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From Day 11:
"I have one request though. Not blackmail, mind you, just a request." She looked away and blushed fiercely.
Mycroft raised his eyebrows, questioningly. "Yes?"
"I'd like to watch."
Mycroft actually lost his composure. He erupted in a series of short, wheezy laughs, almost unable to catch a whole breath. "You… what?"
It seemed Sherlock, on the other hand, had finally found something to shut him up. He just gaped.
"Well, I figured it couldn't hurt to ask," she replied, sounding disappointed.
"You're serious?" Sherlock had finally found his voice - his utterly incredulous voice.
"If you had a chance to watch something like that, wouldn't you ask?"
"I… um, I'm not sure. Possibly," Sherlock stammered. "But I'm…"
"What?" she replied, newly emboldened and teasing him now. "Male? Rude? Horribly unaware of social conventions?"
"I was going to say 'a bit of a pervert', but those would cover it as well, I think."
"Yes, well, perhaps you've never considered that I could be 'a bit of a pervert' too." She shrugged and added, "It's always the quiet ones."
Mycroft just stood by in a full-on smirk. "Actually," he said, "I can't say I'm horribly opposed to the idea, as long as it's a one-time thing. Sherlock?"
"Wait, what?" Sherlock said as he spun around to face Mycroft.
"Oh, come on, Sherlock. This barely scratches the surface of 'strange' for you. But it is, of course, entirely your decision."
It was almost as good as a dare.
"Of course I'll do it," he retorted, and flashed Mycroft a competitive grin.
"Very well. I suggest we all sleep on the idea. Ms Hooper, are you available tomorrow evening?"
She nodded, her eyes wide.
"Good, then I propose we meet for dinner at my townhouse, negotiate the ground rules, and then spend an entertaining evening in each other's company."
"Alright," Sherlock replied.
Molly just gave them another dazed nod.
"Very well. I must be off. I have to say, Ms Hooper, it's been a pleasure to meet you. You're not at all what I expected," he added, with a genuine smile.
"I'll come with you, Mycroft; I need to be getting back to the flat. John will be home from the surgery soon."
They left, and Molly sat there with a dazed look on her face, giggling intermittently. What the hell have I got myself into?
"Do you want a ride back to the flat, Sherlock? We should talk about this."
"What's to talk about? We agreed to do it."
"I want to make sure you're actually comfortable with it. We can always call it off." He stopped in the middle of the hallway and turned to face Sherlock, his face a study in bewilderment. "I can honestly say I've never been in a negotiation with such an unexpected outcome."
"I certainly didn't see it coming," Sherlock muttered. Then he giggled. "Talk about fearless."
Mycroft huffed his agreement.
As they took the car to Baker Street, they worked out the logistics; the ground rules had to be in place before Molly got involved.
Sherlock would bottom. Mycroft would top. There would be no hint of dominance or submission. No bondage; no pain; no corsets; no lingerie; no toys; no riding crops. Nothing even remotely kinky. It was going to be bizarre enough, just on its own. And it would take place in the guest bedroom. His bedroom was theirs, and he didn't want any odd associations with the event lingering there afterwards.
"Are you sure you want to do this, Sherlock?"
He nodded, thoughtfully. "I don't particularly care if it's Molly or someone else, but I do find the idea of being watched rather erotic."
"You've always enjoyed being the centre of attention," Mycroft replied, and gave his brother's thigh an affectionate squeeze as they sat beside each other in the car.
They met at the townhouse the next evening. Molly sat on the sofa, looking slightly nervous as they laid out their ground rules.
"You can watch, but you can't touch," Sherlock said.
"Um…" she cut in.
"What is it?" Mycroft asked.
"Can I, er… well, would it be alright if I… made requests? Possibly?"
Mycroft covered his mouth with his hand in a mild attempt to conceal his mirth. "You're asking if you can direct?" he said.
"Um, yes, I suppose so," she said meekly.
Mycroft glanced at Sherlock, who shrugged his approval.
"You're never this pushy at work," Sherlock said, a bit surprised about this turn of events.
"You have to pick your battles," she replied, pragmatically.
"Right."
"Molly, do you have any rules you'd like to go by?"
She shook her head and asked, "Have you ever had an audience before?"
"Not an intentional one," Sherlock muttered.
"What Sherlock means is 'no'," Mycroft cut in, quickly. The incident with John really couldn't be called voyeurism, after all.
"Would anyone like something to drink?" It seemed only polite to ask. Mycroft didn't know how Molly or Sherlock were doing, but he was actually a little nervous - and he was supposed to be good with people. Although I don't suppose that generally includes having it off with your brother in front of a near stranger, he thought.
They both nodded.
"Red wine?" Molly asked.
Sherlock joined Mycroft in having a small glass of scotch.
"So, Molly," Sherlock asked conversationally, "do you consider voyeurism to be an established kink for you, or is this more of an opportunistic thing?"
She turned bright red, and Mycroft rounded on him. "Sherlock, please!"
"I wasn't trying to be rude, I was just curious."
"Do you consider exhibitionism to be one of your kinks?" she asked, clearly fighting for her own ground.
"I'll tell you after this evening, although I doubt I'll be making a habit of it, regardless."
"Perhaps we could discuss something less… controversial," Mycroft suggested. The last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to start bickering. "How did you get interested in medicine, Molly?"
"Well, at one point I considered being a doctor, but I eventually decided I preferred my patients to be more, well… dead. It's still really interesting, and I never get stuck having to see fifteen people with the flu."
Oh my. Well, at least she's honest.
"Are either of you nervous?" Molly asked. "Because I'm a bit nervous. I thought the wine would help, but perhaps it hasn't kicked in yet."
Sherlock shrugged, which seemed as good as a resounding 'yes'.
"A little," Mycroft replied. There seemed no point in denying it. "If you change your mind, we'll understand."
"Oh, no," she said, quickly, "I'm fine," and then she downed half the glass of wine in one swig.
Alright then, Mycroft thought with amusement, she's certainly committed to this. "Sherlock?"
He nodded. "Always open to new experiences, for science if nothing else."
Molly giggled and drained the rest of her glass. "My God, I never would have guessed about the two of you," she said, apparently starting to relax a bit. "Doesn't Sherlock drive you nuts?"
Mycroft gave her a wry smile. "Everyone has their moments. We don't argue as much as you might imagine; we save that for the public eye. Some of it is for show, but part of it is very real frustration," he said, and looked fondly at Sherlock.
"You're no walk in the park, Mycroft," Sherlock countered with a smile.
"What do you do, Mycroft? No one at the Met actually seems to know."
"It's mostly diplomatic work."
Sherlock chuckled and looked away innocently.
"You're not going to tell me, then?"
"Do you honestly think I could?" Mycroft replied.
"No, I suppose not. Do you have a lot of sex?"
"I'm sorry?" Mycroft asked, wide-eyed.
"Sex. Do you have a lot of it?"
The abrupt, somewhat startling topic change had caught him off guard. "Why do you ask?"
"Well, I just wondered if this is more of a platonic thing or if you, well, you know, have a lot of sex."
He glanced in Sherlock's direction, who once again gave him a faint, approving shrug. "Yes, we do. I believe without the sexual component, our relationship would be generally perceived as normal."
"Oh. Of course. I suppose so."
"Does one of you… um… do you always…?"
Mycroft let her grasp for the phrase. Although he wasn't worried that she'd share it, exposing this much information about his personal life made him a little uncomfortable.
Sherlock spoke up. "'Bottom?' I believe that's the word you're groping for. And no, our roles are much more fluid than those of many heterosexual relationships."
Apparently his brother had no such boundaries when it came to sharing.
"Now, if 'Gay Sex 101' is over," Sherlock continued, "I suggest we proceed to the bedroom."
Mycroft observed Molly for signs of discomfort at Sherlock's brusque suggestion. She merely smiled expectantly; apparently the wine had done its job rather well. He had to admit the scotch had taken the edge off a bit. Although Sherlock might be a bit of an exhibitionist, he didn't really share those tendencies. Still, it would most likely be fine once they got started. Sherlock certainly seemed ready.
His brother stood and looked at Molly questioningly. She got to her feet. Well, I suppose this is it, then, Mycroft thought.
Sherlock led the way to their agreed-upon location of the guest bedroom. It was as impeccably decorated as the rest of the townhouse, but it lacked the personal touches of his own bedroom - the picture of Sherlock on his bedside table and the lingering scent of his cologne in the en-suite. The upholstered chair in the corner had an unobstructed view of bed - and the rest of the room; what he had in mind didn't really involve the bed. He supposed that could change, depending on Molly's penchant for 'directing'.
He waved her towards the chair and was about to mutter something awkward about how they should proceed when Sherlock approached him. He unbuttoned Mycroft's suit coat and leaned in close.
"Relax, My," he murmured, quiet enough that Molly wouldn't hear. "You should at least try and enjoy this." He followed with a gentle, slow kiss to Mycroft's neck before he slipped the coat from his shoulders. "We can always stop if you don't. It's not as if we have to do this."
Mycroft exhaled slowly and closed his eyes. He's right, of course. On both counts. When he opened his eyes, a second later, his brother stared at him with calm fascination as his fingers slowly worked the buttons of his waistcoat. Sherlock leaned in for a kiss, and the touch of his lips was almost enough to make him forget that Molly was sitting in the chair, her eyes wide. Almost.
What struck Molly the most was the absolute tenderness with which Sherlock treated Mycroft. She'd never seen him treat anyone else like that - not even John, whose company he actually enjoyed. And yet there it was - undeniable proof of what she'd suspected all along - Sherlock was not the sociopath he claimed to be, and his feelings ran as deep as anyone else's.
Mycroft's back was partially turned towards her - perhaps deliberately. He seemed far more nervous about the entire affair than Sherlock, who didn't seem bothered by it at all. She watched as he undid his brother's waistcoat and removed it as gently as he had the coat. Then he placed his hand at the small of Mycroft's back, pale skin on crisp white cotton, and pulled Mycroft in, kissing him again. This time, Mycroft responded in kind, with a gentle kiss of his own.
It wasn't what she'd expected.
She'd expected real-life pornography, impersonal and rough like the video clips she'd furtively viewed online the previous evening. She'd thought she'd have to 'direct' them to do anything romantic and tender like this.
She suddenly felt horrible for making the assumption that it was only about sex; just because she'd never had anyone treat her with care and respect didn't mean all relationships were that way. She just never imagined that Sherlock was capable of being in one. She didn't want to direct at all; she just wanted to watch, because even without sex, it was utterly beautiful seeing him relate emotionally to anyone.
And then Sherlock started to remove his own shirt, and she swallowed. She very much wanted the sex to happen. Who was she kidding?
Mycroft silently thanked the patron saint of bespoke tailoring. The three-piece suit took time and effort to remove, and he needed time at the moment.
They were both naked to the waist now, and one of Sherlock's hands braced his lower back as he nipped and sucked his way between Mycroft's shoulder and his neck. His brother's other hand rubbed not-so-subtly on the front of his trousers. He closed his eyes and let his head tip back as he drank in the sensations; the warm feeling in his groin and the not-enough pressure of Sherlock's teeth left him wanting more, and soon he found himself reciprocating. He pulled Sherlock's head up and kissed him, not so gently this time. His other hand found Sherlock's arse and drew him closer, grinding his brother's erection against him.
By the time Sherlock started unzipping his suit trousers, his body had overcome the reservations of his mind and seemed to be happy to go along for the ride.
Molly couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy as Sherlock worked his way up Mycroft's throat, eliciting quiet groans from the older man. Intellectually, she knew Sherlock would never be interested in her, but it didn't stop her from wanting to be in Mycroft's place. She banished the thought and focused on Sherlock instead.
Good Lord.
He'd never been particularly shy, wearing those tight shirts of his, but she'd always imagined he'd be painfully skinny beneath them. He wasn't. He had a well-defined, toned frame; lithe and sleek, not unlike a dancer. I suppose running around London like that is more exercise than I thought. The aponeuroses of his external abdominal obliques pointed tantalisingly towards his groin. She gave in and let her eyes linger on the bulge there, hoping that neither brother would back out before she got to see what promised to be a rather impressive erection.
She'd never given Mycroft's appearance much thought; she'd only just met him, for one. Besides, she hadn't obsessed about him. Still, as different as he was from his brother, he was not unattractive. His creamy, freckled skin was equally pale but more warmly toned than Sherlock's chiselled alabaster. Ginger curls contrasted with Sherlock's bare chest. And although she mainly wanted to see Sherlock, she felt a pang of desire as Sherlock removed Mycroft's pants to reveal a thick, half-hard cock. She was profoundly thankful that Mycroft had not completely turned his back to her. Christ.
When Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of his brother, she audibly gasped.
Sherlock glanced up at Mycroft and smiled before he grasped his cock and pulled the foreskin back. Then he wrapped his lips around the head of it and started to tease him.
Every now and then, he'd pull off his cock far enough to be able to glance at Mycroft fondly. Mycroft smiled back and gently carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair.
She watched in fascination as Mycroft grew steadily harder and thicker. Sherlock seemed to handle it effortlessly, sometimes taking him in more deeply. If his enthusiastic moaning was any indication, he loved it. Mycroft stayed quieter, but the look on his face expressed utter bliss, and he took deep, shuddering breaths. When Sherlock took him down to the root and buried his face in Mycroft's ginger curls, he fisted Sherlock's hair and finally let out a groan.
She squirmed against the chair, wishing she'd worn trousers instead of a skirt; anything with some friction. She wasn't about to start fondling herself, not in front of Sherlock, but fucking hell.
Mycroft pulled Sherlock to his feet. "Trousers. Now," he muttered. Then he held Sherlock's head in place and ran a series of open-mouthed half-bites, half-kisses along his jawline.
Sherlock fiddled desperately with his button and zip, more than a little distracted by Mycroft's attentions. He eventually shoved them down, still half-zipped, along with his pants. They both hissed as their bare skin finally touched, and Sherlock pulled Mycroft's arse closer so their erections rubbed together.
Molly bit her lower lip and forgot how to breathe.
This is going to ruin me, she thought. She'd be replaying this in her head, for better or worse, for months.
Sherlock was just as beautiful as she'd imagined. She hadn't intended to stare at his cock like an obsessed schoolgirl, but she did. It was perfectly proportioned for his body - slightly longer and thinner than Mycroft's, with a small thatch of dark curls at its base. She dug her fingernails into the upholstered arms of the chair to resist her overwhelming urge to drop to her knees and wrap her lips around it.
She let her hand slip between her thighs and allowed herself one luxurious rub. She winced with pleasure and pulled her hand away. She'd closed her eyes for a second, delighting in the friction. She snapped them back open so she didn't miss anything else, and she prayed Sherlock hadn't seen her.
Sherlock was far too busy to notice anything except Mycroft. He'd wrapped his long, delicate fingers around both of their cocks and stroked them with what appeared to be agonising slowness. Mycroft made a low groan, almost a growl, and started pushing Sherlock backwards towards the wall. He pinned his brother against it, kissing him fiercely as they rubbed against each other.
"Tease," Sherlock muttered breathlessly as they came up for air.
Mycroft laughed and turned Sherlock so he was braced against the wall.
"Not really," he replied, as he ran his hand down Sherlock's tight abdomen and grasped his cock. He pressed his body against him and Molly could see Mycroft's cock nestle between the cheeks of Sherlock's perfect arse.
Fuck.
Sherlock let out a cry of pleasure as Mycroft stroked him, and he bucked helplessly in his grasp.
"Maybe a little bit of tease," Mycroft said, and stilled his hand.
"No," exclaimed Sherlock in a pained voice. "Don't stop, please."
Mycroft leaned over and opened the drawer of the bedside table and retrieved a sachet of lubricant. He smeared it liberally over his fingers and his cock. Then he braced his dry hand on Sherlock's arse and worked one of the lubricated fingers between Sherlock's cheeks.
It slid inside effortlessly; Sherlock groaned, and Molly let out a small mewling noise. Nothing had prepared her for that. They seemed oblivious to her presence now, and she couldn't stand it any longer; she hiked her skirt up around her thighs and thrust her hand down her knickers. God, yes. She started rubbing herself, unconsciously matching Mycroft's pace as he fucked Sherlock. He added another finger, and Sherlock pressed eagerly back onto it.
"God, My, harder," he moaned, and his brother complied, thrusting into him faster now.
Molly strained to keep her eyes open as she rubbed against her fingers. Her own breath was ragged now, but she'd given up caring if they heard her. At this point, she didn't even care if they saw her. No one could be expected to witness this and not get off on it.
Mycroft shoved both fingers inside Sherlock as deep as he could, and leaned in close. "More?" he asked, breathily.
She wasn't sure if he meant 'more fingers' or just 'more' in general, but her question was answered when Sherlock begged, "No, just fuck me already."
She moaned and shoved two fingers inside her dripping pussy.
If they heard her, they didn't show it. Mycroft pulled his fingers from Sherlock's arse and used them to add more lube to his already-slick cock. She watched, rapt, as he positioned the head of his cock against Sherlock's arse, and pushed slowly and steadily inside.
Sherlock emitted a low groan so raw and sexual she forgot how to breathe again.
She sank down in the chair and braced her feet on the floor, desperate for more and deeper penetration as she fucked her hand.
Mycroft braced both hands on Sherlock's hips and started to move. Her mouth watered at the sight of his cock disappearing into Sherlock's perfect arse, and she tried to imagine what it felt like. If Sherlock's ecstatic reactions were anything to go by, it must feel incredible. Even Mycroft, who'd been so quiet up until now, moaned each time his cock drove deep inside him.
Sherlock kept thrusting back, urging his brother to move faster, but Mycroft held him firmly in place, controlling the pace and depth of his thrusts.
"Touch yourself," Mycroft hissed to Sherlock. Molly took it to heart, fucking herself hard and fast as she watched them get lost in each other. The sight of Sherlock pleasuring himself as his brother ploughed his arse was what finally sent her over the edge, shuddering and biting her fist to keep from crying out as she came.
Sherlock and Mycroft remained completely unaware of her as they chased their own orgasms. She laid there, sprawled across the chair, as Mycroft let Sherlock impale himself as hard as he wanted. She lazily licked her fingers clean of her own juices as Sherlock came, with a long, low scream, all over his own hand. Then she slowly pulled down her skirt and wiped her damp fingers on it as Mycroft pushed in deep one final time and spent inside his brother.
All three of them were sticky, breathing hard, and damned near glowing.
Part of her thought she should at least pretend not to have masturbated, but she couldn't be arsed. Besides, there was a huge bite-mark on her thumb - and that was the least obvious sign.
Mycroft held Sherlock to his chest as he kissed his brother's neck and murmured indecipherable endearments into his hair. Then Sherlock twisted around and they kissed properly, slowly and gently, now that the urgency of arousal had passed. Eventually they broke apart, and Sherlock muttered something about dressing gowns. Mycroft nodded in agreement.
"We'll be back in a second," Sherlock said, and they both left the room. She ducked into the loo to wash her hands and straighten her skirt.
She'd just sat down again when they reappeared, wrapped in silk dressing gowns. Sherlock glanced at her and smiled.
"It looks like you enjoyed it, too," he said, not unkindly.
She blushed and nodded.
"Good. That was sort of the point, after all."
"Would you like a drink? Tea? Something?" Mycroft asked, trying to smooth over the awkward emotional complexity of the situation in the only way he knew how.
She nodded, and they made their way back towards the kitchen. Every time she ran into Sherlock from now on, she'd see him naked; moaning and braced against that wall. But there were worse fates. Much worse.