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Feeding a Fever	By : deklava Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 2809 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock. No profit is made from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Feeding a Fever
- 1
By the time he reached the Diogenes Club’s private entrance, Sherlock was shivering with cold and anticipation. It was one of those rare occasions when there didn’t appear to be a single unoccupied cab in London: the violent thunderstorm had anyone with a car for hire working overtime. Twenty minutes of running through the downpour had left him soaked and slightly feverish, but he ignored his chilled and aching ‘transport’ as he pressed the vintage brass doorbell.
Sherlock knew that Mycroft had alerted the staff when a small team of dark-garbed attendants intercepted him in the small foyer. Strong and steady hands guided him into a side room and removed his soaked clothing. A portable heater left the air mercifully warm, but he still shook like a dog in a thunderstorm, rain water dripping off his curls and teeth chattering.
The senior attendant frowned and touched his forehead. You’re feverish, the man pronounced in the regulation ‘Diogenes whisper’.
I’m f-f-fine, Sherlock snapped back, although the room was beginning to spin and a buzzing in his ears grew louder. I j-j-just need to see my brother….
Then the lights went out in his head and the buzzing stopped.
*****
When Sherlock woke up hours later, he was in Mycroft’s bed, his thin body weighed down by layers of blankets. Firelight played on the paneled walls and highlighted the vintage furniture. He tried to sit up, but a burst of dizziness sent him collapsing against the pillows again.
A bedside chair creaked. Footsteps padded softly across the thick carpet. Then a cool hand touched his brow.
Easy, Sherlock.
He licked his dry lips. M-m-Mycroft?
Yes. You’ve given yourself a fever by running in the rain, you foolish child. I’d spank you if I didn’t think it would do more harm than good.
Despite his overall weakness, Sherlock felt the blood rush to his crotch. Those words reminded him why he had come here in the first place. He kept his eyes closed and recalled the filthy text exchange he and Mycroft had shared just before he ran out of the coffee shop into the driving rain.
You took care of that little matter for me very quickly, Sherlock. Are you interested in a long, drawn-out reward? MH
How long? SH
Several hours and nine inches. MH
Where and when? The answer to the latter had better be NOW. SH
Diogenes. Now. MH
Sherlock reached for his hardening cock and gave it a squeeze. When a needy moan passed his lips, Mycroft spoke again.
Only you would be aroused while in an invalid state. What am I going to do with you, brother-mine?
Join me, Sherlock whispered. Please.
He opened his eyes. Mycroft was sitting on the edge of the four-poster bed, wearing a quilted Diogenes robe over black silk pyjamas. Orange light from the fireplace played across his lordly features, which were unusually soft with concern. When he saw that his headstrong younger brother wasn’t going to desist, he sighed and the coldness of command returned.
Take your hands off yourself. No one gave you permission to do that.
Sherlock’s breath stuttered as he obeyed.
Mycroft reached over to the bedside table and picked up a glass of water with a straw. You let yourself get dehydrated. Drink this. All of it.
Sherlock parted his lips when the straw poked at them. But instead of drinking, he ran his tongue over the plastic shaft and moaned like it was covered with nectar… or something even stickier and more delicious. He glanced up at his brother, who sucked in a sharp breath and hissed, Swallow.
Closing his mouth tightly around the straw, Sherlock obeyed. There was a faint trace of a quiver in Mycroft’s hand as he returned the empty glass to the table and seated himself so that only his knees dangled off the mattress.
Across my lap, Sherlock. On your front. Now.
The younger Holmes slid out from under the covers and positioned himself as ordered, catching his breath when his stiff cock rubbed against the quilted robe covering Mycroft’s thighs. His brother’s thickening arousal stabbed him in the hip, escalating his anticipation.
The position suggested that he was about to be spanked despite Mycroft’s earlier misgivings. But the older man only patted his pert arse before reaching back toward the table.
What are you doing? Sherlock asked.
Making sure that your fever hasn’t worsened. It’s never been my intention to fuck you to death.
The elder Holmes opened the table drawer and took out a small bottle of lube. Then he closed the drawer and picked up a thermometer, which sat on a small tray next to a full glass of water and bottle of paracetamol.
Lie still.
A strong hand settled on the back of his neck, silencing him. Sherlock relaxed immediately, calmed and steadied by the firm touch. His back arched and his thighs made a whispering sound across the sheets as they spread wide.
The cap on the lube bottle clicked open. When Mycroft gently parted his cheeks and glided the slicked thermometer into his puckered entrance, he bit his lip again. The penetration was too minimal: he craved more. He ground his cock against Mycroft’s thigh, moistening the fabric with pre-ejaculate, but his brother’s other hand descended onto his arse with enough force to sting.
Hold still. Don’t make me tell you again.
Lying still for the required two minutes was torture. By the time the glass rod was carefully extracted, Sherlock was panting against the duvet and digging his fingers into the sheets. The ache in his muscles had subsided, but now something different was making him shake and sweat.
Mycroft, please.
He looked up and saw his brother studying the thermometer. The result made Mycroft’s broad shoulders relax in relief and a smile appear on his thin lips.
38.5 degrees. Above normal range, but not dangerously so.
Sherlock extended one unsteady hand and tugged on Mycroft’s robe. His cock was now painfully hard: the rubbing and rutting that felt so delicious moments ago now hurt. You promised… I need it… God, please…..
Mycroft grasped him under the arms and positioned him face-down on the mattress, sliding off the bed while he did so. Then he stepped away so abruptly that for a brief instant, Sherlock worried that he’d offended him.
Mycroft, what-
He stopped when Mycroft undid his robe and let the garment fall to the floor. When the black silk pyjamas followed, Sherlock’s gaze landed greedily on his cock, which was flushed and pressed against his soft belly.
You want it too. Stop teasing.
Stop talking, Mycroft growled in that dangerous voice that he rarely used with anyone else. It seems to me that your mouth needs a diversion.
Sherlock barely had time to wet his lips before strong fingers dug into his hair, holding his head steady while Mycroft climbed onto the bed and pushed into his mouth. The fat, dripping glans prodded against his soft palate, giving his tongue access to the sensitive parts underneath the head. Both brothers groaned when Sherlock wriggled his tongue along the shaft before tightening his lips and bobbing his head.
Oh, Sherlock… you were made for this. Made to serve me.
Sherlock hummed in agreement, the vibrations making Mycroft’s hips shoot forward until the two men were literally nose to belly. Gripping Sherlock’s head in both hands, Mycroft fucked his face hard, making his younger brother gag, drool, and revel in the luxury of being completely used. They both knew how badly they needed their respective roles in this addictive tango. Mycroft craved control, and Sherlock needed to be controlled.
How fortunate that they were brothers then, social taboos aside. They’d been able to meet their perfect match without a lot of wasted effort spent searching.
Sherlock focused on pleasuring the man who owned him in the ways that mattered. He increased the suction while keeping his tongue working on every inch of flesh that slid over it. He slowly and reverently palmed Mycroft’s hard balls with one hand, wishing that he’d be allowed to touch himself in the same place. He was literally one squeeze away from an orgasm that just might throw him into the fever zone again.
Mycroft pulled out abruptly and studied Sherlock’s flushed, pleading face. What he saw clearly convinced him that the rough treatment could continue. Clutching the lube bottle with one hand, he climbed onto the bed and laid his long body atop Sherlock’s, pressing his younger brother deep into the mattress. Sherlock’s low whimper escalated in pitch to a guttural moan when fingers, slick and soft, worked their way into his tight hole, fucking it open in preparation for something bigger. He arched his back and spread his legs even wider.
Ah, Sherlock, Mycroft purred darkly into his ear as he scissored his probing digits. His cockhead smeared glistening stripes of fluid over his brother’s hip. As long as you have a pulse, you’ll be greedy for my cock, won’t you? You’ll always come here, rain or shine, begging for me to fuck you.
Yes, Sherlock babbled, surrendering what little dignity he had left. I want it. I’m yours. Always. Please, please fuck me! I need it fast, it’s been so long-
His desperate tirade abruptly ended when Mycroft withdrew his fingers, dragging them slowly and teasingly over that swollen knot of nerves on the way out. His legs shook and all rational thought came to a deafening halt. He was still gasping and floundering for coherency when Mycroft rolled off of him and pulled him onto his knees. His shoulders remained on the mattress but his arse, wet with lube and painfully empty, pointed skyward in silent offering.
Mycroft ran a broad palm over his little brother’s smooth white buttocks while he lubed himself up. Lovely…. And mine.
He pushed halfway in on the first stroke. Sherlock howled into the pillow as he was stretched and bruised and taken. Claimed. When his ability to talk returned, he stammered, M-more, Mycroft, God, PLEASE….
Mycroft pushed in hard and fast. The noise of his hips colliding with Sherlock’s arse was deafening in the otherwise silent chamber. Without giving his brother a chance to adjust, he rode that eager body with unbridled roughness, each forward thrust driving Sherlock toward the elaborate headboard.
Sherlock’s eager, desperate moans and mindless grip on the bedsheets betrayed his desire for rougher handling. So did the way he pushed his hips back, demanding more even when he was being fucked so hard his teeth rattled. He wasn’t a virgin: his inexhaustible curiosity about all things pitifully human had guided him into many beds over the years. But Mycroft was the only one who could really fuck him. Stuff him full and use him at such a high rate of velocity that the world receded and there was only a dark room and a fast body and dangerous mind turning him into this. A fuck toy.
Hot and dirty excitement blossomed at the realization that this was what he was. An instrument of his brother’s pleasure. Sherlock pressed his shoulders deeper into the mattress and arched his back, relishing the feel of Mycroft’s sweat raining onto his back.
When speedier movement and decidedly undignified grunts warned that the elder Holmes was close to coming, Sherlock raised his head from the pillow and begged, Please- my face. Do it on my face.
Everything happened so rapidly that Sherlock could only recall it later in flashes. Mycroft pulled out of his arse. Rough hands flipped him onto his back and forced his legs over a pair of broad, freckle-dotted shoulders. Then he was being brutally fucked again, bent nearly double while his lover’s sweat continued to spray on him. When it fell on his face he licked, enjoying the salty taste while he waited for a bigger payoff.
Ah- ah, God! Mycroft pulled out again, releasing Sherlock’s legs at the same time, and straddled his younger brother’s chest. His left hand stroked his cock while his right reached back and grasped Sherlock’s prick, which was slippery with natural lubrication. The younger Holmes dug both hands into the older man’s thighs and kicked wildly against the duvet.
Come on me, Mycroft, I’m-
His exclamation was silenced when streams of warm, thick fluid splashed against his face. It clotted in his fringe and eyelashes, ran down his cheeks, and sprayed past his parted lips onto his tongue. He was still licking and swallowing like a starving cat when his own orgasm burst like a supernova, sending heat and hormones flashing through his blood. He struggled and clenched his teeth to keep his moans at an acceptable level, but success came at a price: he bit the inside of his cheek so hard that the skin broke.
When their mutual tremors subsided, Mycroft rolled onto his side with a sated groan. He drew Sherlock close with one arm and used the other to cover them both with the mountain of blankets. That was a rather pleasant interlude, he murmured.
Sherlock’s tongue ran over his lips. You actually served refreshments, he smirked as he wiped his face clean of residual sperm and licked his fingers.
Mycroft chuckled. Care for seconds, as the saying goes?
Sherlock laughed too. They do recommend that you feed a fever.
- 1
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Feeding a Fever