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John had endured a mind-numbing day at the surgery and had stopped by the shop for milk and cereal on the way back to the flat. The only thing on this mind was a cup of tea, a nice sit-down with his book, and the hope that Sherlock hadn’t done anything to the flat in his absence that would require the services of a haz-mat unit.
As he mounted the stairs, he heard classical music coming from the flat; an orchestra, not just Sherlock’s violin, which was odd - he rarely listened to music. He opened the door and nearly dropped the shopping when he saw the tableau in front of him. Sherlock was on his knees, in front of Mycroft, sucking him off.
He gasped and turned back into the hallway, closing - no, almost slamming - the door behind him.
Holy fuck.
They’d both been clothed; well, with the exception that Mycroft had his trousers open enough to have his cock down Sherlock’s throat, but still. His mind tried to wrap itself around what he’d just seen, and utterly failed. It didn’t look like Mycroft had forced him to do it - far from it. The blissful look on Sherlock’s face - well, the one that had been replaced by surprise when he walked in - made it look bloody well consenting.
His thoughts were cut short as Sherlock opened the door.
“Sorry, John. Do come in. I wasn’t expecting you home so soon.” He wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve and smiled.
He struggled to find an appropriate answer, and failed.
Mycroft, still standing up against the wall, gave him a tight smile. His trousers were done up, and he was the picture of composure, if you didn’t count the bulge at his groin. “Hello, John. Lovely to see you.”
John glowered at him, tried not to think about the reason for the bulge, and resisted the urge to say something rude.
He rounded on his flatmate. “What the fuck, Sherlock? I… I don’t even know where to start.”
He saw Sherlock make eye contact with Mycroft and nod.
“Perhaps I should be going,” Mycroft said.
“Perhaps you should,” John replied, with undisguised menace.
“There’s no need to be rude, John,” Sherlock huffed, as Mycroft gathered up his things.
“No need to be…? Sherlock! I just saw you blowing your brother in our living room. What sort of reaction does this call for, exactly?”
“A less outraged one, I think. I’m sure you’ve had sex with women in the living room while I’m not here.”
“Yes, but not with my brother!”
“You don’t have a brother, John, and Harry’s a lesbian; I doubt she’d be interested.”
It took every ounce of effort John could muster not to punch Sherlock in the face. Instead, he snarled in exasperation, stormed up the stairs, and slammed his bedroom door behind him so hard the window shook.
“John?” Sherlock called up after him.
“Shut up and leave me alone,” he shouted in response. Mercifully, Sherlock did.
He sat on his bed, mentally trying to put the words “Sherlock” and “incest” in the same sentence. It was jarring. His respect and, well, outright adoration of Sherlock, clashed nastily with thoughts of inbreeding and moral outrage. It didn’t help that the image of Sherlock on his knees kept flashing across his thoughts.
He lasted about ten minutes before his need for an explanation overwhelmed his desire to put the whole thing out of his mind. Well, that, and the need for a stiff drink.
He stormed down the stairs and glared at Sherlock before he went into the kitchen, grabbed a mug, and poured a more-than-generous portion of Sherlock’s good scotch into it.
Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but seemed to change his mind. He sat at the desk, quietly, and waited for John to speak.
John took a swig of the scotch. “Now, Sherlock, tell me what the fuck is going on.”
“I would have thought it was obvious, John.”
John wanted to throw something at him. How could he be so infuriating? “Is this some sort of sexual experiment? Something other people get out of their system in university? Er, I mean sex, not being gay…” he trailed off, embarrassed at how awful that had sounded.
“Of course it’s not an experiment. I have had prior sexual experience, you know,” he added, dryly. “No, things are exactly as they appear. We are in an incestuous relationship.”
“And you don’t see anything wrong with that?”
“Why should I? We’re both consenting adults. It’s not like there’s any chance of pregnancy, and he’s arguably one of the few people on earth who understands exactly what it’s like to live in my brain. Other than ‘archaic social taboo’, give me one good reason why I should be ashamed of my behaviour.”
“It’s just…”
“Yes?”
“…”
“You don’t have one, do you?”
“It’s just…”
“Don’t you dare say ‘wrong’, John. I am in a relationship that fulfils both my sexual and emotional needs; I’ve been in it for 10 years. The fact that we’ve been able to sustain it despite the need for secrecy is testament to how much we are willing to sacrifice for it. I suggest you don’t trivialise or denigrate it.”
“That’s not what I was going to say, Sherlock.” It honestly wasn’t. He’d certainly thought it, but Sherlock would never forgive him if he said it. “It’s just… the living room? Couldn’t you at least do it in the bedroom? With the door closed?”
“We weren’t in your chair, and we never have been.”
Thank fuck for that, he thought, and managed a weak smile.
“It’s unfortunate that you walked in on us, John. Mycroft had wanted some music, and it masked the sound of your footsteps on the stairs. Besides, I wasn’t expecting you back for at least another hour. I suppose I am expected to apologise for this, so please consider this my apology. I’ll restrict any further activities to the bedroom, behind closed doors.”
“But… what does this mean?”
“I don’t understand.”
“How does this, you know, change things? Do you still want me to stay here?”
“I don’t want to you to leave, and I don’t see why you should. You’re still my best friend. You’re still vital to my work. The only difference is that I won’t have to maintain my deception regarding my relationship.”
It all started to fall into place: the Sunday dinners, the opera, the odd nights with Molly at the lab. “You could have told me.”
“Could I?”
No, not really, he thought. He didn’t answer. Eventually, he asked, “Are you happy with this, Sherlock?”
“I wouldn’t have done this for ten years if I wasn’t. You know how people used to be jailed simply for being gay? Well, incest is still illegal, punishable by two years in prison.”
“Surely they don’t prosecute…”
“It’s still on the books. I’d rather not find out.”
“Fuck.”
“Quite,” Sherlock replied. “Now, the more important question is, do you still want to live here? If you decide you can’t, I’m sure Mycroft can arrange things so that you’ll be comfortable elsewhere.”
“Of course I want to live here, you idiot. You, the cases, the excitement: why would I want to leave? I certainly don’t want to go back to living by myself, bored to tears.” He looked back up at Sherlock. “I suppose this is no different from you having any other boyfriend, really. Except that Mycroft kidnapped me and offered me money to spy on you.” He squinted in confusion. “Hang on a sec, what was that all about?”
“Appearances have to be maintained, John. He’d rather not have his employers aware of his situation, for obvious reasons.”
“So he had me kidnapped to make it look like he was… protecting you?”
“Certain elements of my past make it plausible that he’d want to, yes.”
“Ah,” he said, remembering the fake drugs bust. “Right.”
“So, now you know about my incestuous relationship,” Sherlock said in a matter-of-fact tone. “We’re all good?”
“Yes… yes, it’s all good.” It wasn’t, but given a few days, he thought it could be.
Sherlock seemed to read his mind. “I realise this will require time to process, John, and I understand if it takes a while to not be repulsed by the idea. Please feel free to ask questions, but I do ask that you show discretion. I can’t have this getting out, for obvious reasons.”
He marvelled at just how mundanely Sherlock treated the whole thing, but then, Sherlock had been living with this for years. John had struggled with his sexuality when he joined the Army, but now it was just part of who he was. He didn’t feel the need to justify it. He supposed it was sort of the same thing.
He smiled, glad he’d never acted on any of those feelings he had for Sherlock. Mycroft would have killed him.
to be continued...