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John shoved Sherlock down on the couch. Well, it wasn't exactly a 'shove' more like a gentle nudge since the world's only consulting detective seemed to have come down with a nasty head-cold making him as weak as a kitten.
Sherlock's dressing gown was pulled tight around his already slender frame. John tsked and went to fetch the man a blanket. "John," came the deep voice. "John, I don't need-mph!" His protests were muffled by the thick downy comforter that had been tossed down, covering him entirely.
"Whoops," John said without the slightest hint of apology as he tucked the taller man in. He reached tentatively to Sherlock's forehead and pressed a cool hand to his flushed warm face. He couldn't help but think that even with a runny nose and from his current position glaring up at him from the sofa; Sherlock Holmes could almost be cute. The doorbell sounded at that moment tugging John from his reprieve. He wasn't expecting anyone but answered all the same.
"Doctor!" said a pleased Mycroft Holmes the moment the door was open. "I heard my dear brother is ill! I've come to pay a visit and perhaps offer some assist...?
"Wha-what?" John glanced up in time to see the sexy leg of Anthea be pulled into the sleek black vehicle he was sure the pair had arrived in. "Ah...that's..."
Mycroft looked at John expectantly. He knew good and well the older Holmes' appearance would only serve to agitate his patient.
"That's ok Mycroft," he leaned on the door frame blocking the entry way. "I really don't need your help."
"Nonsense!" Mycroft persisted, using his umbrella to push the now-sputtering doctor to the side. "Now where is my adorable little brother?" John stumbled backwards to reluctantly allow the taller man in. He hurried past John and up to greet his sibling. "Brother dear!"
John heard three gunshots and ran up the stairs (two at a time). "Sherlock!" he shouted. In truth, this really was his fault as he'd left the gun on the table and within Sherlock's fairly extensive reach.
Sherlock's arm dropped limply and John ran over to retrieve his weapon. Then in a true 'shoot first ask questions after' fashion Sherlock aimed his glare a his brother (whom he'd missed, thanks to the cold blurring his vision.) "What do you want?"
"Come now, Sherlock." Mycroft nearly crooned. "Is that any way to greet your brother after I came all this way to visit you on your sickbed?"
"You stay the bloody hell away from my sickbed," Sherlock groused and gesticulated wildly. John returned from tucking his gun away to quieten Sherlock.
"Mycroft, I think your being here is only going to upset him and I really need him to rest or his cold will never go away." John smoothed the blankets over Sherlock once more. He put on his best 'stern-face' and turned to look at Mycroft who was smiling his most sincere smile and had just hung his coat over the back of John's chair. John closed his eyes. Great. He was planning on staying anyway.
"I won't hover! Let me know how I can help and I shall." Mycroft said, still looking at Sherlock lovingly.
"You could help by leaving," Sherlock said petulantly.
Sherlock pulled the blanket over his head and John rolled his eyes. He turned and headed toward the kitchen with the intention of making tea.
"I'd like a cup too," Mycroft called after him, reading his mind. "And I think Lockie needs a cup as well."
John grumbled as he set the water to boil. He then turned to open the cupboard that housed the tea. Finding none he opened a few tins, and a drawer or two (many of them void of tea and nearly all of them full of Sherlock's ridiculous experiments). he stood and sighed. He'd have to go out and buy some.
John glanced over his shoulder at the Holmes' brothers (Mycroft fluffing Sherlock's pillow and Sherlock batting him away) and huffed out another sigh.
"I have to buy more tea," he announced to the room at large. All action on the sofa ceased and both men stared at the doctor with very different expressions. Mycroft's could be described as nothing short of gleeful while Sherlock's bordered sheer horror.
John gave Sherlock a face that said 'Calm down, I'll only be a minute.' and said aloud, "Don't kill each other while I'm gone..."
"If you can, get him to take his medicine!" John called as he headed for the door.
Sherlock stared bitterly at the retreating figure of his friend and slumped backward into his makeshift bedding looking surly.
"Now," Mycroft tried. "You weren't always like this. I don't mean you weren't grouchy when you were sick- that's something that'll never change!" He smiled more to himself than to Sherlock as he uncapped the cough syrup and poured a generous amount into a spoon that was lying nearby. "Open up!"
Sherlock looked scandalized. "No."
Mycroft smiled as though he'd been waiting for this response. "Shall I feed it to you the old way then?"
Sherlock looked confused; a rarity for him. "Old way...?"
Mycroft took the medicine himself and held the whole spoonful in his mouth. Sherlock's eyes widened in sudden recognition only too late. Mycroft leaned forward and placed his mouth to Sherlock's in a sticky, sweet, medicinal kiss.
Sherlock tried to push himself backward deeper into the couch but there was nothing for it. He was too weak to really resist and reached his shaking fingers up to push Mycroft away but ended up resting his hands there instead.
He remembered what Mycroft meant by 'the old way'. The memories came rushing back...
When Sherlock was younger and hated the taste of bitter things, Mycroft always had to offer him something sweet first. A bit of chocolate, some treacle tart, a kiss... chaste before he was 17. No tongues, short and sweet, sometimes on the lips, sometimes on the cheek. But when he turned eighteen it all went out the window. Mycroft had made out with Sherlock on the few occasions he'd happened to catch cold and poor Sherlock was too sick to fight back.
Mycroft pulled back to smile down at his little brother. The heat was back in Sherlock's face as he stared up through his lashes. He was panting already, his cock perking up with the memories. "My..." he breathed.
"Let's see..." Mycroft brought the cough syrup to his eyes and lowered himself to sit on the couch, scooting Sherlock over with his hip. "It says here that this could make you drowsy...that's fine you could probably do with a lie-in." He patted Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock didn't outwardly respond. "It also says adults need 2 tablespoons! Shame. It's very bitter. It seems Dr. Watson doesn't think highly of flavoured medicines."
Sherlock tugged at the bedclothes (couch-clothes?) and watched as Mycroft poured another spoonful of the sticky substance and put it in his mouth with a mild grimace. And just that quickly his lips were on his little brothers' again.
Sherlock wriggled but didn't seem to want to escape.In fact, he pulled Mycroft closer by his shirtfront, opening his mouth to him. Mycroft didn't waste any time getting reacquainted with his brother's silver tongue. His nimble fingers found their way into Sherlock's robe and pyjama shirt. “Ah, Sherlock,” he whispered. Voice low and rough. “You're my baby brother and I love you. But this is when I love you best. So sweet and pliant under my fingers.” he stroked and toyed with Sherlock's nipples making him arch his back and squirm. “So deliciously in need of someone to care for you...” Mycroft's hand traveled to the waistband of the pyjama pants. He fondled and caressed Sherlock through the thin material making him writhe and moan.
"M-mycroft, I..." Sherlock's fingers slipped over the fine material of Mycroft's tailored suit. He was trying to find a point of entry. Trying to touch him in return. "No, hush," Mycroft soothed. "We're trying to make you feel better. I'm just fine." This wasn't completely true. Mycroft's erection was straining against the inside of his trousers.
Mycroft pushed a hand into the cotton-linen of the pyjama bottoms and rubbed the flesh of his brother's cock gently. Sherlock gasped and leaned up for another kiss. Mycroft responded instantly. "Ah," he moaned against the dry lightly chapped lips. "I wish I could keep you like this. You're such a good boy when you're subdued."
"Mycroft please.." Sherlock nearly whined.
"Please what?" Mycroft asked, lazily raising his chin to nose those dark curls.
"You just-!" His breath caught as Mycroft stroked him a bit harder and a little faster. "Make me c-come...I need to come!" Sherlock was begging and tugging sloppily at his brother. He was embarrassed at having said the word but it was what he needed and his cheeks couldn't get any redder anyway. He was suddenly very hot and wanted his clothes off but his normally sure fingers fumbled uselessly at his shirt hem. His hands brushed briefly with Mycrofts' which were covered in Sherlock's own precome.
Mycroft knew Sherlock wouldn't last much longer and sped up a bit to pump him to completion. Dragging his fingers over the stiff veined member. Pulling gently then swirling a finger around the head. Sherlock's hips bucked, it was coupled with the sighs and groans of a man near dying with restraint. Mycroft whispered all manner of silly, frivolous things in Sherlock's ear, making him jerk and plead. All too soon, Sherlock was coming all over his brother's hand.
Mycroft used the warm liquid to jerk Sherlock a bit longer- till he was nothing but a quivering mass covered in sweaty (and now come covered) pyjamas and a blanket. Sherlock fell almost instantly asleep.
Mycroft heard the sound of a key in the door.
No time to clean up sweet Lockie. He tugged the blanket up to his chin and planted a kiss on his forehead before ruffling his hair.
"I brought tea and Sherlock will be pleased to hear, milk! I-" John took in the scene before him with wide, disbelieving eyes. "Wow. You actually got him to..?"
"I'm afraid I must be off, Doctor. Something urgent has come up. You understand?" He picked up his coat and umbrella and made his way to the door. John stood, rooted to the spot even after he heard the door shut and the car (that wasn't there when he go in) pull off.
He then rushed over to make sure Sherlock wasn't dead or drugged. But no, there was the evidence of the taken medicine there on the coffee table. The bottle still open, spoon nearby, Sherlock himself smelling of it. Just to be sure John checked his pulse-normal, breathing-normal, he pulled back the blanket to check and see if Sherlock was too cold or perspiring...and found the sticky remnants of his earlier adventures with Mycroft.
John fixed the sleeping Sherlock with an raised eyebrow. "Well if that's all it took to get you to take medicine..." He replaced the comforter with a grin and set to making his tea.