Animosity

Animosity

Mycroft Holmes set the phone down carefully and leaned back in his office chair. The news hadn't been unexpected, naturally. Somehow the knowledge that it was inevitable didn't make it any more palatable when the call actually came.

Realizing that there was no point delaying what was to come, however much he regretted it's necessity, Mycroft sat forward and tapped the button on his desk that would summon Anthea. She entered the room quietly, eyes locked on her blackberry. In a position where it was important not to be noticed paying overly much attention to the goings on around you, Anthea was quite the rare find.

“I shall require some rather sensitive items tonight,” Mycroft said evenly as he pulled a sealed envelope from his desk drawer and handed it to his assistant, “Please see that they are waiting for me in the car when I leave.”

“Of course, Sir,” Anthea said. She took the envelope and turned quickly leaving the room in short clipped steps.

Mycroft sighed when she was gone. The plan was in motion now, no turning back. He reached into his pocket for his mobile and sent a text to the Detective Inspector. Ordinarily he would have just called, but he knew that Gregory Lestrade was a compassionate man at heart and the last thing Mycroft Holmes desired in his present mindset was compassionate understanding.

It's time, your discretion is of the
utmost importance in this matter.

-MH

He didn't have to wait long for a response. The details of the exchange had been worked out months ago, after the first time his brother had fled the clinic.

I'll take care of it.

-GL

Now that that matter had been dealt with Mycroft refocused his mind to the tasks at hand. It was not going to be a short day, regardless of his personal crisis, the world must go on. Adjusting his already immaculate tie he pushed the button that connected him to his secretary in the main entry office.

“Please tell the ambassador that I'm ready to see him now.”

Hours later after the meetings and phone calls had finally come to an end Mycroft sat back once again, tenting his fingers before him as he contemplated his further plans for the evening. As long as he maintained his conviction that this was the only possible way to correct his brother's self destroying behavior he would have no trouble staying the course. Societal and cultural taboos held no sway over him, though he recognized their importance in situations with those below his advanced intellect. Rather, in this rare instance his hesitance steamed from concern about the reaction of the one person with whom he could truly converse and presume to be understood by. He would miss that, it wasn't a matter of sentiment, just the natural desire for companionship that humans continued to entrap themselves in to the point of detriment. In the end he determined that it made no difference to what must be done and resolve not to dwell on it any further, at least not until this night was over.

Anthea gave him a short nod as he gathered his coat and left the office for the day. Everything was accounted for then. Despite his trust in her abilities he still checked the contents of the bag he found waiting for him in the car. Everything was as he'd requested. His mobile phone beeped.

Barts

-GL

Mycroft rolled his eyes silently at the predictability of his brother before typing a reply.

On my way to collect.

-MH

He signaled the driver to change course and sank lower into the soft leather seats. He opened the mini bar and fixed himself a drink. Just one, he'd earn it twelve times over once this mess was sorted.

The black sedan pulled up behind St Bartholomew's Hospital where a police car sat waiting. Mycroft snorted at the spectacle. Detective Inspector, Gregory Lestrade was leaning against the car with his arms crossed. When he spotted the sedan he went to open the door to the back seat and removed his disheveled charge.

Mycroft opened the door and stepped out into the cool night air and took in the sight of his younger brother cuffed behind the D.I.

“I should have sent a less obvious vehicle for your disposal Detective Inspector, I apologize for the oversight,” Mycroft said, his impeccable diction present as always.

“Yeah sorry, didn't think to hire a cab. Wasn't sure what state he'd be in. Looks like I got here in time though,” Greg said pulling Sherlock forward towards the waiting car.

“Ah, hello brother dear, I trust you didn't give the Detective Inspector too much trouble?”

Sherlock's glare was full of contempt, but he made no verbal reply.

“Do you want me to leave him cuffed? He's settled now, but he put up quite a fit earlier,” Greg said.

Mycroft studied the slight bruise forming along Sherlock's jawline. Too small to have been caused by a fist, and really Gregory wasn't the time to punch a man just for being difficult and abusive. Must have sustained a fall then, probably tried to run when he spotted the D.I. and had to be taken down for his efforts. Mycroft didn't understand the point of physical altercations, but then there were a great many things he didn't understand about his brother.
“That won't be necessary Detective Inspector, I'm sure Sherlock is smart enough to cooperate.”

The slight caused the younger man's eyes to flash in irritation, but still he held his tongue. Mycroft found this troubling as he had never known his brother to suffer in silence and certainly the indignity of the situation warranted some commentary.

Greg swiftly unlocked the handcuffs and Sherlock rubbed his wrists as he stepped past his brother and got into the car without comment. Even Greg raised an eyebrow at this, considering the abuse the younger Holmes had been spewing earlier he'd expected more fireworks from him.

“Thank you again for your assistance in this matter Gregory, I'll take care of things from here,” Mycroft said curtly and turned to go.

“He can't keep doing this, one of these days I'm not going to get to him in time,” Greg said.

“Yes, thank you Gregory, I'll deal with it,” Mycroft said, a familiar edge coming into his usually impassive voice. Greg knew to let the matter drop, however much he wanted to say more.

Mycroft pulled the car door shut behind him and the driver pulled away. Greg Lestrade run his hand tiredly through his hair and turned to get into his own vehicle. He wondered idly if his wife would be home when he returned tonight. Somehow he already knew the answer and resolved to pick up some beer on his way home. He would keep his mobile nearby, just in case.

As Barts faded behind them Mycroft turned to assess his brother. Sherlock was dressed sloppily in a faded t-shirt and what by all rights should have been pyjama bottoms. Clearly acquiring proper clothing hadn't been one of his priorities when he'd fled the clinic. At least this time he'd managed to find some shoes. Mycroft reached over and tweaked the heater controls to make the car a bit warmer to account for Sherlock's attire.

The young man was pale as always, his skin pulled taunt over his boney frame. Clearly he hadn't been eating properly, but that was nothing new. He had circles under his piercing eyes earned by what felt like a lifetime of restless nights. His dark hair was messy and slightly longer than he usually wore it indicating his clear indifference to his personal grooming. Upon entering the car he'd pulled his knees up to his chest, hugging them close to himself. He looked so young and so broken that Mycroft had to close his eyes for a moment to steel his resolve.

“Despite all evidence to the contrary I had hoped you'd make more of an effort this time around,” Mycroft said finally.

“Expecting different results without introducing a catalyst for change is foolish Mycroft, you know that ,” Sherlock said, he kept his eyes forward.

“Indeed, which is why I won't be taking you home tonight. Clearly you cannot be counted on to act for your own benefit.”

“Clearly you forget that acting for my benefit is one of the only jobs in the world that you are not required to preform.”

“I'm afraid we must agree to disagree on that point Sherlock. It simply wouldn't do for me to allow you to disgrace yourself and our family any further than you already have.”

“This needn't involve you or our family Mycroft. Contrary to your and our mother's beliefs I am perfectly capable of taking care of my own, inclinations.”

Mycroft chuckled at that causing Sherlock to bristle.

“Are we calling it an inclination now? How very quaint dear brother. Only you could make an all encompassing addiction to a subversive drug sound so benign.”

“I have it under control, I don't need your interference or the Yard's for that matter.”

“Oh now don't be cross about Gregory, he's very good at keeping quiet about the various states he's found you in over the past years,” Mycroft said.

“It was only that one time Mycroft, don't attempt to incite drama. It doesn't become you,” Sherlock hissed.

“I would never think to overthrow you in dramatics dear brother. I'm afraid I lack your natural aptitude for such things.”

Sherlock snorted, then fell silent. His gaze drifting towards the window while he hands unconsciously rubbed at his arms. The fidgeting did not go unnoticed by the elder Holmes.

“You haven't asked where I plan to take you if not home,” Mycroft said, more to continue the conversation than out of true curiosity.

“No need, if it's not home and you've only just left the office it will be the Diogenes.”

“Quite right, I trust you can be counted on to hold your tongue until we are safely in my private rooms?”

“Well I would hate to make a scene, bad for business.”

“I've no adverse feelings towards sedating you if need be,” Mycroft said casting his brother a warning glance.

“While that might be preferable in some ways, I expect you have a purpose behind dragging me here so we might was well deal with our current disagreement so that I can resume my prior course of actions which you had the Detective Inspector so spectacularly interrupt.”

“Very well,” Mycroft said straightening his shoulders. The brothers remained silent for the rest of the drive.

Their arrival at the Diogenes Club was wholly unremarkable. Mycroft of course walked in as if he owned the place, which he basically did, while Sherlock walked stiffly behind him directly to the personal rooms in the back which Mycroft maintained for his own use. Talking was mercifully permitted there, but only in quite voices. While the walls were quite thick, they were far from sound proof.
As soon as the door to the private chamber had closed Sherlock rounded on his brother.

“Alright Mycroft, say what you need to say so I can get out of here,” Sherlock said, his hands locked behind his back as he watched his brother with a detached indifference.

“I apologize Sherlock, I didn't realize you had such a tight schedule to keep in regards to destroying yourself,” Mycroft said, swiftly moving past his brother to the bar, “take a seat and have a drink, it might help you be more receptive.”

“Highly doubtful,” Sherlock said, but walked over and sat on the softly upholstered settee anyway. He waved off Mycroft's offer of a drink and crossed one leg over the other as he waited.

Mycroft lowered himself delicately into the armchair opposite his brother and removed the small bag from his coat pocket, setting it on the side table as he took a sip of his scotch. Sherlock watched the bag closely.

“Only eight days this time, was it?” Mycroft asked.

“You know it was.”

“Yes, practically a record.”

“I'm not going back to rehab Mycroft, I cannot deal with those insufferable idiots a moment longer.”

“Right to the point then? Very well,” Mycroft cleared his throat and set his drink down, “I've suspended access to your trust fund until such a time as I deem you fit to take responsibility for your own financial well-being again. At that point you'll receive a modest monthly sum for your living expenses. Due to your complete disregard for our prior arrangement your flat is also forfeit. I've taken the liberty of having your personal items placed in storage until you find a new, acceptable residence.”

“Is that all?” Sherlock asked, crossing his arms.

Mycroft smiled coldly at him. “There is nothing left Sherlock, you forced my hand with your latest refusal to seek professional help.”

“I don't require help, professional or otherwise,” Sherlock snapped, his voice rising slightly. Mycroft narrowed his eyes in warning.

“Your opinion on the matter is duly noted little brother, however wrong.”

Sherlock stood suddenly his hands balled into fists at his sides. “It's all so delightful for you isn't it? Lording over me like this? Being able to take away everything with a snap of your fingers?”

“I take no pleasure in this Sherlock, surely you realize that?” Mycroft said with a sigh. The younger Holmes began pacing irritably, his hands clenching and unclenching repetitively.

“Is that it then? Is that why you had me apprehended and carted down here? Am I free to go?”

“Not just yet,” Mycroft said casting his gaze at the bag still resting on the table.

“Ah yes, what have you brought to try to persuade me this time? What trinket or promise do you think will save me from myself?” Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest.

“Oh no, I realize now that you are quite beyond any help I can offer,” Mycroft said picking up the bag carefully.

“Then what's this?”

“A gift of sorts, without any financial means to support yourself I thought you might have trouble acquiring the items you need to get your fix.” Mycroft opened the bag and removed a capped syringe full of clear liquid. Sherlock's eyes grew wide.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, his breath hitching a bit mid sentence.

“I'm afraid I lack your street connections, this comes from a privately funded laboratory up north. I'm told it's quite good quality though, very pure,” Mycroft said, pretending to study the syringe between his fingers.

“Let me see it,” Sherlock demanded, holding out his hand. Mycroft relented easily and watched as his brother studied the substance carefully in the light.

Satisfied Sherlock met his brothers eyes once more, “what do you want for it?”

“Tell me Sherlock, how do you plan to support your habit? We both know you're not the sort to deal with physical labor, you refuse to enter civil service with me, how will you get what you need to survive?”

“That's my problem,” Sherlock said, eyes still locked on the syringe in his hand.

“Yes, one I'm willing to offer you some assistance with.”

“In exchange for this?” Sherlock asked indicating the cocaine.

“Incrementally, yes.” Mycroft held out his hand, Sherlock hesitated only a moment before giving the syringe back to his brother and seating himself once more upon the settee. Mycroft waited until he had arranged himself comfortably before he began again.

“Forgive me for being so ignorant on the matter, but exactly how sexually experienced are you Sherlock?”

“Excuse me?” Sherlock asked looking positively scandalized. It was all Mycroft could do not to chuckle at his brother's predicament.

“If I'm to consult you on the matter I need to know your present level of sexual experience.”

“Perhaps you should begin with what exactly you expect me to be doing.”

“Well, since you refuse to employ your intellect I figured you'd have to make due with your physical assets,” Mycroft said.

“I'm not some lowbred rentboy Mycroft, despite your opinion of my recreational past-times I do have some standards,” Sherlock snapped.

“Well if you were lowbred you'd hardly be able to make enough to sustain a modest marijuana habit, much less your preferred pharmaceutical.”

“So you're suggesting I offer myself up to more wealthy clientele? Do you even hear yourself Mycroft, what makes you think I'd ever agree to something so debasing?”

“Oh now, don't act so put upon, I'm merely trying to help you assess your options, dear brother,” Mycroft said with a slight sneer, “Besides, as you so often have said, your body is only transport. Why should you care what happens to it between your highs?”

“It's disgusting,” Sherlock snapped.

“Then you are welcome to find your 'fix' elsewhere,” Mycroft said. He swiftly scooped up the syringe and placed it back in its bag. Sherlock seethed angrily before jumping up as if to make his way to the door. Mycroft fought to look indifferent, but held his breath a moment. If Sherlock left now, his plan would fail, it would be so easy for the younger Holmes to just walk away, truthfully Mycroft almost wished he would, but as ever, Sherlock was too stubborn.

Pausing just before the door, hands clenching at his sides, Sherlock too a deep breath to steady himself.

“What do you want me to do?”

Mycroft released the breath he'd been holding, taking a sip of his drink to cover the disappointment he felt.

“This won't work if you're constantly going to refuse my orders. Actual paying clients won't go in for that sort of behavior,” Mycroft said, setting his glass down.

“I haven't consented to anything yet,” Sherlock said as he returned to his seat. Mycroft just gave him a sad, but knowing look.

“Yes, you have.”

Sherlock looked like he wanted to argue, but seemed to think better of it and fixed his brother with an annoyed glare instead.

“Very well, tell me about your sexual experience,” Mycroft said.

“I'm aware of the logistics involved if that's what you're asking.”

“Its not, I'm curious about your personal experiences.”

“Limited to typical pubertal explorations and observations. I have rather more important things to concern myself with you know,” Sherlock replied.

“Clearly,” Mycroft smirked, “So, can I assume you've had no sexual partners then?”

“If you insist on knowing that which is clearly none of your business.”

“Very well, any preference in potential partners?”

“What do you mean?”

Mycroft couldn't hide his smile, for a genius Sherlock could be so easily put out of his depth.

“I mean do you prefer men or women?”

Sherlock flushed momentarily, this whole line of questioning was making him incredibly uncomfortable. His fingers scratched lightly over his arm at something that wasn't there while he considered the question. When he realized what he was doing he immediately dropped his hand and said, “Men.”

Mycroft just nodded, he'd suspected as much, still it was interesting to have it confirmed. He hadn't missed Sherlock's slip-up, the withdrawal symptoms were starting to surface. According to plan, as always.

“Stand up for me please,” Mycroft said.

“Why?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow silently asking if Sherlock was going to insist on being difficult or just cooperate. With an overly dramatic sigh Sherlock stood up with a quick spin, arms out to his sides, making a clear show of putting himself on display.

“Very good, now if you'd be so kind as to undress.”

Sherlock's eye twitched and his face went just a shade paler than usual. An average person would not have been able to notice the difference, but then Mycroft Holmes was far from average.

“Problem, Sherlock?” he asked, his tone clearly mocking.

“Don't you think you've taken this charade far enough Mycroft?” Sherlock asked.

“I'd rather hoped you had realized by now that this is no charade Sherlock. You are of course free to leave at anytime, we both know I won't attempt to restrain you, but doing so will forfeit your reward and I don't think you're willing, or able, to do that.”

“There are other means to acquire it.”

“There were, but I've been busy while you were away. I think you'll find all of your former contacts have quite abruptly changed address.” Mycroft smiled, “I've no doubt you'll be able to find others, but I fear that could take some time and judging by the state of you I'd say you don't have that luxury.”

Sherlock caught himself scratching at nothing again and jerked his hand away. His all too brief stint in rehab meant that he'd yet to get through the worst of his withdrawals, Mycroft knew he had him at a clear disadvantage, which was precisely how he preferred these situations.

Rolling his eyes to show his displeasure Sherlock tugged the shirt over his head tossing it over the settee. The shoes came off next. He hesitated for a moment then resigned himself and pushed the pyjamas down as well kicking them away. Glancing up at Mycroft he scowled when he realized that he wasn't finished yet, but as it was not in his nature to do things by half measures Sherlock grabbed the waist of his pants firmly and shoved those down as well sending them to join the pyjamas.

“Satisfied?” Sherlock asked.

“Well it's a good starting point I suppose,” Mycroft replied dismissively. In truth he was impressed. He knew his brother was more attractive than himself, though Sherlock seemed oblivious to this fact. With his slight build, prominent bone structure, and piercing eyes, Sherlock could have easily charmed his way into any profession he deemed worthy. Instead he squandered everything just to enjoy a fleeting chemical induced euphoria.

“Go ahead and stroke yourself,” Mycroft said. This time there was no hiding the blush that crept up Sherlock's neck.

“You cannot be serious,” he practically shouted.

“Mind your volume, brother, and of course I am. You're completely flaccid, I need an idea of your size and technique.”

“This is too much, even for you,” Sherlock said.

“Again I'll remind you that you don't have to stay, but if you choose to do so then I expect you to obey my commands. The choice is yours, dear brother. How twitchy you must be feeling by now, I imagine it's abysmal.”

Sherlock's face contorted as he fought with himself. It seemed that, unlike Mycroft, he didn't realize that his fate had been sealed when he didn't walk out the first time he was given the option. Finally, he took a deep breath and glared at his elder brother again.

“If I agree to this you'll give me the needle?”

“Of course.”

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“When I've finished with you, of course,” Mycroft said. His tone was impassive, but his mind was already playing out the scenario that would follow. It was all he could do not to cringe at the thought of the havoc his plan was likely to wreak, but really what choice did he have? Sherlock was beyond fixing, that much was obvious. They only thing to be done then was to find a different way for him to be broken. Unfortunately, Mycroft knew exactly the way that would prove most effective.

Sherlock lowered his hand and gripped his cock firmly. Finding the idea of watching Mycroft watch him more than a bit disquieting he closed his eyes tightly as he gave himself over to long slow strokes.

Mycroft shifted in his seat, suddenly feeling a bit warm. Standing slowly so as not to alert Sherlock, he removed his suit jacket and laid it aside carefully so it wouldn't wrinkle. The waistcoat came off next and Mycroft was feeling positively casual. The same could not be said for Sherlock, who despite his attempts to ignore his present situation had only managed to entice himself to half-mast.

When Mycroft touched his hip Sherlock jumped away and any progress he had made was immediately lost.

“Bloody hell, Mycroft, what are you doing?” Sherlock stammered.

“We haven't got all night, dear brother. I thought you could do with some assistance,” Mycroft said, his smile predatory.

“Not enough to just watch?” Sherlock asked, quickly regaining his composure, or at least what remained of it when he was stood naked and forced to masturbate for his brother. “It's not like you to get your hands dirty.”

Mycroft moved close again, he could feel the tension rising up off of Sherlock and while he'd like to think himself above such things the power trip was a bit of an aphrodisiac for him. He ran a finger slowly down Sherlock's chest, letting off just below his flat stomach where the patch of curly hair began.

“I think you'll find hands such as mine have their own advantages,” Mycroft said softly.

“Why are you doing this?” Sherlock asked quietly. This gave Mycroft pause. This was not a question he expected from his brother. Sherlock didn't ask 'why', he deduced 'how'. This needed to be done.

“We both know this is where your situation will lead Sherlock, much as you insist on denying it. If it's not me it will just be someone else. Someone who will take advantage of you, possibly hurt you and you won't always be lucid enough to do anything about it.”

As he spoke, Mycroft moved forward slowly backing the younger Holmes against the wall. With nowhere to go Sherlock froze as Mycroft's hand found his cock.

“Let me be your first, brother dear. Let me help you with this one last thing,” Mycroft murmured before leaning in to drag his tongue along his brothers neck. Sherlock shivered at the contact as Mycroft slowly teased his balls. Caging the smaller man in with his body, Mycroft set to the task of getting said man aroused.

A small amount of pre-cum had formed from Sherlock's earlier ministrations and Mycroft wasted no time in swirling his thumb through it and spreading along the head of his brother's cock. He slid Sherlock's foreskin back slowly making sure his palm rubbed over the sensitive cock-head before pulling it back and repeating the process. With his free hand firmly grasped on Sherlock's hip to keep him steady, Mycroft set about alternating his speed and grip with each stroke.

Sherlock had closed his eyes again and had his head tilted back resting against the wall giving his brother complete access. He was considering just slipping away to his mind palace when he felt a sharp bite just above his clavicle. Crying out in surprise he opened his eyes to see Mycroft smiling at him while he hand continued to pump away.

“Stay here with me, Sherlock.”

Against his wishes, Sherlock's body betrayed him, as his cock grew thick and hard. Mycroft had not been merely boasting about how talented his hands were. Since Sherlock was being so stingy with any audible cues Mycroft had to keep a careful eye on him to make sure he didn't overdo his performance. When he saw those thin lips slightly part and his pupils grow wide he released his hold on the younger man's cock and stepped back to have a look at his handy work.

Sherlock rutted the air, nearly losing his balance as Mycroft pulled away. In such an uniquely unguarded state Mycroft could easily read his brother's emotions as quickly as he experienced them. Confusion, disappointment, apprehension, all there playing across his face like something off of the telly.

“Not to worry, dear brother, I'm not finished,” Mycroft said reaching down to gesture at his trousers, “Just making myself more comfortable.”

The source of his discomfort was painfully large and obvious at this point. Moving gracefully back to his chair Mycroft sat and removed his shoes and socks before standing and opening his trousers. He gave a soft sigh of relief when his pants followed allowing his hardening member the room it had desperately been requiring.

Feeling extraordinarily self-conscious, Sherlock stepped away from the wall, but unsure where to go found himself standing awkwardly in front of the settee. He reached to scratch again, and this time he didn't bother to stop himself.

Mycroft finished stripping and neatly folding his clothing then turned back to face his brother.

“Come here Sherlock,” he said, holding out an arm invitingly.

Sherlock's face betrayed his nerves, but he did as he was told and calmly moved forward until he was well within Mycroft's space. Mycroft reached up and caressed his cheek.

“Kneel down,” he said, his tone leaving no question about it being an order.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, his voice hitching slightly. Mycroft heard the fear there, and although he displayed nothing outwardly something inside of him broke at hearing Sherlock sound so young and lost again.

He'd come too far, was too close now. It wasn't enough for Sherlock to be afraid, fear could be forgotten. Mycroft knew that he had to leave a mark to get his point across. Physical marks would fade, but those left on the mind, especially one as elevated as Sherlock's, those would remain forever.

“Kneel down and open your mouth,” Mycroft repeated.

Sherlock looked horrified, but without his usual haunty demeanor to hide behind it was more pathetic than indignant. Seemingly at a loss he just stood there gaping at his brother.

“It will be over faster if you cooperate,” Mycroft reminded him. Slowly, Sherlock made his way to his knees. He cowered there a moment unable to look up at his brother before he finally parted his lips.

Mycroft wasted no time and pressed his cock firmly into Sherlock's mouth humming his approval as he carded his fingers through unruly black curls.

“Use your tongue, but do mind your teeth,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock attempted to run his tongue along the bottom of his brother's member, but only succeeded in making himself convulse involuntarily. Mycroft pressed forward trying to encourage him to take more of him, but Sherlock only gagged and pulled away.

“You're making this more difficult than it has to be,” Mycroft chided him, his fingers still tangled in Sherlock's hair.

“I'm sorry, I... I can't,” Sherlock was trembling, “I've never...”

Mycroft sighed impatiently. This whole situation was difficult enough without his brother's obvious lack of experience taken into consideration. Releasing Sherlock's head, Mycroft stepped back and frowned down at the younger man.

“I'm beginning to doubt that you actually want your reward,” Mycroft said.

“No, I need it Mycroft,” Sherlock said crawling forward to fill the space between them,”Let me try again.”

“That won't be necessary, I can tell your abilities won't be suitable in this regard.”

Sherlock looked stunned and maybe even a little put-off.

“Tell me what I need to do,” he said finally.

Mycroft pretended to consider his question before finally smoothing his brother's hair and nodding towards the settee.

“Lean over there and spread your legs.”

Sherlock made a soft choking noise in the back of his throat, but slowly got to his feet. Leaning over and placing his hands firmly on the arm of the settee he widened his stance. The redness spread up his neck again, but he said nothing.

Mycroft retrieved the supply bag and removed a small tube of lubricant, popping the cap unceremoniously. He was glad Sherlock was looking away from him now, otherwise he wasn't sure he would have been able to detach himself so completely from what his body was about to do.

Placing a generous amount of lubricant on his finger Mycroft spread Sherlock's arse cheeks gently and rubbed roughly at his puckered entrance. Sherlock gasped at the contact and began shaking slightly.

“Try to relax,” Mycroft whispered softly as he forced his finger inside. He managed to get as deep as his knuckle, but Sherlock's body was not responding well to the intrusion. Mycroft rubbed gently at Sherlock's lower back trying to sooth him, but the tightness didn't seem to be letting up at all. Finally Mycroft accepted the fact that this was just going to be unpleasant all around and began slowly pumping his finger in and out until he was able to get the whole thing inside.

Sherlock's hands were clenched tightly and he'd begun panting trying to keep quiet while Mycroft worked him over. When the second finger was introduced he cried out before biting down on his lip in shame.

Opening the younger man up was more difficult than he'd expected. Mycroft knew any doubts he may have had about his brother's virginity were quite unfounded. Sherlock had clearly never been touched this way before, not even by his own hands. Even with extra lube and a steady hand at some point he had to consent that he just wasn't going to be able to make this comfortable for his brother.

“I don't think we'll make any more progress this way. Might was well get on with it then,” Mycroft said withdrawing his fingers. Sherlock lowered his head onto his arms and tried to compose himself, but as soon as he felt Mycroft spread his cheeks again his knees nearly buckled under him.

Mycroft placed his well lubed cock at Sherlock's entrance taking a moment to take in just how far his brother had fallen in such a short span of time. 'For his own good,' Mycroft assured himself as he rolled his hips forward seeking admittance.

Sherlock cried out as a sharp pain tore through him. Mycroft was moving slowly, deliberately, but at a constant pace. There was no time given for his body to adjust he was just forced to accept all that Mycroft had to offer until he finally reached his hilt. Fire burned through Sherlock's body and he felt wetness prickle at the corners of his eyes.

When he was finally balls deep in his brother, Mycroft rested a moment to let Sherlock catch his breath. He resisted the urge to try to soothe him, or caress him in any way. This was supposed to hurt, Sherlock needed to feel all of it. Taking a deep breath Mycroft slowly pulled back before snapping his hips forward again sharply. Sherlock cried out again and again as he built a steady pace.

Sherlock was horrified by how his body had betrayed him, he couldn't stop making horrible noises with every thrust and tears were falling freely down his face now, though he couldn't tell if it was from the pain or just the shamefulness of the situation. Mycroft was panting freely behind him, though he said nothing, Sherlock felt the bruising on his hips where Mycroft was holding him in place.

At some point the pace intensified and Sherlock was worried he'd fall over, or pass out. Mycroft's hand reached around to grab his brother's cock, but upon finding it soft he pulled back and continued his assault on Sherlock's arse instead. Finally after what seemed to take forever Mycroft cried out and thrust as deeply as he was able shooting a warm load deep into Sherlock's bowels. He lay over his brother's back for a few moments, breathing deeply, before pushing himself free and walking away.

Sherlock's knee's did give out then and he dropped to the floor, resting in a puddle of Mycroft's semen and displaced lube. His eyes were shut tightly and his body wouldn't stop shaking violently. He wasn't sure how long he remained there, but he jerked back to awareness when a soft towel was dropped on his shoulder. Glancing up he saw Mycroft standing over him, already fully dressed and looking as if nothing had happened.

“Clean yourself up,” Mycroft said. He sounded disgusted, but bored at the same time. As if this was just one more thing he had to deal with. Sherlock did his best to tidy up, ignoring the blood he spotted while attempting to wipe away the excess fluids. He dressed quickly, though he wished he'd had more clothing to cover himself with.

Mycroft just sat in his chair watching his younger brother scramble to recompose himself. When Sherlock was a put together as he was likely to get Mycroft offered him the syringe. Sherlock hesitated then reached and carefully took it.

“Take it and go,” Mycroft said.

“Just so?” Sherlock asked.

“You've already completely debased yourself little brother, what does it matter,” Mycroft said looking away. Sherlock noted the disappointment in his voice and it made his blood run cold.

“I only did what you wanted, if anyone is debased it's you,” Sherlock spat.

“I had to see how far you were willing to go,” Mycroft told him, “withering about like a common whore, moaning for it, the whole thing was disgusting.”

“Not so disgusting that you couldn't get off on it,” Sherlock replied angrily.

“Don't flatter yourself, Sherlock,” Mycroft said with a sad smile, “You weren't very good, just willing. You'll have a hard time finding clients as understanding as I was this time.”

“I won't do this again,” Sherlock said.

“Don't be ridiculous Sherlock, that needle won't last forever and now that you know how easy it is to give yourself over to others, you'll make a proper rentboy in no time. Mummy will be so proud,” Mycroft scoffed.

Sherlock's face contorted in rage, “You wouldn't dare.”

“You won't even be lucid enough to care,” Mycroft said, indicating the needle his brother was still holding. Sherlock tossed it down on the table and started walking to the door. He was about to call back over his shoulder, leave Mycroft with one last witty and snarky retort when the door opened in front of him and two large men in black suites grabbed him roughly dragging him back into the room.

“Sorry Sherlock,” Mycroft said, watching his brother struggle to free himself. One man held him firmly while the other pulled his arm out. Mycroft collected the needle and carefully lined it up with one of the old marks on Sherlock's arm from previous hits. “I can't allow you to go without what you worked for.”

“Mycroft, no! Stop!” Sherlock tried to pull away as the needle was plunged into his flesh and the liquid forced into his veins.

“Take him back,” Mycroft said. He moved to make himself another drink while the men collected the still struggling Sherlock and carried him out the door. As he sat back down in his chair, finally, blissfully alone in the room, he let himself mourn.

It was two weeks later when Mycroft finally found time to visit the rehab clinic. The doctor's had kept him well informed on all new developments since his brother had been found overdosed in a gutter and brought back in.

Lestrade had called him to break the distressing news that the doctors had found signs of sexual assault when they checked Sherlock for injuries. Mycroft played the role of concerned older brother amicably, but with Sherlock insisting that he remembered nothing of the assault it looked like Greg would not be able to solve the case. Mycroft agreed that this was a shame, but perhaps it was somehow for the best. Sherlock had never been more dedicated to getting clean than he had since the incident.

“How are you, brother dear?” Mycroft asked from the door of Sherlock's private room. The patient was sitting up in his bed, his hair cut short and his face a mask of irritation.

“What are you doing here?”

“Just coming to pay a visit, I was concerned with how your treatment was going this time, but the doctors seem to think you're doing very well.”

Sherlock just snorted, his hands clenching in the sheets until his knuckles turned white. Mycroft moved to stand beside the bed, but Sherlock refused to look at him, even when a hand ran softly through his hair. He pulled away quickly.

“I was worried about you,” Mycroft said, lowing his hand to his side.

“I'm sure you were, worried about what I might say. Well you needn't worry.”

“Don't be absurd Sherlock, nobody would take the word of an addict over mine.”

Sherlock bristled at that.

“I'm not an addict anymore.”

“Not this week at least. You must be very proud.”

“Never again,” Sherlock said firmly. Mycroft leaned in close, Sherlock could feel his brother's breath on the side of his face and it caused him to tremble slightly.

“I hope so dear brother, because I'll be watching and next time I'll make you beg me for it.”

Sherlock's eyes snapped to focus on Mycroft's as if seeing for the first time the extent his brother was willing to go, just how dark he could be. Mycroft gave a knowing smile and turned to leave. Sherlock watched him go, vowing that Mycroft would be wrong this time unaware that Mycroft hoped the same.