sherlock looked very sombre, and Mycroft caressed his hand.

“She is. But it’s better than the alternative, don't you think?” Meaning – getting killed by Moriarty’s men in an act of vengeance for their master’s death.

“And John? Tell me about John.” Sherlock's tone was almost pleading.

Mycroft looked sharply at him. “Do you remember him now?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. But I looked myself up online, and we were always together. He must mean a lot to me.”

Mycroft grew cold at the thought of Sherlock actually googling himself, even though he had foreseen that. He could only be glad that he was not a public figure, so Sherlock would not read a peep about him. Just one more advantage of scheming in the shadows… Thankfully, there was nothing to be found about their parents online, either. “He does,” he admitted grudgingly, and Sherlock pecked him on the cheek.

“Are you jealous of him?”

Yes, of course he was. Not just of John. Of everybody who had his brother’s attention. While he had none of it… “Maybe. A bit.”

“I doubt very much that you have any reason for that,” Sherlock smirked. “I mean, look at him. He is so tiny. I like my men tall and slim and shady.”

“Thanks very much.” Mycroft grinned. “Don’t underestimate him. He is quite the terrier. Edgy little sod.” And I think he loves you, even though he might not even know it… “He has been very protective of you,” he conceded. “Defended you when nobody except for Mrs Hudson, and myself and ou-… your parents believed in you.” Dammit… Not again…

But Sherlock had obviously not noticed his slipping. “He must be very sad now. And angry. And I’m sure he feels guilty, having not seen how desperate I was. I mean, allegedly was. Jumping to my death in front of him. Why did we think this was a good idea?”

“It was not really our idea,” Mycroft corrected him. “We planned for the eventuality, but the guilt lies solely on Moriarty’s side.”

Sherlock nodded. “But still…”

“Yes, I know. It was not a nice thing to do. But you had no choice. Come now. Let’s eat.” And forget about your sodding friends for now…

Sherlock got up. “Fine. I am pretty hungry, I must admit.”

“Then let me feed you, pretty Lock.” Mycroft thought a little lighter tone would not go amiss.

But Sherlock didn't match it. “I love you,” he said hoarsely. “Even though in a way we just met, I know I do.”

That was one way to render Mycroft absolutely speechless…

*****

Somehow, Mycroft had known that this time, Sherlock would not be sleeping when he joined him in his bedroom after the usual shower and shave, his teeth as squeaky clean as the rest of him. In fact, little brother was sitting against the backrest of the bed, looking at him with a mixture of sadness and anticipation. At least he had bothered donning his pyjamas...

Mycroft managed to smile at him despite having to swallow hard. Tonight surely wouldn’t be the night, though, would it? Sherlock would need more time. Hell, he needed more time…

The good angel was all but screaming into his ear that now was the perfect moment to let his brother know that he was actually his brother, not his bloody husband.

Mycroft caught himself raising his hand as if he wanted to brush the imaginable creature off, and blushed as Sherlock raised his eyebrows with an amused sparkle in his eyes.

“What’s the matter, Mikey?”

Ignoring the hated nickname, Mycroft slid under the blanket. “Nothing, my Lock. How are you?”

Sherlock sighed. “I feel bad about my friends.”

They had talked about John’s state and Mrs Hudson’s outburst during dinner. Sherlock's idea, not Mycroft's… Mycroft had, in between bites of the spicy fish that burned his mouth, remembered that John had been arrested for attacking the Chief Superintendent for bad-mouthing Sherlock (Mycroft had read the police report, naturally) before Sherlock had ‘taken him hostage’ and fled with him, so he had decided to make sure that no legal problems were waiting for the doctor on top of everything else. Mycroft had his methods to avoid that kind of hassle. It would only cost him a phone call or two. Of course he had not told Sherlock about that – why worry him even more?

“But I also feel… good? Because you are here with me.” Sherlock sounded rather shy now, and Mycroft could not help but gently cup his chin and lift it up so they could kiss.

In the past, Mycroft had told Sherlock that sentiment was bad, stupid, unnecessary, distracting from facts, something to shun and leave to people with small brains and no ambitions. He had preached to him that he should forgo ‘getting involved’ at all costs. Of course, he had done so because he knew from first-hand experience that love did hurt. And he wanted to spare him any more of the pain Sherlock had gone through when little Victor had disappeared, never to be seen again.

But now, in this bubble, created by a lie that had not been corrected but encouraged instead, now that love was in the air, he said nothing of the kind. Or rather – he wouldn’t have said it if he were able to speak at all.

For now, all he had to and wanted to do was lose himself in the kiss that was so eagerly returned.

Sherlock's mouth was just so soft and warm and plush, so pliant under Mycroft's caresses. Their tongues met, cautiously at first, but then they quickly began a dance that made Mycroft's toes curl and his loins catch fire.

An embarrassing primal desire took hold of his for so long sexually neglected body – the last time he recalled having been aroused before this unexpected development had set in had been on that forsaken day when he had glanced at Sherlock's naked body in Buckingham Palace of all places – and he grabbed for Sherlock's arse, this round, soft, muscular, delicious arse; hot under the silky fabric of his pants. He was longing for nothing more than burying his suddenly aching cock in that secret opening, hidden from his view, and the desire made him grinding his teeth, dizzy and confused.

Horrified by his own animalistic reaction, he pulled back from Sherlock, breaking the kiss, and little brother made a cute little sound of protest, cat-like and funny.

“I am sorry, b-… Lock,” Mycroft panted, internally cursing himself at yet another almost-slipping (and couldn’t he actually hear the evil angel laugh?). “You should sleep now. You need your rest.”

“But I want it, Mycroft!” Sherlock protested, his left hand sliding beneath Mycroft’s pyjama top, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “We are married! Married people do… this…”

Oh dear God… “They do but… We have not done it for quite a long time.” Understatement of the century…

“Why ever not?” Sherlock demanded to know, pulling back from him. “Don’t you find me attractive anymore?”

Now that’s the joke of the century… “Of course I do! I fancy you so much! You’re beautiful, and sexy, and wonderful… We just didn't have much time as of late. Preparing that mission and –…”

“Damn that fucking mission,” Sherlock hissed, and Mycroft winced at the profanity, which was so untypical for his brother.

Mummy would have had a stroke. Well, Mummy would also have a stroke if she saw them now, in bed, having kissed each other breathless and having groped one another shamelessly, Mycroft's cock still so hard that he would probably poke a hole into the mattress if he lay down on his stomach… “It’s important,” Mycroft said softly.

“Yes, yes, I know. I want my life back, Mycroft,” Sherlock all but whined. “I want to go outside, and I want to be with you and make love to you every night.”

Now Mycroft could feel his cock drip… “Well, we never did it every night. You are very busy with your cases and you live with John and –…”

“Not going to do that anymore.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Sherlock nodded vehemently. “I’m going to move in with you. I can keep that flat in – what was the name of the street again? – to meet clients and stuff, but I will be living with you.” His tone clearly said that this decision was not up for negotiation.

Oh, if only that would be possible… Sharing this house, this bed, being together. Little did baby brother know what was lurking around the corner. The truth. The ugly, unforgivable truth of Mycroft's lies, following Sherlock's wrong conclusion. It was waiting to hit them in the face. It would be nasty… Living with Mycroft would be the very last thing on Sherlock's mind then… Dancing on his grave would be more likely...

“We can talk about this when it’s all over,” Mycroft mumbled, feeling depressed. His erection had wilted, finally…

“We will,” Sherlock insisted. “I am not going to forget that. Count on it!”

“Yes, dear. Let us sleep now.”

Grudgingly, Sherlock all but wrapped himself around Mycroft, nuzzling his face against the older man’s neck, and Mycroft stared at the ceiling for another hour, arousal buzzing in his groin once more at Sherlock being so close, so warm, so beautiful, but his heart was heavy. He dreaded the future. A future in which Sherlock would finally want nothing to do with him anymore, ever.

But a part of him insisted that this was worth it – holding Sherlock in his arms, having his love.

If only for a very short time.

Chapter Text

Mycroft stopped dead when he had opened the door of his house and stepped into the hallway. He had expected a lot of things, but not this.

It wasn’t surprising that Sherlock had not come to greet him – well, his brother was not a dog, was he – because his brother had no idea that Mycroft would be at home so early tonight. A meeting had been cancelled and Mycroft had not seen any reason to stay at Whitehall any longer. In fact, he had cancelled said meeting, simply having Anthea inform the would-be attendees of his decision regarding the frankly boring matter that was supposed to be discussed. There had been some grumbling, his assistant had said, but there was not much to say when the reason she had given them had been the ‘devastating loss in his family’. Mycroft imagined she had told the very important people that, trying not to giggle. But Anthea never giggled. She was as deadly serious as she had to be. The mirth in her eyes definitely spoke of her generally humorous nature, but her occupation was not exactly a funny one. She was Mycroft's gatekeeper, his right hand, the person he trusted most in this world. She would lie for him whenever necessary, hell, even kill for him if he asked her to, and she would certainly not lose any sleep over it.

In any way, Mycroft had shed the shackles of his trying position two hours earlier than usual and had asked his driver to stop at a large supermarket, where he had bought lots of groceries, not only for tonight’s dinner, which was supposed to be self-made for a change. It would be simple enough as he did like to eat well but was not an accomplished chef in any shape or form; that had not been a lie. He didn't have time, nor was he interested in standing in the kitchen for a lengthy period of time after an arduous day at the office. He certainly had more time tonight, but he had decided pasta with smoked salmon and a green salad would do.

Now, he slowly and quietly closed the door and activated the security, listening to the unexpected tunes that were meeting his ear as he put his umbrella in its stand and took off his coat. Sherlock was playing the violin. A piece of his own, Mycroft was quite sure. A song of both joy and despair, of hope and guilt. A forceful melody, born from rich emotions Sherlock would have never tolerated in his ‘former life’.

So did he remember everything now? Or had he learned to play the instrument within one day? Mycroft would not put it past him. But his heart was still beating at an unhealthy pace as he strode to the kitchen to store the groceries and wash his hands and then went to join his brother in the living room.

Looking sharply at the detective, waiting for the sword of Damocles to drop, Mycroft entered the room. There was a miniscule twitch on Sherlock's face before he stopped playing. “Oh, Mycroft. It’s… amazing. It’s like my hands remember what my mind does not.”

Well, that was an explanation, albeit a weird one. Sherlock's memory loss was very unusual, as far as Mycroft could tell. Maybe baby brother should have seen a medical expert about this, after all (even though Mycroft had to admit he would not bring this up now, encouraging it because of obvious reasons…). That he remembered basically everything except for himself and his nearest and dearest – particularly Doctor Watson – was not something that made a whole lot of sense, was it? And now his fingers ‘recalled’ how to play one of the most difficult instruments one could find while Sherlock had no memory of the childhood in which he had learned to play it?

Sherlock must have seen the suspicion in his eyes, because he put the violin and the bow onto the table and got up to sling his arms around Mycroft's neck. “I know it’s strange, but it’s true. Did it sound good? My song?” He kissed Mycroft on the lips, and Mycroft eagerly returned the kiss before he answered.

“Very good. Moving. Did it just fly out of your hands?”

Sherlock nodded. “It’s like my soul pouring into the violin. You know – my happiness about being with you, and the rather bad feelings about having to betray everybody else…”

Mycroft patted his back. “I understand that very well. Well, the agents are making progress. You won’t be able to get back into your usual life that quickly, but it won’t take months.” Like it would have been if Sherlock had gone all by himself. Which had been a crazy, idiotic plan from the get-go. Of course Mycroft did not wish for the operation to be over so quickly. As far as he was concerned, it could go on forever...

He did not want to waste their precious time together musing about things he could not change. It would only put him into the same depressing state he had experienced the night before, and he really did not long for that.

“I bought lots of nice things to eat for us,” he told Sherlock, stroking his silky black curls. “We can cook together, if you like.”

“Oh, sure!” Sherlock looked and sounded seriously enthusiastic at the prospect of doing some handiwork, and Mycroft thought that he liked this version of his brother better than any other he had gotten to know in the past.

If he would only be allowed to keep it…

*****

“I beg your pardon, Lock?” Amused, Mycroft used his napkin, looking lovingly at his brother.

Sherlock had said something that sounded like, “Shishishreagoo.”

The beautiful man with the black curls smiled sheepishly and swallowed the mouthful of pasta and salad. “Apologies. But you know what I meant to say.”

‘This is really good’, was Mycroft's guess. “Perhaps. I would say you wanted to bring it to my attention that you are enjoying the food we cooked?”

“Exactly. Well, you cooked it. I merely killed some vegetables and drowned the green stuff and tore it apart.”

Mycroft chuckled. “And you did it very well.”

“You told me you could not cook, but you clearly do. Do you do it often?” Sherlock asked him before taking another bite.

“Not really. It’s no fun to prepare a full meal just for yourself.” Dammit… Mycroft realised his mistake a moment too late.

“But surely we do eat together sometimes?” Sherlock promptly asked, looking confused.

“Not often, no,” Mycroft mumbled. “Time is rare, I told you.”

“But we’re married. We should be spending time with each other. Or… Are you ashamed of being married to me? Or a man in general?”

“What? No! Of course not. Being married to you is… the best that could have ever happened to me.” Mycroft wished himself far, far away…

If it only were true… He had to correct this lie, stat! This travesty could not go on any longer. It was a disservice to Sherlock – and himself.

“Same,” Sherlock said. “I only want to be with you.”

Mycroft briefly closed his eyes, feeling his sudden resolve crumble as quickly as it had built. No, he was not going to tell Sherlock that their so-called marriage was nothing but an illusion… How could he? He had maintained the lie for several days now, had acted as if it was reality; if he confessed it now out of the blue, Sherlock would either not believe him or run away, and the latter would be a really bad idea. And there was still the fact that Mycroft did not want to tell him. He wanted to enjoy being with him for as long as possible. Which was not rational at all. It would come out eventually, and it would backfire greatly. Mycroft had never had the facts about a subject and had then chosen to ignore them. But this was different. It was sentiment. Something he should have never succumbed to. But he had, and that was not going to change. This was the one thing he had never allowed himself to even dream about because it had been so far out of his reach. And now it had all but fallen into his lap, and he was simply not strong enough to give it up. It was pathetic, honestly. But perhaps… it made him human…

He had been quiet for too long. Sherlock was staring at him, suspiciously. Mycroft took his hand and brushed a kiss onto the bony knuckles, which made his brother smile. “Greg Lestrade called me today,” he said, changing the subject.

“Lestrade. The cop who lets me solve his cases?” Sherlock stuffed another mouthful of pasta into his mouth.

“The cop who desperately needs you to solve his cases,” Mycroft corrected him, sounding a bit petty to his own ears. He had always appreciated Gregory Lestrade’s acceptance of his brother. The man had given Sherlock access to crime scenes and police equipment, had believed in his talents and methods when everybody around him had spat fire and shown Sherlock nothing but contempt and dislike. If one wanted to be fair, it needed to be said that Sherlock's attitude had done nothing to improve his relationship with people like Philip Anderson and Sally Donovan. Cops didn't like to be bossed around by an outsider and to be told they were incapable of doing their jobs (even if that was true...), and Mycroft assumed that very few people in general found Sherlock's arrogance and disdain for the ‘idiots’ very compelling, let alone police officers who were as full of themselves as those nasty people.

Lestrade had never been bothered by Sherlock's behaviour, and it had been to their mutual benefit. Until the man had turned against his brother… “He arrested you,” Mycroft grumbled and attacked a noodle with his fork.

“From what you told me, he had to, and we even counted on it to happen”, Sherlock reminded him mildly, and Mycroft shrugged.

“Still. He was fast at believing the worst of you, all of a sudden. And if he didn't believe it and still came to put you in handcuffs, it’s even worse. He was very rude to Mrs Hudson, too.”

“I thought you didn't like her,” Sherlock smirked.

“That’s beside the point.” Mycroft sighed. “In any way – he called to apologise for it. He was… crying.” He had not expected that. And it had not sat well with him.

Sherlock's face darkened. “The things we’ve been putting my friends through… I don't like it.”

“It was necessary.” Mycroft felt like a broken record. They’d had this discussion during their planning of how to react to Moriarty’s attacks over and over, and he had explained it to amnesiac Sherlock too already, hadn’t he… “He also wanted to know when the funeral takes place, and if he is allowed to attend it.”

Sherlock grimaced. “My funeral. How lovely. When is it?”

“This Saturday. In two days. I told him he can come, but not that hyena Donovan and her idiotic lover Anderson.”

“You will bury the man who looked like me…”

Mycroft nodded. “With some surgical help, he did.” Moriarty had really been determined to take Sherlock down…

“My parents…”

“...won’t show. I told you – they are in Africa.”

“Yes, sure. And your dad?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Nobody from our families will have to endure it. Just your friends.” It was a secret appointment so the press wouldn’t pester them. Mycroft had threatened everybody involved in quickly organising the funeral with grave consequences should they blab about it to a reporter...

“Won’t that look a tad suspicious?” Sherlock smirked.

“I will tell everybody that they are too devastated to attend. They will say goodbye to you a little later.” Mycroft knew that it would have been more convincing if their parents had come. But he couldn’t let Mummy go through this fake funeral. She would either give it away by being too relieved that her son was not actually dead or get all hysterical because she would imagine it could really be the case. They were not close to their extended family. Mummy’s sisters (and Uncle Rudy) were already on the other side, and the cousins had never liked either Sherlock or Mycroft. And Father was an only child.

“John will suffer,” Sherlock mumbled. “And poor Mrs Hudson…”

“Remember you’ve been doing all this for them. Eventually, they will understand.”

“And forgive me?”

“I am sure of it.” In fact, Mycroft was not so certain that John Watson would take it well. But the man’s obsession with his brother would make him accept his explanations, hopefully.

Sherlock had finished his meal and got up. “Well, that was delicious. I will take care of the dishes now.”

“We will do that together,” Mycroft said, relieved that this conversation was over. He didn't look forward to the day of the funeral. Sherlock would want to see some clips of the event, and Mycroft would record it and show him some wisely chosen scenes (in which nobody called him Sherlock's brother…). It was certainly not an event he would enjoy, even though he would know that his brother was very much alive, waiting for him at home – thinking he was his husband…

Life had become a big circus. Crazy things had been happening. And he had been swimming with the tide instead of controlling them – definitely something very new.

And he could not deny that he was feeling more alive than he had done in decades.

*****

When Mycroft entered his bedroom, showered and shaved as usual, he saw at once that this was the night in which they would finally cross the line. So far, they had more or less behaved, had kept their relationship mostly on the platonic side. But even if Sherlock's look of determination and eagerness had not given it away that little brother was absolutely unwilling to keep it that way for another day, the fact that he had not bothered putting on pyjamas would have spoken volumes.

Sherlock was lying on the blanket, completely naked, his cock erect and glistening.

Mycroft’s mouth went completely dry within a second, his eyes glued to the parts of his brother he had never thought he would see (let alone be able to touch). A cock that was on the shorter side, curved to the right, and rosy, almost hairless balls, full and surely very soft and heavy for him.

His cock had jumped to attention at the sight and the anticipation of the sweet goodies that were now waiting for him.

It also meant that he would succumb to his primal instincts and put them over his brotherly duties. It was his job as the older brother to protect Sherlock. He had always tried to do that, with somewhat limited success. But now he was ready to throw these principles overboard. Take advantage of his brother. But Sherlock wanted it, he wanted it badly; there was no doubt about it. Because when Mycroft now kneeled on the bed, drawn to him like a moth to the light, his brother’s hands were grabbing him and pulling him, and there was no way not to give in. He would have needed the mental strength of a god to resist him, and he didn't even try…

Mycroft could not remember later how he had gotten rid of his pants. Long, silky fingers closed around his raging erection in no time at all, massaging him. A loud moan escaped Mycroft's lips, and then his brother’s body was pressed flush against his and hot flesh was grinding against each other while Sherlock's mouth captured his. The kisses they shared were feverish and messy, Mycroft’s hands were grabbing Sherlock's arse, kneading it. He wanted to be in him so badly, but there was no chance as he erupted in hot, forceful spurts, joined by his lover only seconds later.

They collapsed on the bed, still entangled, still kissing, and Mycroft was feeling boneless and stunned out of his mind and grateful and sticky and happy.

*****

Late in the night, Sherlock woke up, his head caught in the space between Mycroft's shoulder and his head, the other man’s arms wrapped firmly around him, as if even in his sleep, he was adamant to never let him go again. It was not the most comfortable position as it twisted his neck quite a bit, but nevertheless a very welcome one. Sherlock didn't move so as to not wake up his partner, whom he could barely see in the dark room.

Sherlock smiled and brushed a kiss on soft, warm skin, and then he closed his eyes again, snuggling even closer to the man he had learned to love, and the dreams that entertained his sleep were bright and pleasant.

Chapter Text

Everything had changed, Mycroft thought when he opened the door of his house, standing eye to eye with one certain consulting detective. There was no doubt about it. Nothing was the same anymore, and there was no going back from being… lovers. As tame as their first sexual encounter really had been – for both of them, it had been a big bloody deal. Well, Sherlock thought it was the first sex he remembered having with his husband. Mycroft, on the other hand, knew now that he had no path of avoiding getting intimate with his brother, and he didn’t want that, anyway. He had given in, and he didn't regret it.

Oh, during the day, he had beaten himself up – not literally – about crossing the line, exploiting the trust of the man who thought he was married to him. He had caught himself gnawing at a pencil in deep thought instead of working on a report as he should be. He had cursed his weakness – the good angel had not been pleased with him – but deep inside, he had been cheering along with the evil wing-creature, metaphorically fist-pumping the air. From the first day, he had been torn in two about his incapability of doing the right thing – telling Sherlock that they were very much not husbands but as closely related as possible – and his deeply rooted desire to not do that. To jump in those unknown waters. Where the sharks named Incest, Depravity, Sherlock-Will-Hate-You-When-He-Finds-Out and You-Will-Burn-In-Hell-For-This were waiting for him to eat him alive.

But as it was, he died for eating Sherlock alive – from head to toe – and now he had done the first real step towards this rapidly growing fantasy. They had not quite broken the taboo (yet). A bit of mutual masturbating and groping probably didn't count as incest. But he very well knew it was only a matter of time until things got even juicier, and judging by the hungry looks Sherlock was giving him now as approached Mycroft like a predator stalking on his prey, they would get even closer to it tonight. And dammit – he was here for it! He would not tell Sherlock, “No, we can’t do this!” because they bloody well could. They shouldn’t, but they could. And they would. And Mycroft was far beneath the point of fighting it, and fuck the consequences...

So when the determined detective now crashed against him and claimed his mouth in a wet, greedy kiss, Mycroft closed his arms around him and fiercely kissed him back, and one of his hands might have gone astray on a very alluring globe, firm and plush under his palm. A cheeky groin was grinding against his, and he moaned as their erections were starting to tango.

He could smell that Sherlock had cooked dinner for them (little brother had texted him to tell him he didn't have to bring anything), but he was this close to pulling Sherlock to the floor and ripping his clothes off of him and making love to him on the hallway carpet.

Knowing his back would not survive such an artistic and uncomfortable encounter, he reluctantly pulled away, panting hard, as Sherlock’s hand was crawling into his pants. “This is very nice, but I think we should postpone diving into this a bit, don’t you think?”

Sherlock nuzzled his face against that sensitive spot behind his ear (how had he found this erogenous zone so easily?) and grumbled, his hand grabbing Mycroft's raging boner. “No,” he rumbled, his teeth grazing Mycroft's ear lobe as if he was a disgruntled cat that had just been denied a treat or told to let go of the damned mouse and behave.

“No, really, little… brat.” Dammit! But at least it fitted the moment… “I must say I’m quite hungry, and not only for you but for some actual food, and we wouldn’t want your dinner to burn, hm?”

“Fine,” Sherlock growled. “We eat first. But then there won’t be any escape!”

“As if I wanted that.” Mycroft grinned and kissed him again, and then Sherlock took his hand and led him towards the dining room with long steps.

*****

“Great to see you like what I cooked,” Sherlock smirked, raising his glass towards Mycroft.

A bit embarrassed, Mycroft looked at his plate, which he had cleared in record time. The potatoes in béchamel sauce with the green salad were marvellous, and he had gobbled them down as if he had not eaten in days. “Sorry, yes, they were very good.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Why would you apologise for enjoying your meal?”

“Well…” Mycroft cleared his throat. “You tend to mock me with my weight.”

“What?” Sherlock looked aghast. “Why would I do that? You’re in great shape, and even if you gained some pounds, it would not be my place to give you a hard time for that. What kind of a horrible husband am I?!”

Dammit… Of course a husband would not say something like that. Well, not a nice husband, at least… But an estranged brother – that was another matter. Mycroft had always more or less accepted Sherlock's rather malevolent jibes. It wasn’t as if he had been that wrong, after all… “I mean, you are so slim and I’m not, and –…”

“But you are!” Sherlock looked seriously pissed off now. “You’re gorgeous and handsome, not even mentioning super smart and I’m totally in love with you!”

Mycroft gulped. There was something sitting in his throat. Something big and weird and wonderful. “Thank you, Lock. So am I. In love with you. Like mad.” It was the sheer truth. He had loved Sherlock forever, but during the past few days, this feeling had increased and intensified by an extent that was mind-boggling.

Sherlock stared at him, with even more scrutiny than ever before. His eyes were all but burning into Mycroft's face. “Good,” he said then, but he sounded rather meek. “If I ever say something like this to you again, you have my express permission to slap me in the face.”

“I would never!” Mycroft protested.

“I would deserve it, though,” Sherlock insisted. “But it doesn’t matter because it is never going to happen again. When we are finished, I’m going to take you to bed and show you just how much I desire you.”

It was really getting very warm in this room… “That would be… most convenient,” Mycroft croaked, sounding like a frog with a bad cold.

“What do you like?”

“About what?” Mycroft downed his wine, staring at his brother.

“Sex.”

Mycroft spat out the mouthful of wine he had not yet swallowed. Thankfully, it landed on his plate, not the white table cloth. Well, most of it at least...

Sherlock laughed out loud – thankfully, his mouth was empty. “Sorry. That was a bit crude, I suppose. But it is a crude topic, isn’t it?”

Mycroft managed a nod, feeling his cheeks burn. “One could say that.”

“So?”

Mycroft was so not prepared for this conversation. But he should have been. They had already had some – harmless – kind of sex the previous night, after all. It was an absolutely legitimate question. Just… how to answer it when it had been literally his first time?

He cleared his throat. “I like… everything. Everything that involves you.”

Sherlock actually purred at that. “That’s so cute,” he said with a big smile.

“Not cute, me,” Mycroft mumbled, hiding behind his tissue.

“So… I suppose you are more of a top than a bottom?”

Mycroft gaped at him.

Sherlock shrugged. “I mean… I took your name when we got married, didn't I? Suppose my, well, maiden name, is ‘Scott’?”

He must have googled himself again, Mycroft concluded. Had found out that his name was William Sherlock Scott Holmes. “Yes,” he lied, because what else was he supposed to do? “It was not my idea. You wanted to have the same name, and you thought ‘Sherlock Holmes’ sounded better than ‘Mycroft Scott’.” Dear lord… Where had this even come from? He had always been a smooth liar, granted, but this was a level of dishonesty he had not thought he had in him, not with Sherlock...

Sherlock nodded. “That is very true. I love my name. So… But somehow I have the feeling that you are the top in our relationship. The dominant man?”

“That has nothing to do with being dominant,” Mycroft said, blushing again. “And we… both do both. I might top more often than you, because you like bottoming a little better than topping.” Thank god for gay porn videos… He wouldn’t have even known what those terms meant if he had not ‘done his research’… And he didn't want to appear like a man who could only give, not take. What that would actually mean for their future sex life was another question. He had never thought of taking it up his rear end… But somehow, the sheer thought of Sherlock possessing him made his pants got tighter...

“That sounds fair. So… While we’re at it. What’s your favourite colour?”

“My… what?” Could this conversation get any more surreal?

“I still don't know a whole lot about you,” Sherlock said, shrugging again. “We mostly talked about the mission, which makes sense, of course. But I want to know more about you as a person. Everything, actually. I can’t be married to a stranger.” He suddenly reached out for Mycroft's hand, and pressed it. “I didn't mean that how it just sounded. I know I love you. That is out of the question, and I am not going anywhere, under no circumstances. I just want to… know you.”

“I understand completely.” Mycroft’s fingers caressed Sherlock's gently. “I would say ‘blue’ is my favourite colour. Turquoise, to be precise. Like your eyes…”

Sherlock beamed at him. “Dammit, Mikey, never thought you’d be such a sweet-talker!”

“Just telling the truth.” Mycroft realised that he had started to like it when Sherlock used those silly nicknames.

“I believe you. So… Favourite song?” When Mycroft looked irritated, Sherlock added, “Just answer without thinking.”

“Um. ‘Imagine’, I’d say. John Lennon.”

Sherlock looked surprised and impressed. “A great choice. Never thought you would even listen to pop music.”

“Well, it’s not exactly contemporary. But it’s a good song.”

“It is,” Sherlock nodded. “Pretty emotional, though. Not a love song, on the other hand.”

“I have never been much into those.” Well, why would he have been… Love had always been out of his grasp. If the only person you ever desired was your own little brother, there was nothing else to be expected, after all. Until now…

“I see. How many men have you had before me? Or… women?”

“Women! None. Of course not. I am gay.”

Sherlock gave him an expectant look. “And how about men?”

Mycroft could have lied and invented some boyfriends. But he chose to tell him the truth. “None. Nobody was worthy of my time until you came along.”

“Oh Mikey. I love you so much!”

The next moment, Mycroft had an armful of sobbing detective. He held him close, smiling as Sherlock captured his mouth in a deep kiss. And after some heated kissing, Sherlock got up and pulled him up as well, and Mycroft followed him to the bedroom as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

*****

As fierce as Sherlock had been, as determined as he had seemed to ravish Mycroft at the first opportunity – when they were both naked, lying on Mycroft's bed, little brother sank back into the pillows, his trustful eyes on Mycroft, his arms spreading in a silent invitation of ‘take me!’

And Mycroft, shivering from head to toe, his cock filled out, his nerve ends on fire, took hold of what was so freely offered. He began with kisses to Sherlock's beautiful face, gentle pecks onto his eyelids, the tip of his nose, his smiling mouth, before he claimed his lips in a long, passionate snogging.

He then moved over to nibbling at the long, pale neck and the prominent collar bones, focusing his attention on Sherlock's small, dark nipples and his muscular, nearly hairless chest while his hands were caressing Sherlock's sides and thighs, his skin so smooth and soft and alluring.

The rippled stomach of his brother screamed for being worshipped, too, and Mycroft let his tongue and lips do the good work, inhaling the clean, sweet scent of his lover, who was cheering him on with little gasps and adorable noises that reminded Mycroft of a cat that had its head scratched by tender fingers.

And then he had reached the main prize – Sherlock's erect cock, pink and stiff and leaking for him, and Mycroft darted out his tongue and licked at the tip. Sherlock's moan made Mycroft's cock jump, and he wrapped his hand around his length while he was letting his tongue explore the soft, sticky head of his brother’s member. The taste was weird and wild and musky, and he couldn’t get enough of it. He was completely inexperienced, of course, but he found it very easy to please his lover. Sherlock's reactions, his groans, his hand on Mycroft's head, not pushing him but guiding him, were both a help and an aphrodisiac.

Eventually, he stopped circling and licking Sherlock's knob but took it into his mouth, sucking it gently. Sherlock started to mumble incoherent gibberish, Mycroft's name being thrown in in increasing urgency, and it was so cute that Mycroft smiled while sucking him off.

The end came fast, and it came heftily. Mycroft's mouth was flooded with hot, creamy semen, but he found it surprisingly easy to deal with swallowing it; he even licked Sherlock's cock clean while fiercely masturbating to the sounds of his brother’s decreasing climax. He came silently while taking the twitching cock into his mouth once more, spilling all over his hand and Sherlock's leg.

And when Sherlock urged him to come up to him so he could snog him and chase his taste on Mycroft's tongue with deep, hungry kisses, his clammy fingers boring into the sensitive flesh of Mycroft's side and arse, the world seemed to have become a perfect place.

Chapter Text

“Sherlock Holmes was a man like no other. A one-in-a-million man. Not just the world’s only consulting detective. He was so much more than this. So much more than the smartest man in England. A virtuous violinist. A man with a deep understanding of philosophy. A man of integrity, of loyalty. There was nothing he would not have done for his family or his friends. Solving cases might have served as a thrill for him, but in doing so, he changed the lives of dozens of people for the better. The police have every reason to be grateful for his service, which he granted them for three. Instead, they turned him into something he was not. A criminal, a fraud, an evil man. I hope you will take the shame for this misconception that led to his death to your graves. Thank you.”

“Wow,” Sherlock said, letting the hand with the phone drop. “That was short and damning. Devastating! You sounded very convincing.” He grinned. “What did Lestrade do?”

“He cried,” Mycroft said dryly. “As he should…”

Sherlock laughed. “You really hate him, don’t you?”

“’Hate’ is a strong word,” Mycroft mumbled. “I think he should have trusted you.”

“He was merely a pawn in our game,” Sherlock said, not for the first time, tilting his head.

“And a willing complicit in bringing you down.” Mycroft knew he was being unfair; Lestrade had called him and said sorry. But really – if Sherlock were actually dead, his apologies would have been an insult. How do you make up for pushing a man to commit suicide because you thought the worst of him even though you had to know better? He didn't think he would ever forgive the man. But he knew that it was futile. Even after forgetting anything, Sherlock still saw the man in a better light than he would ever do.

He sighed. “You can have a look at their speeches, too, if you like.”

“Of course!” And so Mycroft looked over Sherlock's shoulder while he started watching the carefully edited clips, short and tearful goodbyes at his alleged funeral.

The man who had taken Sherlock's place, the man Moriarty had used to kidnap two children and blame it on Sherlock, had been buried after a short service at a small church. Ethan Myers would not have to be dug up again to prove Sherlock's innocence. His fingerprints and DNA, which had been found at the crime scene (and Philip Anderson had managed to overlook them) were saved in his file at the Secret Service headquarters. As soon as the operation of taking down Moriarty’s web all over Europe was finished, it would be used to clear Sherlock's name so he could come back as the innocent man he was. And of course there would be evidence to prove that Moriarty had not just been harmless little Rich Brook, the actor, but indeed a criminal mastermind.

“He was my friend. My best friend. He gave me… my life back, when I had no hope, after coming home from the war. Nobody will ever convince me that he did anything wrong!”

John Watson, looking gaunt and frail in his black suit, had hissed those last words after delivering a heated speech, his hands balled into fists. Mycroft had been quite impressed. He had not liked the man very much in the beginning – well, he would not have liked anyone who managed to capture his brother’s attention – but he had to admit the doctor had proven to be a good friend to him over and over. His jealousy of the man’s relationship with Sherlock had always gotten the better of him, but at least the short captain had never turned out to be a traitor...

Sherlock looked very glum after closing the file. “Damn. He is suffering. A lot.”

“They all are. But it has hit him the hardest, certainly.”

Sherlock nodded. “That clip was a bit weird. Did you cut something out?”

Oh, little brother was good… “Ah, just a bit. He went on and on about how great you were. I thought it was a bit tedious.” In fact, John’s speech had not been much longer than his own. But he had mentioned Mycroft being his brother…

Sherlock did not look convinced. “Well, I do have time! I could have watched it all.”

“Maybe later. How about looking at how your detective inspector tried to make up for his failures?” If Sherlock insisted on watching the full clips – Lestrade had also referred to Mycroft as Sherlock's sibling – Mycroft would have to tell him that he had, unfortunately, accidentally, deleted the original files. He was no amateur. He had deceived a lot of people in his career. They had not been as smart as Sherlock, though… Well, he would find a way to distract him… And he really needed some TLC, as they said… Not just because he had had to witness his brother’s funeral. It had not been real, of course, but it had still made him feel very uncomfortable, and it had shown in his little speech. Sherlock could have died on that rooftop, or by jumping off the roof. The day had just been awful (except for the surprisingly well-executed blowjob Sherlock had insisted on performing on him in the morning). And the genuine grief of Sherlock's friends and his own glumness at what could have been had not even been the worst things about it…

“I am sorry. So sorry. You’re a good man, Sherlock. I’ve always known that. I should have done better. Oh… Anderson… You were not supposed to be here…”

Sherlock snorted. “That’s the forensics guy, isn’t it?”

Mycroft grinned a bit sourly. “It is, yes. I told Lestrade he’s not welcome at your funeral. I should have known he’d show up anyway…”

Anderson had come forth during Lestrade’s clumsy but heartfelt stammering. Sobbing and shivering, he had let himself be pulled into an awkward embrace by the DI, snottily declaring his regrets about having all but pushed Sherlock off that rooftop. He had sobbed that he now believed that Sherlock had been exactly what he had claimed to be – a genius, a good man. Hardly able to utter a coherent word, he had not exactly explained how he had come to that surprising conclusion. He and Sally D. had always been Sherlock's worst enemies at the force.

“But that woman – Donovan was her name? – was not there, right?” Sherlock said after disconsolately watching Mrs Hudson calling him ‘the son I never had’ and Molly Hooper all but declaring her undying love for him (which had not sat well with Mycroft at all, naturally).

“I thought she was, later, at the grave,” Mycroft mumbled. From about fifty metres away, he had seen a slim woman in black, hiding her face behind a black scarf, lurking in the pouring rain, watching how the coffin had been put into the earth. “But it wasn’t her.”

No, it really had not… He had found out when he had been left alone after Mrs Hudson had hugged him, John had given him a handshake that had almost crushed his fingers, Molly Hooper had cast him a conspiratorially look that had made him roll his eyes, and Lestrade had led Anderson away after giving him one more pleading glance which he had answered with a grim face.

“I did not want that,” the mysterious woman who had suddenly shown up behind him had said, making him jump straight in the air.

And then he had recognised her, and had almost jumped again, his eyes widening in shock.

“Eur… Eurus?” he had stuttered. “What the… hell are you doing here?” When you should be sitting in your cell, playing the violin or staring at the glass walls or helping us identify threats against the kingdom...

She had not paid him any heed. “I did not want him to kill you. I just wanted your –…” She had not finished the sentence but had jumped into the gravel pit and thrown herself onto ‘Sherlock’s’ coffin, hammering onto it with her small fists, crying and screeching the detective’s name.

Mycroft, aghast and horrified, had called Anthea, his shivering hands almost dropping the phone, and his assistant had immediately sent help. Half an hour later, Eurus, who had not stopped trying to get into the casket with her bare hands, looking as if she had just delivered several rounds of mud-wrestling, had been arrested. Mycroft had entered a large helicopter that had brought him to Sherrinford, along with twenty agents and his dirty sister. And the rest of the afternoon, he had been busy securing the prison that had been, unbeknownst to him or anyone else, taken over by its most notorious inhabitant – sister dear herself. The governor had been her puppet, and the guards had all been compromised and had to be replaced as well. It had been a really big mess...

The sheer thought of the mayhem she would have eventually caused, roaming free, had sickened him. He had spent the ride home beating himself up for missing those terrible developments. He had feared that something was off in Sherrinford, but he had been distracted lately, hadn’t he... Eurus had, as he had feared after Moriarty had shown up to target Sherlock, set the crime lord on her brother, for the sake of, what, gaining his attention? He had asked her about her endgame, of course, but she had not answered him. In fact, she had not said any word after having been put in handcuffs and led away, only silently crying and biting her bottom lip bloody.

“You were gone for pretty long,” Sherlock stated now, giving the phone back to him, thankfully without asking again to watch the full videos he would never be allowed to see.

“Oh, well. I needed some time to… contemplate. I mean,” Mycroft added, shrugging, “it was like seeing you being buried for real. It was… not nice.”

Sherlock smiled at him full of affection. “I understand that. But I’m here. I’m yours. Let me make love to you now, okay?”

Mycroft was pretty hungry after that long ordeal, but of course he nodded. “Yes. I would love that.” And wasn’t that the truth? The mission was proceeding very fast now; it could only be a matter of four or five weeks until Sherlock would be able to return into the life he did not remember, Mycroft estimated. Maybe the fact that he didn’t remember anything would buy Mycroft some more time with him. But his friends would want to see him, and he would definitely want that, too, even if he didn’t recall anything about his past. And then it would all blow up…

It was a meek and rather sad Mycroft who followed his brother into his bedroom. Only the thought of being allowed to touch and love the most beautiful man alive cheered him up.

*****

Some things just felt too good, Mycroft thought with the part of the brain that had not gone muddy. It should be forbidden to feel that much pleasure. Well, actually – it was forbidden in this case. But he couldn’t have cared less. Here, in this bubble, they were married men who were allowed to have any kind of sex, anytime they wanted.

Sherlock had pushed him onto the bed after ripping his black suit off, and now he seemed to be determined to lick every inch of Mycroft's sadly hairy body. Little brother was obviously not appalled by all the fur and the flabby parts – in fact, the gorgeous detective seemed to be fully infatuated with what Mycroft had to offer. Well, at least he had a really big cock…

Sherlock had his hand loosely wrapped around Mycroft’s throbbing appendage while sucking and biting his nipples into hard little nubs. Mycroft needed more friction but any attempt at making that known to Sherlock was met by rather vile rejection. Sherlock was setting the pace, and it was torture, and Mycroft loved it. To be the object of his brother’s full attention, to be worshipped as if he was the sexiest man on this earth – he would never tire of that.

Mycroft was feeling alive and alert – and still he was frequently bothered by the picture of that coffin, not so much because little sister had been all but biting it in order to open it up so she could apologise to Sherlock's corpse but because it could have really contained the man he loved with all his heart. It was a thought that threatened to tear his soul apart, and he caught himself sobbing with not just relief when Sherlock's lips closed around the engorged head of his cock.

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, and then he whispered, “I want you to take me, Mikey. I need you.”

It was not hard to come right away at this offer. “I want to. But I don't want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. I mean, we’ve done that plenty of times, right?”

“Um. Sure. But as I said – the last time was quite some time ago.”

“Then it is high time to open me up again.” Sherlock smirked in what could only be described as a thoroughly naughty way. “Do we have something?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Mycroft had not owned any lubricant before Sherlock had (sadly temporarily) moved in with him, but he had thought of getting something, hoping they would eventually have intercourse. Which meant finally really breaking the taboo – and the law. A stupid law, as far as he was concerned. None of them was prone to make the other one pregnant anytime soon, and neither was forcing himself on the other, either. On the other hand – Sherlock was certainly consenting to it, suggesting it even, but he had no idea that they were brothers. So as a matter of fact, Mycroft was abusing him in some way.

Sherlock looked at his suddenly shrinking erection with narrowed eyes. “What’s up? Or not up, to be precise… I promise you, it won’t hurt me, and even if it does, I will still love it.” He grabbed Mycroft’s cock and pumped it back into stiffness with a strong right hand. “Where is the stuff?”

Pushing any second thoughts away (as thinking had become difficult because all his blood seemed to have rushed southwards), Mycroft hurried to get the lubricant out of the drawer next to his side of the bed. He had sneaked it in two days ago when Sherlock had been showering.

“Mmm, peach flavour.” Sherlock grinned happily. “Open me up, darling. I want it.” He hurled himself onto his stomach, groaning a bit when his own prominent erection was pressed against the mattress.

With shivering hands, Mycroft uncapped the bottle and squeezed a generous amount onto Sherlock's crack. He had not even really seen his brother’s opening, he realised. Not up close, and he had not touched it – the forbidden passage. Now he spread the soft but firm cheeks, staring at the wrinkled, pink spot, glistening with sticky fluid, twitching and shivering. He ran a finger over it, shuddering when Sherlock moaned. A moment later, he buried his face in the crack, licking and sucking with a greed he had not known he had in himself.

He was almost tossed off when Sherlock bucked up at the intrusion of Mycroft's tongue, but then his brother reached around and pressed his face back where he clearly desperately needed it. Smiling, Mycroft proceeded to eat him out, opening him up with the help of his two forefingers. The opening still didn't look nearly wide enough to take his massive penis, but eventually, Sherlock begged him to finally start fucking him.

The profanity did it. Mycroft placed his legs to both sides of Sherlock's arse, poured some more peachy sticky stuff onto the quivering entrance, lined his cock up – and ever so slowly pushed inside.

*****

The world stopped, or so it felt. His ears were filled with a noise like waves crashing on rocks. That noise was imaginary, of course, but Sherlock's moans and gasps and pleads were not. Mycroft rocked into him, gently at first, stunned by the impossible tightness and heat of the walls that were snuggling to his throbbing cock. When Sherlock urged him to go harder, he did. It was a wondrous thing. Nothing about it felt wrong. The good angel might try to sabotage his efforts by showing him mental pictures of baby Sherlock in his crib or Mummy impersonating ‘The Scream’ by Edvard Munch, but Mycroft ignored it, way too absorbed in fucking his little brother with increasing intensity. The evil angel was beating off to it on his other shoulder.

“You okay?” he panted, as if there was any sign that Sherlock was not thoroughly enjoying himself.

“Great,” Sherlock panted back. “Feels like the first time but a great first time.”

“Same,” Mycroft said, feeling a very inappropriate giggle building up in him. First time, my arse… Well, more like your arse, little brother...

Thankfully, Sherlock chose this moment to grab his pumping hips. “Stop.”

“What is it?” Mycroft stilled at once.

“I want to see you,” Sherlock said, looking over his shoulder.

It took Mycroft’s sex-addled brain a moment to understand. “Oh, sure.” He pulled out, glancing at his dark-red, swollen cock, bigger than ever, with no little pride, and helped his brother to turn around.

It was a bit more difficult to slide back into him in this position, and Sherlock hissed when his own hard prick was trapped between their bodies and his balls were probably squeezed a bit, but soon they had both adjusted to the new challenge and Mycroft was happily pumping away again, his eyes locked with Sherlock's.

He felt his orgasm building way too soon, but he didn't try to suppress it. Instead, he reached into the almost non-existent space between their stomachs and grabbed Sherlock's cock, masturbating him, needing him to come as well.

They moaned and panted together, on their mutual way to a certainly mind-blowing climax. Sherlock went first, spilling onto Mycroft's hand and his own groin, and Mycroft followed suit, feeling as if the bottom part of his body had been set on fire. He spilled deep in Sherlock's body, and Sherlock forced his head down, claiming Mycroft's mouth with fierce passion, and then he broke their kiss while Mycroft's cock was still erupting spurts of semen, and said, smiling, “That was wonderful, brother mine.”

Chapter Text

In his (not quite post-) orgasmic bliss, the meaning of Sherlock's words reached Mycroft's brain only after a few seconds. But then a strangled noise escaped his suddenly completely dry throat and he ripped his softening cock out of its tight confinements, paying no heed to the rich amount of fluids that followed it.

Sherlock, on the other hand, grimaced, but there was a grin in his voice when he said, “Yuck. That’s a bit gross. Do you possibly have a tissue for me?”

Mycroft stared at him, feeling that his eyes were bulging out of their sockets, his heart beating at an unhealthy pace. “What did you say?”

“I said, do you have a tissue? Your come is dribbling out of me, and I made quite the mess myself, too.”

Mycroft slumped on the bed. “You know that’s not what I meant… Since when?” His voice had never sounded that hoarse before. His heart was trembling now with a heap of emotions, of which he could not have named one. Well, maybe one… Shame...

Sherlock shrugged and grabbed his pants from the floor and used it to wipe off his own sperm and the mixture of Mycroft's semen and the copious amount of lubricant Mycroft had used to ease his way into him. “Since always,” he said casually.

“You seriously want to tell me that –…”

“...I never lost my memory, indeed.”

A myriad of questions presented themselves, but Mycroft did not bring out any of them. He hid his face in his palms as the enormity of this revelation was hitting him with full force.

He had fucked it up. He had fucked his brother, and Sherlock had known that they were brothers. Sherlock had witnessed him lying to him and encouraging him to believe that they were a married couple. Sherlock had seen him betraying his trust and taking advantage of his alleged memory loss.

“Why the hell did you play along?” he rasped out. “To prove a point? To show me what a rubbish big brother I really am?” But wait… It had been Sherlock who had pretended to think they were married. Mycroft had just been about to tell him that he was his brother when Sherlock had interrupted him.

Sherlock smiled (!) at him. “This is the conclusion you’re drawing out of this? And I thought you were the smart one.”

Mycroft produced a weird noise between a desperate laugh and a groan. “Sherlock… My brain does not function very well right now.”

“Understandable.” Sherlock smiled and crawled up on the bed, grabbing some pillows to rest on. He patted the space next to him. “Come here, brother mine. You must have questions.”

“You can say that again…” Mycroft joined him with shivering legs, and was relieved when Sherlock covered them both with the blanket. This crazy situation was hard enough to deal with – but stark naked, it would have been even tougher.

“And I will answer them. Even though it is actually quite easy.”

“Is it?”

Sherlock nodded, taking Mycroft's hand. “It is. While we were preparing my mission, I fell in love with you. You can imagine how terrified I was about that in the beginning, and I did my very best to not show it. But then… I felt that you might return my feelings – even though you did your best to not show them to me, either. I didn't want to leave anymore, but I needed to be sure you were willing to go all the way with me, despite the risks and your probably bad conscience. You know I don't like to do things by halves.”

Mycroft rubbed his eyebrows. “And so you hatched this insane plan.” Letting me believe you thought we were married to make it easier for me to act on my feelings. To provoke me to lie to you. What would you have done if I had told you I was your brother right at the start? Probably worked around that… Deceit. It had been nothing but an elaborate deceit. Actually – they had deceived one another… That’s what this was coming down to.

“I wouldn’t call it insane. It was quite brilliant, actually, don't you think? I saw it as a case. The most important case of my life.”

*****

Sherlock should have been well prepared for this moment, but he found he really was not. Calling Mycroft ‘brother mine’ had not been him slipping – it had been calculated and planned for exactly that instant. When the funeral was over. When Mycroft had given up all remaining resistance and had actually broken the law with him. Not much persuasion had been needed. But big brother had still been fighting against himself. Sometimes, Sherlock had had the feeling that the British Government was actually hearing voices – one telling him to not get tactile with him, even if hell froze over, the other one cheering him on to go for it, and go for it right away.

The moment had come (literally…) and Sherlock had finally dropped the pretence. It had been hard enough to maintain it for days on end. Knowing that Mycroft was struggling between wanting to be with him so badly and thinking it was the wrong thing to do. He had wanted to tell his brother that it was fine, really. That he wanted Mycroft at least as much as Mycroft wanted him. But he had not found it in himself to do that, deciding that it was better to stick to his plan – playing the role of the amnesiac man until the point of no return had been reached. And now that they had reached that point and he had given the game away, he was struggling with putting in words how it all had started, how he had been feeling, because Sherlock Holmes – just like Mycroft Holmes – was not good at emotions. Or, more precisely, expressing his emotions.

But Mycroft was looking at him full of expectation, his face still a mask of shock and confusion, and so Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to explain to him what had made him do this. How he had realised, bit by bit, that turning to Mycroft to help him take down Moriarty and his web had been the best idea he’d had in a long time. How he had understood how much he actually trusted the brother he had been estranged from for such a long time. And he had started to think about that estrangement, and had had to admit that it had been almost solely on him. Fine, Mycroft had been handling him with condescension and overreach at times, but given Sherlock's drug-filled past, he couldn’t help but concede that Mycroft did not always have much reason to put trust into him to make the right decisions. Still, there had been no doubt that his brother was there for him, no matter what.

Little by little, Sherlock had felt more comfortable in Mycroft's presence, and had realised that his brother did accept him. Did not distrust him – even though Sherlock had not missed that Mycroft was less than thrilled to see him go on that mission. But not just because he thought that Sherlock could not handle it, all on his own, but because he… was afraid to lose him? Would even miss him?

There had been little hints that his brother did like him. A lot. Little looks that had immediately been concealed. Small touches that had not been strictly necessary. But for quite some time, Sherlock had not understood what that all meant. Only after realising his true feelings for Mycroft, he had begun to suspect that there was more to Mycroft being that… kind.

“I can’t say when I knew that I was in love with you,” he said, rubbing Mycroft's hand. “What the turning point, if you want, was. I don't know. It just… hit me. And it was a shock.”

“Ask me… You were a teenager when I realised it…”

Sherlock shook his head. “And I never got it. Only when I discovered my feelings for you, I saw the signs.”

And it had made him think. Thoroughly. For two nights, he had not slept at all, and when he had dozed off for a moment, he had been dreaming of being in his brother’s arms, kissing him, loving him, and he had known that he could not let this opportunity pass.

Secretly, he had become less and less thrilled with having to leave England and diving into an adventure that promised to be as dangerous as it was exciting. In the beginning, the urge to protect his friends from the revenge that would be unleashed upon them by Moriarty’s associates, should things really end up with Jim dying and him surviving, had been overwhelming. Moriarty had targeted him, and so it was his responsibility. But Mycroft had cautiously mentioned that it would take him a long time to dismantle the criminal network in almost a dozen countries all by himself. Big brother had been too smart to actually speak out that Sherlock also lacked training for that sort of thing, but it had been written between the lines.

And when Sherlock had been sure that they were both in love with each other, he had decided it was not worth it – risking his life when other people could take the job and probably do it better and a lot quicker. He still had to go through the confrontation with Moriarty, he still had to fake his death and make John suffer to a point he could not even imagine. But by staying and letting Mycroft's people take over, the time of grief and horror would be exponentially shorter for his friends.

And, of course, it had given him a chance that would not come back like this – the chance to stay with his brother and find out if they were ready for a romantic, sexual relationship, while the world thought he was dead. A bubble could be created, a bubble just for the two of them.

But he had not been brave enough to confess his love for Mycroft right away. He had not been all that sure that his brother would be willing to act on his feelings. So… He had used this ruse. If they both pretended to be married, getting closer would be so much easier, he had decided. Finding out more about each other. Really getting to know one another. Seeing if they truly fit. And they did...

“You couldn’t be sure that Withers wouldn’t tell me if he had let you know he would bring you to your brother,” Mycroft mused.

“He did say that,” Sherlock confessed, smiling. “I counted on you to not ask him, and on him to not mention it. Why would he? And if he did, I might have been too shocked to listen to him. You wouldn’t have been able to be sure that I was lying.” He shrugged. “It would have made things more complicated, I guess.”

Mycroft nodded. “But it all went according to plan. God, Sherlock. You must have been constantly trying not to laugh.”

Sherlock chuckled. “That’s true. Your story about our rings – so funny. Calling me ‘little brat’ because you almost said ‘little brother’. That was a tough one. And turning our parents into missionaries was almost too much.”

“I bet. But I caught you playing the violin…”

“Ah, yes. I had not expected you to come home so early. But you bought my explanation.”

“I did. So…” Mycroft brushed a kiss onto his temple. “Where are we standing?”

“That should be my text. You are the one who risks everything for a forbidden relationship.” Sherlock had truly not been sure that Mycroft would indulge in a sexual relationship with him. In fact, he had already been stunned that his brother had allowed that charade of them being married to happen in the first place. It spoke volumes about the depth of Mycroft's feelings (and desire!) for him. If Mycroft had corrected him, Sherlock would have played along but would have tempted big brother into becoming a couple nonetheless. It would have been a lot harder, obviously, but in the end, it would have probably worked out. Either way, the future was, as it was its habit, uncertain. There was a lot of work still to do – and Sherlock was more than ready to do his part.

So far, they had been very safe, being together only in Mycroft's house… They would have to continue to be very careful, of course, and even then there was no guarantee that it would not come out eventually, and Mycroft had so much more to lose.

“But you are the one who will return to living with John Watson, I’m sure? I guess your suggestion to move in with me was not serious?”

Sherlock sighed. “I do want that. And I’ll make sure we’re going to spend a lot of time with each other. I’m rather sure that sooner or later, John will meet a woman he wants to spend more than a few nights with, and move in with her. And then I will be free to live with you. I can always say I can’t afford the rent on my own. And I will make sure to let my friends know that we have reconciled and have a much better relationship with each other so it won’t surprise them when we meet.” He would probably not be able to tell any of them how close they were now. But time would tell if even that might be a possibility at some point.

“Good points. That is something to look forward to.” Mycroft smiled. “You really put me through some things, brother dear.”

“I did. But I can’t say I’m sorry.”

Mycroft laughed. “There is no reason, given how happy we’ve become with each other. Well, I have been, at least.”

“I am too! It went so much better than I thought it would.”

“We should celebrate.”

“Should we? By doing what?” Sherlock gave Mycroft his most innocent look.

“Not going to fall for that, ever again,” was the stern but amused reply. “And to answer your question – by making love. I am middle-aged but I could get it up again. Now that I’m sure I’m not abusing you…”

“I’m sorry for that,” Sherlock said earnestly, cupping his brother’s cheek. “That was the downside. But there was no way to ease your concerns without telling you the truth.”

“And you had way too much fun with your ‘case’ to do that…”

“Maybe,” Sherlock smirked. “The case of getting in your pants and stealing your heart.”

“You’ve always had it.”

“Oh, Mycroft. Who would have thought you could be such a romantic?”

“I’m not sorry.”

Sherlock kissed him. “And I would never ask for it. Sentiment is a good thing, after all.”

“It is now.” Mycroft kissed him back, and sneaked his arm around Sherlock's waist. He was breathing faster, and Sherlock was sure that his brother was very ready to go for another round. Which was very much appreciated… Sherlock had never thought he would enjoy having sex, but he had discovered that he, in fact, liked it very much.

But there was something that had to be addressed because not knowing had been killing him. It could not wait another day. “You told me plenty of lies. I made you do that. Some truths, too, like you being a virgin, which did surprise me. And there is one certain thing I’m sure was the truth as well…”

Mycroft pulled back, looked at him, and sighed. “Yes, Sherlock. We have a sister.”

“No bloody way!” He had expected it, but to actually hear his brother admit it…

Mycroft nodded with an expression between sheepishness and grimness. “It’s true. I’m going to tell you everything about her. It’s not a pleasant story… And… There is one more thing…”

“What is it? We are not real brothers?” Sherlock was joking, of course, but what if that was true, too? That would make things so much easier, wouldn’t it? But somehow, he didn't want it to be real. Maybe he was a pervert, but he loved to love his brother…

But Mycroft grinned wryly. “Nothing of the kind, brother mine. But… You remember Redbeard?”

Sherlock was taken aback. “Of course.” Their beloved childhood dog, a beautiful Irish setter. He could still feel the silky fur on his fingers, and he told Mycroft as much.

“Well,” Mycroft cleared his throat, “your mind made that up. Which is sort of why I believed you that you had lost your memory. You had deleted Eurus, our sister, after all, and Redbeard, too.”

Sherlock shook his head, confused. “What? I thought you just said that he had only existed in my imagination. Which is it?” This was a prank, wasn’t it? He did remember that dog, for god’s sake!

And then Mycroft told him, and Sherlock’s eyes got wider and wider, and he vaguely thought that irony must be laughing its invisible arse off – he had pretended to have lost his memory, but now it had turned out that he had done so indeed, for the biggest part of his life...

And within seconds, his head spinning, feeling dizzy and out of his depth, he remembered, in one sudden rush, what he had suppressed for three decades, and it felt as if some weird, iron ring that had been around his heart busted and crumbled. Suddenly, there were tears in his eyes, and then he was being held, firmly and protectively, and a smile pushed the tears away for good.

Chapter Text

Fresh air. Something Sherlock had never paid much attention to, but now that a warm breeze tousled his hair, the sun was doing its best to break through the clouds and warm his face, he closed his eyes and enjoyed it. It might be a bit weird to enjoy standing on a graveyard, but it felt like a new beginning. And finally being able to be outside, not just sneaking into Mycroft's garden at night, was a true treasure.

It was over. Mycroft's agents had completed their missions and taken down every player in Moriarty’s elaborate game of terrorising Europe.

It was safe to return into his detective life. The danger for his friends had been wiped out.

In many ways, he was ready for it. Diving into ‘The Work’ again, finally. Sitting in his chair again, listening to clients. Calling Donovan an idiot for missing the obvious clues. Telling Anderson that his nonsense was lowering the IQ of the whole street.

In many ways, he would miss the past weeks of living in Mycroft's house, pretending to think they were married for some days, and then just being with the man he loved, as brothers and lovers, getting to know each other better with every passing day.

That time was over now. Later today, the news would break that Sherlock had, in fact, been exactly what he had always claimed to be. No fraud, no imposter. Just a man, cleverer than the rest of the population. Maybe a bit too cocky and arrogant at times, and hell, John had, not so long ago, called him a ‘machine’ for not caring enough. But not a criminal, not a villain. On the side of the angels, albeit not one of them.

And Sherlock had pretty recently found out that he cared, in fact, a whole lot. About Mycroft, obviously. As kitschy as it may sound, he had fallen in love with his brother more every day. Learning who and how Mycroft really was, now that they could be completely open with each other, had only made his feelings deepen. And he was rather sure this was a mutual experience. They were simply made for each other… It would be hard to leave his house and live in 221B again, having to pretend that Mycroft was nothing more than his older brother, even though he would let everybody around know that they were on better terms now, explaining why they would be more in contact than ever before.

He would leave out the part about the sister he had visited in her high facility prison two weeks ago, the sister who was the weirdest person he had ever met, but somehow, he even cared about her. And about that little boy she had killed out of jealousy, the boy who had now been found in his grave – a well – and returned to his parents after thirty years, as Eurus had finally given away where she had hidden him.

But he also cared a lot about his friends, the friends who were grieving and suffering. Particularly the two friends that had just arrived on the graveyard, one of them carrying a bunch of flowers to put on his alleged grave, no doubt.

Mycroft had told him that John and their landlady were planning to come here (spies did come in handy sometimes); it was their first visit to the grave after the funeral. So instead of going to Baker Street in disguise, Sherlock had decided to announce his return at his own grave. Maybe that was a little crazy, but it felt right. Mycroft had raised his eyebrows at that decision, but he had indulged Sherlock, like he always did. He was waiting in his car, just about fifty metres away. Certainly doing work, but also sending him good vibes for this confrontation. Sherlock could actually feel them...

He was biding his time, standing hidden behind some high monuments, close enough so he could hear his friends talk after Mrs Hudson had put the flowers on the grave, at the base of the black marble headstone with Sherlock's name on it.

“There’s all the stuff, all the science equipment. I left it all in boxes. I don’t know what needs doing. I thought I’d take it to a school.” Mrs Hudson looked at John expectantly. “Would you...?”

“I can’t go back to the flat again – not at the moment.”

Sherlock's heart clenched at the pain in the doctor’s voice. John, who had been staying at his sister’s for the past weeks, clearly unable to live in 221B any longer, looked pretty good – his hair had seen a barber recently, he was clean-shaven and his clothes were neat. He had made an effort, but he was engulfed by a dark cloud that was almost visible.

The old woman took John’s arm, patting it as he said, “I’m angry.”

“It’s okay, John. There’s nothing unusual in that. That’s the way he made everyone feel. All the marks on my table; and the noise – firing guns at half past one in the morning!”

“Yeah.”

“Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine – keeping bodies where there’s food!”

Sherlock suppressed a smile. He was a handful, wasn’t he?

“Yes.” John closed his eyes.

“And the fighting! Drove me up the wall with all his carryings-on!”

John turned to her. “Yeah, listen: I –… I’m not actually that angry, okay?”

“Okay.” Mrs Hudson turned away, freeing her arm. “I’ll leave you alone to, erm... you know.” She walked away, crying, grabbing a tissue to blow her nose.

Sherlock watched her, his heart heavy once more. Mrs Hudson might resent him for having her driven up the walls at all times, but she genuinely mourned him. After closing his eyes for a moment, he focused his attention on John, who was now alone at ‘his’ grave. And felt now safe to talk to him, having no idea that Sherlock was actually around.

“Um… You... You told me once that you weren’t a hero. Um... There were times I didn’t even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human... human being that I’ve ever known and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so... There.”

His throat dry, Sherlock watched him putting his fingertips onto the top of the headstone.

“I was so alone, and I owe you so much.” John took a breath that sounded almost painful. “Okay.” He proceeded to walk away, surely to join Mrs Hudson again, but then he turned back to the grave. “No, please, there’s just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t... be... dead. Would you do...? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this.”

From where he was [spying] standing, Sherlock could watch John’s reflection in the headstone. For the first time ever, he saw his friend cry. John was clearly trying not to break down, but the grief was overwhelming him. It was a pitiful, heartbreaking sight.

Tears shot into his eyes, too, at this proof of the unbearable pain he had put his friends through – stoic and tough Captain Watson crying! – and he could not bear it any longer. As John turned to walk away, Sherlock stepped forward. “John.”

The doctor whirled around, his eyes widening and bulging out of their sockets, his face paling. “No…”

“Your wish was granted. Very fast, actually.”

John took two steps back, and there was a loud scream from a distance – Mrs Hudson had discovered him… “Sh-…” His friend broke off, tumbling.

“Yes. Not dead.”

For a long moment, time seemed to have come to a standstill. A myriad of emotions spread on John’s face. Shock, obviously. Disbelieving joy. Anger. Confusion. Tension.

Would the joy and relief of realising that Sherlock was not actually dead win? Or would anger take over, anger at being put through this ordeal for two months? Would John hug him, probably tight enough to press the very last bit of air out of Sherlock's lungs? Or would he fling himself onto him, fist first?

Their eyes locked, Sherlock knew that the pendulum could swing in either direction. But then a screeching old lady raced towards him, and he opened his arms and hugged her against his chest, feeling her tears soak his coat.

“Oh, Sherlock. My Sherlock. How is this possible?” Mrs Hudson pulled back a bit, looking at him, serving as a barrier between him and John, who visibly relaxed as that strong tension was broken.

“I will explain it all to you. You will need to wait one more day until I can officially come back. My name has to be cleared first. But I could not wait another day to let you know I’m alive.”

“I never, ever believed any of those stupid things the papers said about you, and that horrible sergeant said about you. You’re no kidnapper, and no crook.”

Sherlock smiled, gently squeezing her shoulders. “No, I’m not. Nothing of that was true. Moriarty was the real criminal.”

“So why did you do it?” John spoke for the first time, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face. “How could you do this? Jump to your death in front of me?”

“I did not do it to torture you. It was horrible for me to witness your pain. I just… had no choice.” Sherlock gave John a pleading look. His best friend’s face looked like granite. “Jim had a sniper on you, John. And he sent someone to Baker Street. If I had not jumped, he would have killed you. There was even a killer at the Yard.”

“My god… But you could have told me!”

“No, John, I couldn’t. You had to mourn me, in a believing way. My brother took out the sniper and –…”

“So Mycroft knew?” John interrupted him, his right hand balling into a fist, briefly looking at Mrs Hudson when she grabbed his arm. “Who else?”

“Molly… She had to organise the corpse. It was the man who really kidnapped those children, and I had deduced that Moriarty would have killed him. Moriarty was not alone, John. He had a whole network of criminals. It had to be taken out so you could be safe.”

“Who did that? You?”

Sherlock bit his lip. “That was the plan. But… I decided to leave it to Mycroft's people. If I had done it all by myself, it would have taken months, if not years. I didn't want to let you grieve for so long.”

John swallowed visibly. “And you could have been killed for real…”

“Yes. I’m sorry, John. I really am. But my priority was to make sure none of you were harmed.”

John stared at him for an eternity, or so it felt. Then he let out a loud breath. “Dammit, Sherlock. You’re alive.”

Sherlock nodded. “As you asked me to be. Be careful what you wish for, huh?”

John barked out a laugh, and then he closed the distance between them and ripped Sherlock into a painful one-armed hug.

And Sherlock held him and Mrs Hudson, who put her arm around John’s waist, and he closed his eyes in relief and gratitude.

Life was really good these days…

*****

When Sherlock slipped onto the seat and closed the door, Mycroft didn't need any deductive powers to see that it had gone well. It was a relief. Given the doctor’s temper, Mycroft wouldn’t have put it past him to react violently to having been had in such a hurtful way. He had seen how John had been suffering. Of course he wouldn’t have let the man get away with hitting Sherlock. But instead, he had hugged him, Mycroft was sure. Which did not sit too well with him, either.

Sherlock gave him a knowing look as the car sped off to bring Sherlock back to Mycroft's house and Mycroft to the office. “No reason to be jealous, brother. John does not like me that way.”

“I’ve never been so sure about that.” John had had a lot of girlfriends while living with Sherlock, granted, but none of them had ever lasted long.

“Do be sure,” Sherlock smirked, taking his hand.

The privacy screen was up so they were in a very safe environment for exchanging pleasantries. Well, Mycroft would not have indulged in anything truly compromising, but he knew for sure nobody could hear or see them as long as the doors were closed and the screen was shut. The windows were tinted black. It was like being in a capsule.

“I’m glad it went well,” Mycroft said, and he leaned forward to kiss Sherlock on the mouth. He pulled back before their lip-locking could get really heated, and he smiled at the adorable pout on his brother’s face.

Sherlock sighed. “I am going to miss this. A lot.”

“What, snogging in the car?”

“Snogging all evening in your house,” Sherlock corrected him. “But I will make sure nobody thinks twice about us meeting a few times a week.”

Mycroft would miss having Sherlock around every night, too. It would be a challenge to make time for each other without John and Mrs Hudson getting suspicious. But that was the only way to be together and not leave their lives as they knew them. Mycroft would be willing to do this, if it ever became necessary, having already organised two fake but bulletproof identities for each of them, and he didn't have to ask Sherlock to be sure that so would he. For now, they would simply make it work.

Mycroft’s phone beeped in his pocket, and he gave Sherlock an apologetic look and fished it out. “Oh. It’s for you, I assume.” Smiling, he handed Sherlock the black phone.

“Ah. John called Lestrade… I told him he could do that, under the pledge of secrecy… Hello, Graham… Yes, yes, Greg… Well, for now, the short version has to do. Not dead… It’s not nice to call me that.” Sherlock held the phone away from his face and mouthed ‘bastard’, and Mycroft chuckled.

He was not willing to forgive the DI so easily, but he was not surprised Sherlock was being so amicable with the man. It was just who Sherlock was. A man, as loyal to his friends as he was smart.

Sherlock ended the call quickly, and Mycroft stored his phone. They had almost reached their first destination, and Sherlock looked a bit pensive.

“It will be alright, brother mine,” Mycroft soothed him. “It is going to work out just fine.”

“I know… But there is one thing I want to do. Right now.”

“No sex in the car,” Mycroft deadpanned, and Sherlock threw his head back and laughed.

“Spoilsport! No, I was, for a change, not thinking about that.”

They had had quite a lot of sex during the past almost two months, Mycroft mused, dreamily, and it had been the best time of his life. But Sherlock had something on his mind, and Mycroft gave him an encouraging look.

“You know how this all started,” Sherlock began, looking a bit sheepish.

“What – you making me think that you thought we’re married instead of brothers?”

“That part. I mean, I know it can’t really happen, officially, as we are as closely related as possible, and nobody may know about it, but still…” His voice trailed off, and a blush had spread on his finely accentuated cheeks.

“Are you actually proposing to me?” Mycroft asked, baffled.

“I am. I know, I can’t give you a ring, well, you already have one, and I can’t wear a wedding ring, either, but we would know it and that is what counts, right?”

Mycroft's throat was suddenly very tight. “Yes. Yes we would. And yes. I accept your proposal.” There would be some sort of celebration. Champagne. An extra nice dinner. And sex. Lots of sex.

“You do?”

“Yes, Sherlock, I do. Nothing would make me happier than being your unofficial husband.” Mycroft smiled when he was embraced tightly, and full lips found his, and while they were kissing, Mycroft thought that he was, after all, the luckiest man in all the world. And both the good and the evil angel wholeheartedly agreed.

The End