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The Ice Man Cometh	By : deklava Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 2832 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock or its characters, and do not profit financially from this story.

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Fucking Irene Adler so hard that the mahogany headboard cracked had definitely been worth it, Mycroft reflected during the limo ride to the airfield. The bone-shattering orgasm had taken the edge off his anger, leaving him in a better frame of mind to deal with his errant brother. Even the scratches that now made his shirt stick painfully to his back were forgivable.

Irene sat on the opposite seat, next to Anthea, who tapped cheerfully away on a Blackberry. A black silk dress covered her own battle wounds.

"You're not an Ice Man at all," she mused.

"But my brother IS a virgin."

"Which we shall do something about."

"Yes, that's part of our bargain." He reclined against the rich leather seat and crossed his legs, smugly aware that "the Woman" eyed him appreciatively when she thought he wasn't looking. He knew that powerful men fascinated Irene: she loved to find the chink in their armour, the weakness that could be spun into gold.

"You should wear dark gray more often, Mr. Holmes. It suits you."

He looked pointedly at a dark spot on her calf. "You should be bruised more often, Miss Adler. It suits you."

She laughed in delight, flashing pearly teeth. "Perhaps I will. I just never encountered anyone with a firmer hand than mine."

"Does that include James Moriarty?"

"Oh, no, he likes dressing up as-"

Mycroft arched one eyebrow. She smirked. "Maybe later, when we've had each other more than once."

The closer they got to the airfield, the more excited Irene became. She too, anticipated Sherlock's imminent debasement with fierce pleasure. She shifted on the seat, crossed and uncrossed her legs, and cast lusty glances at Anthea's curvaceous figure. Mycroft's grin widened when she finally grasped his assistant's thigh and said throatily, "Your P.A.'s so lovely. May I?"

"Ask her."

Irene slid off the seat in a whisper of dark silk, knelt between Anthea's knees, and leaned forward until their lips were inches apart.

"Well, my lovely? How about a taste?"

Anthea regarded her placidly for a moment before shrugging, pocketing the Blackberry, and lying back. "Sure. Why not?"

"My assistant broke up with her boyfriend a week ago," Mycroft supplied. "She appreciates your kind offer as much as I do."

He enjoyed the show, his cock twitching appreciatively when Anthea's moans escalated and Irene's hair, which she'd carefully re-styled, was tugged into a wild mess. The Adler woman was fascinating indeed: beauty, brains, and sexually opportunistic. Protocol dictated that she be disposed of after Moriarty was contained, but Mycroft was inclined to be merciful. She'd agreed to help him with the 'Sherlock situation' after all, and nothing in his agreement with his superiors said that he couldn't keep a personal pet or two.

He'd have to keep her in line though. Irene fed on weaknesses, secrets, and chaos like vampires devoured blood. She'd turn on him the moment she scented opportunity. But he'd be ready.

It would be so pleasant to be on edge around someone once again.

Sherlock, predictably, reacted to Mycroft's scolding with disdain. His lips curled into a sneer, and he refused to take any responsibility, insisting that his older brother's inept employees were to blame for the project leak. It wasn't until Irene, perfectly coiffed and composed once again, appeared at the other end of the corpse-laden jet that the younger Holmes demonstrated anything but bratty, insolent behaviour.

"You were right, Mr. Holmes," she said as she strolled down the dimly lit aisle, hips swaying. "Junior here needs a spanking in the most dreadful way."

Sherlock stiffened. "What the bloody hell is this?"

"Treatment, Sherlock, nothing more." Mycroft tossed his umbrella onto one of the few unoccupied seats and seized his younger brother's arms, pulling them behind his back. Sherlock struggled and blurted, "You're fucking mad! Treatment for what?"

"Please, brother mine, you want me to make a list?"

"Let me go now!" Sherlock lunged forward, trying to break the grip, but Irene kneed him in the crotch, hard enough to make him yelp.

"Naughty boy," she chided while he stared at her in disbelief. "Such nasty language- don't make me muzzle you."

"What's going on?" he choked.

"You're going to be punished, Sherlock." Mycroft hauled off his heavy coat and secured his wrists with metal cuffs. "You can fight it or you can relax and enjoy it. It will all be the same to Miss Adler and I."

Sherlock struggled to reassert himself. "Can you two play this little game some other night? And preferably without me? You both deserve each other."

"Oh dear," Irene sighed. "You were warned."

She took out a leather bit out of her shoulder bag and pushed it between Sherlock's teeth before he had time to react. Mycroft gripped his hair, holding his head steady while she fastened the straps.

"There. Much better when only grown-ups are allowed to do the talking."

Sherlock glared daggers at her and hollered abuse behind the rigid gag. Mycroft dragged him backward, into the first class section of the aircraft, which was corpse-free.

"Sorry, little brother, but you're making me do this."

He pulled Sherlock into the center row at the front, sat down, and dragged the squirming, kicking form over his knees. When Sherlock froze at the feeling of a rigid cock poking into his belly, Mycroft laughed.

"I suppose I should have told you how much I've been looking forward to this."

Taking advantage of his brother's distraction, he quickly undid Sherlock's trousers and pulled them down, along with his pants.

Now it was Mycroft's turn to pause. Sherlock had a beautiful arse: white, smooth, and (My God, yes, I'm really going to do this) untouched. Unexplored. Unawakened. He ran his fingers over that soft expanse of skin, and then palmed it roughly.

"I should have done this to you long ago. Well, better late than never."

Using his right forearm to hold Sherlock in place, he brought his left hand down hard on that squirming arse. As his anger and excitement rose, he administered stronger, crueller blows that turned the cool white skin hot and red. Sherlock howled and fought like a rabbit in a snare, but Mycroft could feel his brother's growing hardness rubbing against his leg.

His body and mind are at war. Fascinating. And delicious.

"Enjoying this, are you? I'm afraid that won't do."

Irene appeared in front him, eyes alight with malicious pleasure. "Use this," she said, holding out a riding crop. "He certainly became compliant when I used it on him the last time."

He thanked her and took it. Sherlock raised his head, breathing heavily through his nose. When he saw the instrument in Mycroft's grip, his eyes widened and he renewed his struggles. His erection, however, did not diminish. A clear trail of viscous fluid ran from his cock to the carpeted floor.

The crop made a chilling noise as it cut through the air. The crisp smack of its impact against Sherlock's sore arse, followed by muffled screams, brought Mycroft dangerously close to orgasm. The undulating pressure of his brother's stomach against his swollen crotch made sweat break out on his forehead and his balls tighten, but he controlled himself. There was no way he was going to come and lose his edge before Sherlock's submission was accomplished.

A few more blows, and he could feel pre-come seeping through his trouser leg. Sherlock was so close: his struggles were less hysterical and he was now practically rutting against his older brother's thigh. Tossing the crop aside, Mycroft snapped his fingers at Irene.

"Lube."

"Been waiting for you to ask. Poor boy's long past ready."

She handed him the tube, and held Sherlock in place while he slicked up all four fingers on his left hand.

"You've taken that so well, Sherlock, you deserve a reward," she cooed as she tugged his trousers and pants all the way off.

Sherlock did not resist when his handlers turned him over and repositioned him so that he was facing Mycroft, straddling his lap. When two slick digits crept between his bruised buttocks and stroked his entrance, he moaned and arched his back. Garbled pleas sounded past the gag.

"We could stop right now, little brother," Mycroft purred, looking up at Sherlock's flushed, sweating face. "What do you think?"

Sherlock stared back, his pupils dilated with need.

"You have to give me a signal." Mycroft inserted two fingers up to the first knuckle. The silky heat that enveloped his digits was exquisite. "Your punishment's over. Do you want to stop now?" As he spoke, he slid his fingers in further, until he detected that small bundle of nerves that made most men insane with need. Smiling wickedly, he pressed down.

Sherlock practically went into convulsions on his lap: only Irene's firm hold on his shoulders kept him from tumbling to the floor. "Hnnnngh," he sobbed.

"Well? Ten seconds to decide."

Sherlock took deep, shuddering breaths through his nose. He shook his head.

"No? No, don't stop or no, it's enough."

There was no way Sherlock could properly answer, and they both knew it. Mycroft smirked while the younger Holmes whimpered.

"The decision's mine, then. I think you can take more. Much more. So I'm going to give it to you."

Without warning, he pulled his fingers out and pushed Sherlock off his lap. Irene stepped back quickly but gracefully and leaned against the wall, arms crossed and tongue running over her red lips. "You're in trouble now, darling," she purred to the bewildered figure on the floor.

Mycroft straightened his jacket and tie and crossed his legs. He knew what he must look like to his half-dressed, undone brother right now.

A Master.

"Miss Adler, take that device off of his mouth."

She complied before resuming her former position.

Mycroft steepled his fingertips and rested his chin on them. "Come here, Sherlock."

Licking his lips and rotating his jaw, Sherlock struggled to his knees. He looked positively debauched: his cheeks were the same florid color as his buttocks, his white shirt hung open, and his cock was a desperate, angry red. His mouth was now unhindered, but he did not scream threats or abuse. He merely kept his wide blue eyes fixed on his brother's face as he shuffled forward until they were close enough to feel each other's breath. Then Sherlock sighed deeply, bent down, and rested his forehead against Mycroft's knees.

"Don't stop," he whispered.
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The Ice Man Cometh