Work Text:
Run.
Keep running.
Must keep running.
The mantra revolves in Mycroft's head as his feet pound on the revolving surface.
Run.
Don't stop.
Mustn't stop.
The time has come again and he must be ready for it. His mind is as sharp as always but his body needs work, so he runs. The wedding is drawing closer, the day is coming and Mycroft will be ready.
Run.
Run for him.
Be ready for him.
Each bead of salty sweat that slides from his forehead to his lip is a reminder of why he is doing this, why every second not working has been spent in this personal gym and why he can't stop running.
Sherlock.
He runs for Sherlock, he has to be ready for the wedding to be over and Sherlock to be his again. They were close once, back when there was no one else that could match him, excite him or challenge him like Mycroft. Then John Watson came and everything changed. Who needed their brother when they had a best friend? Sherlock certainly needed no one else in his life, for anything. Even during his two years dead his focus was on returning home, being back at Baker Street and back to John.
Soon it would be like it was before. Soon it would be the Holmes boys together again. Deducing and debating, bickering and teasing, laughing and loving. Mycroft would have his brother back, his friend back and most importantly and finally after so many years he'd have his lover back.
So he would run, he would make his body as perfect as his mind already was, he would make sure Sherlock would still want him when they became close again and finally fell into each other's arms. Each cramp and aching muscle was worth it to get back to how Sherlock had known him before, to have the body he'd adored and had planted kisses over each inch of in the heat of passion.
Mycroft had let himself go. What was the point when one didn't have the man one craved? Sherlock had new priorities, he had John. They were platonic of course but Sherlock's focus was rarely held by more than one and friendship brought out morals which incest didn't seem to be able to pass. Mycroft was left by the wayside for the new man in Sherlock's life and although he was pleased to have his brother happy, he still had lost the man that made him so.
John's upcoming nuptials were a blessing to the elder Holmes. He'd always known they were coming one day, a man like John was unlikely to stay unattached and dear Sherlock would be alone once more, alone and craving the comfort of what was always familiar. With John preoccupied by being a husband (and perhaps one day a father), Sherlock was free to come home to the arms of his former love. And for that love Mycroft ran.
A run was perfect time to let the mind wander to his little brother, to their future together. Of course nothing had changed in the fact that no one must ever know but with the brotherly relationship they had portrayed in recent years, no one would bat an eyelash at a long meeting or a locked door. With Sherlock living alone again they had the possibility of Baker Street as an addition to their locations for intimacy; not that Mycroft kidded himself, of course their would be a lack of intimacy at first, Sherlock would simply want sex, but in time things would return to their pleasant life they once had before Mycroft chose his career and Sherlock chose his friend.
It would likely take manipulation but Sherlock was always susceptible to his elder brother, he may try to fight it but he always caved. Mycroft knew he could've had him back easily during the “John years” but seeing his brother happy was something he was reluctant to interfere with. Now John had moved on it was only fair Sherlock did too.
Running let him plan. He had so many ideas but with Sherlock practically pleading that Mycroft attend the “night-do” of John and Mary's wedding, it only made sense that his mind favoured the scenarios that revolved around the wedding night.
Sherlock would be out of his depth. Dressed up and unable to play third wheel, he'd be alone (in his mind certainly if not physically), John would be with his new wife and the other so-called friends he had collected would be with their respective dates – even at that Sherlock could only tolerate each for so long before he craved company of someone that could match him on an intellectual level, or surpass him and hold his interest as Mycroft did. He'd likely leave once the all eyes were on the happy couple, it was doubtful he'd stay any longer than he had too and that's when Mycroft could strike.
A car would be there to pick Sherlock up and he'd wait for him in the back seat. The driver would take them to Baker Street – there Sherlock could be surrounded by memories of what he and John once were, the friendship they had and what he had just lost. Perhaps it wasn't fair to torture his little brother's soul in such ways but emotional manipulation, even that of a clever man, was enough to gain control.
A glass of whiskey would steady his emotions and lower inhibitions of course. He'd bring his own supply of that, only fair to use the best when woo-ing. It wouldn't take much to show Sherlock what he'd missed, his guard would be down and the smell of familiar cologne would do the trick. Once Sherlock's mind had drifted to their past it would be time to make a move. A kiss, small and chaste on those perfect lips of his little brother, that would be the start. Sherlock would instantly crave more, he always had since their first kiss as innocent teenagers. Soon their lips would be locked, tongues dancing, hands wandering and all qualms gone as Sherlock would take him to the bedroom.
Mycroft knew he wouldn't let his brother make it to the bed fully clothed. His hands would set to work on his best man's suit once they were on their feet. Each layer would fall to the ground, discarded by the uncaring men. Sherlock was always willing to shed his clothes for his brother and this time would be no exception. There would be new scars, new wounds and new stories over his skin but each would be explored later, when they had the time to be intimate, this was about sex, about being with each other again and reconnecting, it was to be carnal and lustful, sentimentality could wait, they would have years for the like of that.
His lips would explore his younger brother's skin though, old habits die hard and Sherlock was always weakened by a kiss to the clavicle or a bite on his neck. Sherlock would harden under each brush of lips on his skin and his want would increase. He always got impatient and Mycroft doubted that had changed, Sherlock was likely to pull at his suit, rip the buttons off his shirt, anything he could to get access to the elder's skin. No matter the cost of those damned suits, Mycroft would never stop him.
Sherlock always adored the fallacy that he was in charge. He'd likely push Mycroft to the bed and remove the remaining clothing. Mycroft was sure the younger Holmes would instantly fall to his knees and kiss up his inner thighs in a delicious tease. Sherlock would take his hard cock in hand and stroke languidly as his tongue lapped the slit, humming at the taste of precome that he always managed to get from the simplest of touches. He would wrap his tongue around the head and move it slowly down the shaft – Sherlock was always a tease. Mycroft knew he would moan and reach for a handful of those curls just as Sherlock wanted him too, he'd pull him closer and watch as his little brother took his length into his mouth, past those beautiful lips and down his waiting throat. After all these years he may gag, choke, take too much and oh how good that would look. Sherlock was always so sure of himself, a gag or two would knock him down slightly and Mycroft always loved that.
He'd get to see his brother's head bob once more as he sucked expertly, it was a skill he'd mastered long ago and used to get his own way more than once. Stopping him would take extreme willpower but Mycroft hadn't waited this long to simply fill his brother's mouth with his come, no, he craved releasing himself deep within Sherlock's ass. And what a tight ass it would be. Mycroft was aware Sherlock had his toys to keep him company but the poor boy hadn't taken another cock in all this time, he'd surely feel filled beyond his memory.
He'd have to remember to bring lube or be sure Sherlock had a supply, it was only fair to make it easy for the both of them on their first time together again. He'd slick his fingers and watch as Sherlock displays his wanton hole, on all fours, face pressed into the mattress and that delicious creamy ass waiting to be used. First a finger, then two. The stretch would be delicious to watch and three fingers would have the younger sibling pushing back, craving more, needing his prostate touched in the way no toy can. The moans would be delicious and with no Mrs Hudson nearby they would be loud. Perhaps he'd moan Mycroft's name, perhaps he'd beg for more. A forth finger would be included briefly – the temptation would be there to fist him of course but one must wait until they are reacquainted.
Each time he thought of it it would cause his balance on the treadmill to falter but it was the most delicious image in his head, the image of making his brother lie on his back, spread his legs and look into his eyes as he pushed his cock slowly inside. The speed wouldn't be for Sherlock's benefit but for his torture. The slower the initial thrusts the more desperate he would become and a desperate Sherlock was always a sight to behold. He'd push his hips down, squeeze his muscles, try and get more before being forced to admit Mycroft was in control and he was at his mercy.
A man only had so much self-control though and the thrusts would speed up, faster and faster, deeper with each movement of his hips, filling his brother as he moaned in pleasure, seating himself in that tight ass as Sherlock writhed beneath him. With the new found fitness Mycroft could be ruthless, pound into his brother with all the determination of a man possessed and Sherlock would love it.
Time would cease to move and the years apart would no longer matter as Mycroft would take Sherlock's leaking cock in his hand and stroke him until his orgasm built. He'd let Sherlock come, hitting his prostate with punishing trusts as he'd tense and come over his own stomach. The tightening of his muscles would only serve Mycroft to chase his own orgasm. The heat would fill his stomach, each nerve in his body would throb with life and his abdomen would tighten as he released inside Sherlock, filling him, coating him, turning him back into the incestuous whore he always was.
Mycroft wasn't sure what he'd do next, whether it be collapse on the bed while still buried in his brother or remove his softening cock to watch the result of his conquest. Either way he knew he'd stay with Sherlock that night, in his bed, keeping him safe and reminding him that there is something else in his life other than John Watson and that he is more than welcome to come back to it, to come home again.
The wedding was drawing closer. The time was coming, he'd have Sherlock again. He just had to not stop. He had to keep running.
Run.
Run for him.
Be ready for him.
Be ready for Sherlock.