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Dirty Laundry	By : oculophilia Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 1797 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own nor have any affiliation to Sherlock, its characters, properities and the like. All belongs to powers above me, including Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC, Steve Moffat, etc. No profit or such was made.

Chapter List
- 1-Dirty Laundry
- 1
Something I wrote for myself after lamenting how there's not enough good Mycroft/Jim fic on the Internet. /creys

Title: Dirty Laundry

Rating: MA

Warnings: profanity, sexuality (anal, oral and frotting)

Summary: BBC Sherlock. Why in God's name are Mycroft and Jim fucking? That doesn't matter. All you need to know is it's Mycroft's birthday and Jim is wearing high heels and a Marilyn Monroe dress. Oh, and there's sex.

A/N: I SHOULD WIN A MEDAL FOR INCORPORATING SO MUCH SEX INTO ONE ~~crappy~~ FIC. The title of this story comes from Dirty Laundry by Bitter:Sweet, which I listened to on loop while writing it. Also, it reminds me of them and goes kinda with the mood. Also, magical dicks - these two get it up real fast!

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A very rare few knew the date of Mycroft's birthday, and most all of them were family members. Couldn't exactly convince them to forget, though sometimes he honestly thought he should try.

Mum and dad always sent him something, usually a lush gift basket wrapped in red foil. Cookies, cakes, other such pastries, including salami logs and fine cheese with a bottle of expensive and finely aged wine. Really, they weren't helping his diet an iota. Nana usually sent something from her oversea voyages, like tea cups from China, a quilt from Egypt, a phallic statue of a Hawaiian deity. Sherlock did and gave nothing, not even a 'happy birthday' text. Mycroft never minded, unless he wished to invite his younger brother out for a nice meal across the country. The last time Sherlock acknowledged his birthday was four years ago, with a single text.

Landlord is trying to pawn this treadmill off on me. Figured you might want it, considering it is your birthday in a week.

- SH

And no, Mycroft did not accept it.

There were a few exclusive, special people who were in the know. Anthea would hand him a watch or tie, all the while busy on her phone; he would thank her and she'd nod absently with a small "uh huh." Anyone else who celebrated his birthday were of high class, and their gifts were more often than not extremely extravagant and extremely expensive.

However, it had never occurred to Mycroft that one person, in a list of many, would ever discover his birthdate and anything more personal without him specifically telling them.

That evening, Mycroft ducked out of the Prime Minister's house, wishing him and his lovely wife goodnight. They had thrown him a small party, just the three of them. The finest sea food and a custom made cake from Britain's current most praised chef. Their gift had been simple and carried in Mycroft's pocket; a pair of keys to a small yacht that waited for him in the Prime Minister's private bay. It had been fun, nothing too pressing on Mycroft's energy, and he left relatively sober, with his hosts near plastered from all the bubbly champagne. The limousine was waiting for him, a sleek black that seemed to melt into the night around it, and he gave one final tip of his hat to the giggling pair before making his way home.

There were no further plans for the night, though Mycroft had a little over six hours left. Gifts were surely waiting to be unwrapped when he reached home, but beyond that, he'd spend the last hours of his birthday in the privacy of his own room, perhaps reading a book, perhaps watching a movie, smoking on the new wood pipe imported from Africa with love from nana.

Mycroft bid his assistant and bodyguards a goodnight and headed inside, bolting the door to his condo locked. As if anyone could get in, considering the massive amount of surveillance surrounding the entire block. However, as soon as he stepped onto the plush rug by his door, he knew something wasn't right. To anyone else, everything appeared normal, but to Mycroft's keen eye and mind, simple, near invisible observations told him he wasn't alone in this dark condominium.

Following minute sounds, Mycroft made his way toward the kitchen. There was no need to alert the intruder by turning on the lights; Mycroft knew his house like the back of his hand, easily navigating in the blackness. His umbrella need not be used to test the front of him, but rather, a thumb pressed the button under the smooth wooden handle, releasing a hidden blade from its tip with a soft, near inaudible hiss.

Mycroft did not feel threatened, nor scared. But one must always be prepared. Besides, there were only two other people who knew how to slip past the security and alarms. Sherlock had no reason to be hiding and lurking in his dark apartment. And mum was a six hour drive away, contently enjoying dinner with her husband. Mycroft had yet to meet any minds who were witty and agile enough to outsmart the intricate alarm system, and yet he easily narrowed it down to one in less than a minute. Clearly they were the only culprit, and thus, the surprise washed from him, what little there was he had been harboring.

Mycroft stopped at the entrance way to his kitchen. The blade tucked itself away. "One might say I'm too old for surprises," he said to the darkness, specifically to the man ten feet and two inches away. Swinging his umbrella up, it caught the lightswitch--

"Happy birthday, Mister President~"

Mycroft's instincts were right. His suspect turned out to be the criminal mastermind, one Jim Jim. What he hadn't expected, however, was to find aforementioned criminal mastermind in such a state of dress. Jim, a head smaller than Mycroft, much more thinner and lithe, was propped up on the edge of the silver counter. Instead of the usual fancy black or navy blue suit, it was replaced with what appeared to be a white gown worn by a certain blonde pushing down the billowing skirt as she stood over a steam gushing sewer vent. It was much shorter, however, much more shorter, just barely sweeping past his thighs. Long, unshaven legs swung to and fro in nice black heels.

Jim sat back against the cupboards, one arm spread out, another bent with hand resting to his head. "Haaaappyyyy biiiiirthdaaaaay tooooo yoooou," he sung, one leg crossing daintily over a knee. The smaller man laughed cheerfully, jumping down; the heels clicked loudly against the tile. "Surprise," he hummed, twisting to one side with hands on his hips.

"It certainly is," Mycroft snickered. His eyes were stuck on the low hanging skirt. The jump down had lifted it just enough to show what he had quickly assessed as black lace women's underwear. "The garter belts and stockings were too uncomfortable, I take it?"

"Decided I didn't want to overdo it," Jim chuckled. He swept forward, elegant; there was a femme fatale vibe in his stride, however. He stopped short of Mycroft, separated by two feet. "It's why I decided to trash the wig and make-up," he finished, gesturing around his head and short, ruffled dark hair.

"You always did prefer things a bit more," Mycroft cocked a brow, sized him up once, "subtle."

Jim giggled. "Why thank you," and gave a small curtsy, even crossed foot over ankle doing so.

Mycroft reached forward, letting his umbrella fall back against the wall. A hand brushed and cupped one hip. "A rather snug fit, I must say."

"I have an excellent tailor," Jim purred. A hand slipped down Mycroft's arm, fingering the cufflinks. "By the way, I must compliment you. It took me nearly two hours cracking the security codes to get inside."

"I'm not surprised," Mycroft replied. "However," he paused, moved forward until the two were chest to chest and other hand on other hip. Jim grinned as Mycroft led him back a few inches, as if they were about to break into a waltz. "I am certainly not disappointed with the results."

"That I knew from the start," Jim crooned, one finger trailing up the length of Holmes's sleeve. It found the collar, gave it a small tug. "Initially, my plans would have gone very different. Maybe a nice dinner and some wine, but those were trashed once I saw you dining with the Prime Minister and his old hag."

"Sharon is a wonderful woman."

"For a crone."

Mycroft chuckled. "So, you thought, why not skip steps one and two, and go directly to step three?"

"You know me so well," Jim purred.

"Foreplay can be so tedious and taxing," Mycroft sighed, his warm breath tainted with the scent of rich Merlot tickling the edge of the criminal's ear.

Jim beamed. "Good, because I was getting bloody bored."

There were no more words after that. Jim took Mycroft by the tie, yanked him back as they stumbled away. Jim's back hit the counter, and soon hands were slipping up from under his short skirt and around his hips to jerk him roughly onto the counter top. Jim let himself be lifted, hands tearing through Mycroft's hair, devouring his mouth with a hungry snarl. Their tongues needed no introductions, greeting one another with furious petting.

Mycroft's hands explored the length of his torso, stroking up and along his sides, fingers dipping hard into pressed ribs, thumbs kneading around navel. Jim groaned against his lips, bit and sucked, feeling thin shreds of skin beneath his short, manicured nails. Thicker fingers found his nipples, taking them with harsh squeezes and twists. Jim half-screamed into his mouth before laughing giddily, Mycroft nipping the corner of his wet, crooked grin.

Jim sunk a hand forward, fingers raking down the smart undershirt like talons, ripping and popping buttons clean off. It was an expensive shirt, some tiny part of Mycroft's mind reminded him, but he could always afford three dozen replacements. Jim curved forward, palms rubbing circles over his nipples as Mycroft dropped his mouth to the crook of his naked, pale throat, biting the skin there. Jim swooned, tilting his head against the others, rocking against those massaging fingers tormenting and spoiling his erect nipples.

Finally, reaching with very little strain down, Jim cupped Mycroft's bulge. Immediately Holmes stiffened, the trail of hard, suckling kisses along the younger man's shoulder stopping. Jim bit the corner of his bottom lip, eyebrows raised. "I can venture to guess my gift is, so far, the best you've received," he said, giving another small squeeze.

"I find it, so far, very satisfying," Mycroft swallowed. The next minute, the wall gave a small tremble as Jim's back slammed against its surface. The back of Jim's stilettos hung from his heels, the black tips scraping barely along the tile as the older man held him up. Mycroft nibbled the shell of Jim's ear as he rolled and squeezed along pectoral muscles. He slipped his fingers between the thin waistband of the underwear, dragging them slow and crooked down his thighs and legs, pushing until they now pooled at his ankles.

Jim giggled, extending one leg and flicking both the underwear and high heel off. The limb then wrapped tightly around Mycroft's hips, latching in place. His other foot scrambled to keep hold, back sliding down to give him leverage. Mycroft stopped his kisses a moment, one finger pushing against Jim's ass.

Jim gasped and arched forward. "Honey, honey, no no," he exhaled, voice amused but cracking. He dropped his head back to look at Mycroft with a teasing grin and wag of his finger. "Left breast," he hummed. Mycroft let his hip go, sunk around the paddless bra until his digits caught a small bottle of lubricant. "There's more in the third, left bottom shelf," Jim sneered darkly, hands flinging over Mycroft's shoulders as he licked the man's lips. "Just in case," he finished with a wink.

"I never doubted you," Mycroft breathed, tone husky. The lid popped off and soon two dollops of the translucent liquid were being smeared along palm and fingers. Jim could feel the blood shoot into his dick, just at the mere thought of where those fingers would be in a moment. Mycroft just chortled at the small white tent his skirt was pitching.

Mycroft never really went slow with things like this. Sex was all ready messy business, no need to take things too slow. Jim gasped, back curving when not one but two fingers pushed inside him. He grit his teeth, wiggling as they scissored open and close. "Christ, it burns," he growled, squinting one eye. He sunk back until those digits were knuckle deep. "Fucking add a third."

Mycroft's groin tightened at the demand. "As you wish, poppet," he purred, and soon a third, slightly dryer finger was inside Jim. Jim moaned fiercely, digging his nails into Mycroft's shoulders, grinding down as the moist digits split and spread him open. Jim was bucking and thrusting his hips forward, fucking himself on those fingers, grinding his rock hard cock against the taller man's belly.

"I think we've prepped you well," Mycroft smirked, letting his fingers pull themselves free, slow and antagonizing, Jim shivering at the sudden slide and emptiness. Those fingers, still soaked, forced open his belt and down his pants, just above his knees. Jim licked his lips, huffing and puffing as he watched the genius before him fondle and wet his cock.

"Christ," Jim groaned, his Irish accent dominating, "come on."

"Patience, dear," Mycroft crooned, giving himself two more strokes. "Perhaps your little support there--"

"No," Jim growled, hand cupping the back of Mycroft's neck. He yanked his head forward, smashed a quick kiss to his lips. "We both know it's useless." He scraped his teeth along Mycroft's cheek. "Just come inside me," he whispered hoarsely.

Mycroft found every ounce of his remaining self control suddenly gone with the wind. "Can't turn down an invitation like that," he purred and Jim was howling when suddenly he was full of Mycroft, right up to the hilt. No warning, no teasing, taking him whole. Jim twisted, searing pain scorching along his spine as he accommodated to the sudden intrusion.

"Fuck," Jim hissed, lifting a few inches then climbing back down, "fuck!"

Mycroft took his free leg, pushed and held it up under the knee and back against Jim. The man was about ready to become one with the wall, bouncing and bumping against it as Mycroft fucked him. It started with inches, before pulling out half way and slamming back in, wrenching a cry from the clinging criminal every time. Mycroft removed himself, save the tip of his head, shoved back in and precum along Jim's dick splashed against his belly.

Jim did his best to meet back, riding him, grinding down. He panted loudly, saliva forming thin lines at the corners of his gaping mouth. "Harder," he choked, "come on, make me bleed."

Mycroft sucked down hot air, and obliged, fucking him in earnest, at a pace that would normally be much too uncomfortable. Jim whimpered once, a clear indicator, before letting his head smash against the wall as he came. Mycroft ignored the seed running down his stomach, speckling the edges of the upturned skirt. He continued thrusting in and out, out and in, his own orgasm only a finger's brush away. Jim held on for the ride, all ready half-mast again.

Mycroft released himself and shoved in just one more time. It had been too fast and too hard, and the pain overwhelmed the pleasure. Exactly what Jim wanted as he screamed half-bloody murder, feeling something burn inside him. Mycroft grunted, wrinkles tightening at the corners of his eyes as he came, feeling his cum coat him from within.

They remained in place there, unmoving, save the furious beating of their hearts and heaves of their chests. Gasping and panting, they held on to one another, only now aware of how their clenched muscles ached. Finally, Mycroft dropped one leg and freed him; Jim gave a curse as he slumped against the wall, barely able to stand as his knees shook and legs bent inward. Slowly, blood mingled white fluid rolled down his inner thighs, slow like molasses.

Mycroft fumbled for a napkin. "No need to tell me how it was," he sneered proudly, cleaning himself. He, too, was all ready half hard again.

"Could of been better," Jim choked on a laugh, wiping sweat and moist bangs from his forehead. Black ringed eyes met Mycroft's face with a leer. "Surely you aren't ready to retire so early, old man?"

"There are certain things that require more physical activity than I care for," Mycroft noted, pants now completely off, "but sex is one I am more lenient on participating in."

Jim beamed. Mycroft took his arm in an iron grasp, yanked the wincing, stumbling man over to the table. It was all ready bare of anything save a small sheet; Jim had really plotted everything out so well. Thrust around carelessly, Jim's back slammed into the table's surface, the sheet wrinkling and bunching beneath him. He pushed himself to a sit and back an inch or two with his heels, one stiletto still resting on his foot.

"Oh, you devil, what do you plan on doing?" Jim swooned, voice raising a pitch. Mycroft grabbed the skirt, forced it up and back. Jim feigned a terrified gasp, attempting to push the skirt back down to conceal his erection. "Oh, no! You pervert!" he continued his act, the back of one hand dramatically flying to his forehead. "I feel so violated!"

"You ought to be in theatre, love," Mycroft joked, wrapping fingers around the hard dick. He bent forward, taking him into his mouth. Jim groaned, hand holding his skirt twisting. They had done this only a few times, as Mycroft was never too keen on learning to preform fellatio. It, did, however, work for something quick. Jim chewed his bottom lip, head tilted back and rubbing against the wooden surface.

But once Mycroft did get off his ass and study the art of oral, dear Christ, Jim could barely breathe whenever he did it. He was left to babbling incoherent groans and whimpers, legs spread open like a whore, hands reaching down to tug and pull at Mycroft's hair. His tongue was something of Goddamn magic, stroking the underside, lashing against the glans, teasing the slit, hands massaging at his sac.

Jim threw one hand back over his head, ignoring the pain as a nail broke against impact. They tore into the wood, twitched, unable to splinter the smooth surface despite the violent tearing. Mycroft was tonguing his crown, leaving his back grinding and rising against the table, chest heaving violently, panting and giving small, high grunts. His eyes squeezed tightly shut until the bridge of his nose stung and a universe blossomed into billions of white stars behind the lids.

Mycroft had always timed it perfectly, and Jim knew he was about to step back when he gave his head one final lick. A moment after, Mycroft moved away, letting Jim spill all over his pretty dress, legs twitching closed and open again. Jim fell back, flat as a board, sweat running sticky down his back and against the table, a halo around his forehead and ring along his bouncing chest. He looked more exhausted than usual, those soft eyes darkened with shadows much deeper and hanging low.

Mycroft ran his hand up along the dress, dragging with it a trail of semen. His hand slipped up along Jim's throat, over his mouth and Jim licked obediently, cleaning away the white heat burning against his lips and tongue. Mycroft drew back his hand, leaned forward and kissed him, gentle this time, smearing the residue between both their mouths. He lifted back after a tender moment, Jim giving one strike of his tongue to wash the drop of white from the corner of his top lip.

Mycroft cleared his throat and adjusted his wrinkled tie, standing tall at Jim's feet. "I hope that was to your satisfaction," he gibed.

Jim's eyes twinkled as he looked down. "I see it was to yours," he taunted, shoving the heel of his shoe against Mycroft's new erection. Mycroft flinched but remained still. "I'm a little tired, you know? Long, hard day at work," he purred, drawing his foot back, letting the smooth black bottom run down the length of the man's cock. "I think you might have to take care of it yourself."

"Surely you jest," Mycroft said, wrinkling his nose. Yet by the look in his eyes, he was merely playing along.

Jim propped himself on his elbows, gave a small push against the dick. "You may not have heard," he chortled, wolfish grin on face, "but I'm not exactly known as a 'nice guy.'"

Mycroft's eyebrows rose like the corners of his quirky smile. "And neither am I," he said, simply, before Jim grunted as the weight of the taller man's body was pressed on top of his. He took Jim's chin in his hand, squeezed tight, tilted his head back until their lips were reflecting diagonal to one another. "Some might say I'm a bit selfish."

Jim gave a mock gasp. "Inconceivable!"

Mycroft just laughed. "Try to keep up, dear," he said, and Jim grimaced when suddenly his flaccid cock was enclosed in Mycroft's hand, rubbing against the man's own firm one. Jim keened, hips undulating, rising to crush the back of Mycroft's hand against his grinding stomach.

"You have some insatiable hunger, buttercup," Jim grunted, looked him in the eye with a smile, "oh, and a massive sex drive, too."

Mycroft chuckled, deep in his throat. He took one of Jim's wrists, pinned his hand above his head. He leaned forward, keeping the usual speed, mouth to mouth with the smaller man. "And I could just eat you up, crumpet," he sniggered against those wide Cheshire Cat lips. Jim shut his eyes, inviting Mycroft's tongue inside with a small purr.

Their bodies swayed along one another, grinding in electric slides and pushes. Mycroft was the first to reach climax, hand still idly milking Jim on his way. The smaller man clamped his legs to Mycroft's sides, dancing in that hand, rubbing his tail bone in the table. When he came, his toes curled and cramped, face twisting as the final ounce of energy was wrenched beautifully from his body.

Mycroft laid heavy as a log on top of the criminal mastermind, listening to his heart beat grow steady under his ear. Jim gave a small twitch, and Mycroft climbed off him, sliding gracefully back on his feet. They said nothing; Jim rolled onto his side, grimaced, before forcing himself to stand, legs wobbling like a man long at sea. Mycroft gathered a few tissues, cleaned himself simply, before pulling on and buckling his pants. Jim swept hands neatly over his stained dress before pulling it off, strap at a time; while an appetizing sight, Mycroft was too spent to go another round.

Jim walked naked across the kitchen, smelling of sex and humid heat. There was no shame, flaccid dick hanging with dried semen half way down his thighs and ass. He did not worry, knowing he'd be back home in his secret lair's shower soon. Dressing elegantly in an iron pressed white undershirt, charcoal Canali suit and striped tie all hanging in the pantry, he pulled on a pair of socks and his expensive shoes before turning to face Mycroft like a business man having just arrived with his proposition.

"I was the best part of your birthday, don't you agree?" Jim asked, bouncing on his heels. He nodded to the discarded dress and shoes. "You can keep those if you want some happy time material for later." He winked.

Mycroft smiled and strode elegantly to the man's side. "The cream on the cake, I suppose," he answered, neatly adjusting Jim's crooked tie. "Though I know today was special, do try and keep the body count low from now on, hmm?"

Jim's jaw dropped. "Why, I never!" A hand flew to his heart. "I've never laid a hand on anyone!" he insisted, and they both chuckled lowly. "And I should warn you, since I am oh so fair, your dogs have lost the scent, old bean."

"Oh, they'll find it again soon enough."

Jim nodded once. "I'll show myself out," he said, fearlessly, and Mycroft felt no threat. Both their reputations were at stake; Jim wouldn't risk exposing both Mycroft and himself.

Mycroft stepped forward, said, "Oh, Jim."

The man twirled back on his heel, both hands in his pockets. "Yee-es?"

"Just remember: touch my brother, and I will ruin you," Mycroft cooed, "darling."

Jim giggled. "Not if I kill you first, cupcake."

END

A/N: Usually I dislike oral sex in fics, but I just couldn't get the image of someone going down on Jim in a dress with legs spread out of my head. HOHOHOHOHO.
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Dirty Laundry