Archive of Our Own

 Previously, in Getting Caught (Day 15):

“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?”

John had bought it, of course - Sherlock’s ‘married to his work’ bit; he never had any reason to question it. But now that Sherlock had revealed the truth, the magnitude of his relationship with Mycroft became much more apparent. Sherlock never crossed a line - never tried to give him details he didn’t want - but ‘nights at the lab’ became ‘dinner with Mycroft’, and mysterious absences ‘for a case’ became ‘I’ll be at Mycroft’s; back tomorrow morning.’

He couldn’t help but feel that it had cleared the air, even though he hadn’t realised it needed clearing.

It took him two days, three pints at the pub, and a hard look at his own moral inventory to come to terms with what Sherlock had called an ‘archaic social taboo’. His moral inventory was pretty damning: he’d had his share of one-night stands and a few horribly disastrous relationships that were entirely his fault. Sherlock had been in a loving and committed relationship for ten years. Who was he to judge? Sherlock was happy, and that was what mattered.

His unspoken desire to sleep with Sherlock now seemed well and truly doomed. It had been a spectacularly bad idea anyway. Somehow it had been easier to accept when he’d believed Sherlock was asexual, but then it turned out he’d been essentially married all along. At least he hadn’t inadvertently crossed Mycroft by coming on to him. He’d probably be looking for another flat by now, assuming he was still alive to tell the tale.

Mycroft had been positively nice to him since the whole affair, though. It wasn’t even a ‘If you tell a soul, I’ll hunt you down with knives’ sort of nice, either. It actually seemed genuine.

Sherlock’s behaviour, excepting his newfound openness about his absences, remained entirely the same.

And that was part of the problem: he found his own behaviour changing in subtle ways.

Now that he knew Sherlock was gay (or, at least, not straight), he wanted to tell him about his own sexuality. It wasn’t that he wanted to break them up, or even get him into bed. (Well, if he was honest, he did still want to get him into bed, but he didn’t plan on doing anything about it.) He just wanted Sherlock to understand that he knew what he was going through. Had gone through. Whatever. Shared experiences. Bonding. God, not ‘bondage’. Don’t think about bondage.

He casually commented on the sexuality of well-known media figures and gay rights issues. He abruptly stopped when he realised it probably seemed like pandering.

He let his ‘relationship’ with Jennifer - more a series of disastrous dates, really - dissolve in the now-predictable manner. Was it deliberate or just the natural order of things? He wasn’t sure. Either way, there was no sense of loss. Sherlock on a bad night was, well, pretty awful. But Sherlock on a good night, or even a mediocre one, was far more fun than a date.

He found himself sharing details about his personal life - stories about his childhood and his time in Afghanistan. As long as Sherlock wasn’t involved in an experiment, he listened intently, and John basked in the glow of his attention.

Then he grew more bold: he talked about his past relationships with men, deliberately replacing the pronoun ‘he’ with the gender-neutral ‘they’. He told him about Harry’s disastrous ‘coming out’ to their parents. In short, he told Sherlock things he’d never told anyone else.

It both thrilled and terrified him, skating along the edge of confession like this.

He wanted Sherlock to deduce it. Each time he broached the subject, he expected a haughty proclamation of, ‘Yes, John, it’s quite obvious; you’ve had male lovers.’ Surely he’d caught on by now? But Sherlock said nothing.

Busy schedules prevented Sherlock and Mycroft from discussing the incident at length; a few brief meetings and ‘accidental’ encounters weren’t sufficient to hold a conversation in private. They met for dinner a week later, at Mycroft’s.

“So he’s accepted it then? He certainly seemed less… hostile, the last time I spoke with him.”

“Mm, apparently,” Sherlock replied between bites of mashed potatoes. “I think he’s just glad you aren’t going to have him shot or something.”

“He does seem genuinely terrified of me.”

“He doesn’t see kidnapping as an acceptable form of social introduction, Mycroft. Not many people do.” It was one of the few social cues he’d picked up from John, and he was rather proud of it.

Mycroft shrugged and cut a slice from his steak. “Is everything else going well?”

“Mm,” Sherlock nodded, absently. “It seems he’s bisexual. He hasn’t told me yet.”

“You might be the only person who hasn’t noticed his affection for you, dear brother. I don’t know if he does it consciously or not.”

“Really? Well, his ‘vague hints’ at his sexuality have had all the subtlety of tactical nuclear strikes.”

Mycroft sighed a little. “When he tells you, Sherlock, don’t tell him you knew.”

He frowned. “Why not? He enjoys my deductions.”

“Because it’s rude. He’s clearly been summoning up the nerve to say something; don’t take that away from him. You might want to consider your reaction though.”

“Well, positive, of course. There’s nothing wrong with it, clearly.”

“No, I mean your reaction to his interest in you, explicitly stated or otherwise.”

Sherlock frowned. “I thought he was bringing it up it to further our camaraderie - ‘shared emotional experiences’ and all that.”

“You honestly hadn’t considered that he might be attracted to you?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, irritable about the obvious oversight. But then his lips curled into a thoughtful smile. “No, I hadn’t. But we do share a remarkable synergy. I must say, the idea makes me curious.” His eyes wandered away from Mycroft’s as he absently thumbed the side of his cheek.

“I thought it might,” Mycroft replied in a neutral tone.

“Why would you bring this up, Mycroft?”

“You have a remarkable attraction to ‘new and dangerous’; I don’t think it’s much of a leap. I think it’s better for us to have this discussion before anything happens - if it happens - rather than afterwards. I’ll admit I feel rather jealous at the prospect of John making any sort of sexual overtures, but I feel it’s a possibility.”

He gave Mycroft a thoughtful look. “He’d be so different from you, don’t you think?”

“Sherlock…” he warned.

“Oh, don’t worry. I don’t think he’d deliberately try to damage our relationship: I think he values my friendship too highly, and his past doesn’t indicate that he’s a home-wrecker.”

“It’s not particularly him that I’m worried about,” Mycroft replied moodily and returned to his dinner - this time distractedly pushing it around the plate as opposed to eating it.

They sat for a few minutes; Sherlock stared at Mycroft and Mycroft stared at his food.

“What?” Sherlock asked, breaking the silence. “It’s not like I’d do anything. I’ve never cheated on you.”

“You’ve never respected anyone who’s been interested, either. With all due respect, Sherlock, self-restraint is not your strong suit.”

“Then why did you bring it up?” Sherlock replied. “You’d have been better served by never giving me the rather delicious idea.”

“John’s clearly trying to share his sexuality with you. Until now, all available evidence has told him that you have no interest in sex. I expect seeing you on your knees with my cock in your mouth has rather disabused him of that notion. Perhaps he’s decided he wants you to know he’s available, even if he thinks you aren’t.” He looked back up at Sherlock and squinted. “Now that’s an interesting idea.”

“What?”

“What if you were available? Well, sort of available. You’re curious, and I’m jealous. I don’t want this to come between us, Sherlock, and you’ve never been one to stay away from danger.” He toyed with his potatoes before continuing. “Now that the idea is in your head, I think we should deal with it pre-emptively.” He stopped, and looked unflinchingly at Sherlock. “I think it’s something we should do together... as it were.” He looked at his brother expectantly, waiting for a reaction.

Sherlock’s expression morphed from confusion to delight. “Perv,” he replied, in a tone that was more playful than damning.

“I never said I wasn’t. If you find the idea distasteful, then of course I shall withdraw it.”

“On the contrary…”

With the revelation about Sherlock’s relationship, John’s perception of Mycroft slowly started to change. The brothers’ public meetings still strained the bounds of civility, yet now that he was in on their secret, their behaviour around him changed dramatically. Mycroft lost his stiff formality and seemed comfortable in his own skin in a way John had never imagined possible. Sherlock seemed less withdrawn, even hours after Mycroft had left, as if his brother were some sort of mood-lifting drug.

He could see why their relationship worked. Most happily married couples he knew had nowhere near this much chemistry - especially not after ten years together.

Mycroft joined them for meals at the flat, as long as Sherlock promised not to cook. He apparently shared John’s fear of Sherlock’s ‘kitchen experiments’, edible or otherwise. But John noticed, after the first few visits, that they never touched or shared any sort of affection.

One night, after dinner, he observed them intently as they moved around the tiny kitchen. Somehow, they never even brushed a hand against each other. John was halfway through his second beer and felt bolder than usual. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

They both turned to look at him, and their twin gazes gave him the impression they knew exactly what he meant.

“Do what?” Sherlock asked. “I was just clearing up a bit.”

“You don’t have to avoid physical contact for my sake. It doesn’t bother me.”

Sherlock almost seemed to defer to Mycroft, who replied, “We didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable in any way, John. We know your initial… exposure to our relationship was perhaps a little traumatic.”

It had been, at first.

But then the image of their coupling did a sort of mental flip in his head and became arousing rather than repulsive.

And the more he got to know Mycroft… well, the more both of them started to figure into the fantasies he was trying like hell to repress, because fantasies about his flatmate and his brother were the last thing he needed. He didn’t want to ruin things with Sherlock, and Mycroft would still kill him. Twice, perhaps, just for good measure.

“It doesn’t make me uncomfortable.” He took another swig from his beer, and then blurted it out before he could let himself think about the implications. “I’m not straight.” Relief washed over him, followed promptly by nausea and panic. Fucking hell. That wasn’t how the speech was supposed to go; he’d been rehearsing it for weeks.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it.

“I’m not straight,” he repeated, and the pitch of his voice rose. “I’ve been in relationships with men. It really doesn’t bother me.” He was babbling now, clutching his beer like it could somehow save him. God, I’m an idiot. What was I thinking, blurting it out like that? What the fuck have I done? Sherlock’s going to take this the wrong way. They both are.

“John,” Mycroft said in a soothing voice, “it’s all right. Why don’t we go and sit down in the living room?”

He felt numb as he shuffled into the next room and collapsed into his chair.

Mycroft touched his hand and gently eased the bottle from John’s death grip. “It’s all right,” he repeated. “I can assure you that your sexuality is not an issue.”

“But… the roommate thing… I don’t want it to be weird.”

“I have a very high tolerance for ‘weird’, John,” Sherlock replied. “And if you’ve made it this long living with me, you do too; the body parts in the fridge, for example.”

“Right,” he said, staring at his hands in something like shock. “Right,” he said again. “I just need to go to the loo.” He got up and strode down the hall, willing his legs to work. He didn’t dare glance at either of them. Not at the moment.

He closed the door to the small toilet and leaned against it to prevent anyone else from coming in, not that he thought they would try. He stared at his hands again and noticed that they weren’t shaking, not even a little. Well, I’m certainly not bored; I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. He moved over to the sink and stared at his face in the mirror. This has to be the most inept ‘coming out’ ever, he thought. He doused his hands with cold water and ran them over his face and up into the back of his hairline, pressing his fingers into the base of his skull. It helped him think.

Neither of them seems the least bit fazed, the bastards. They might have had the decency to express some sort of surprise. They probably both worked it out weeks ago.

He wondered if they knew about his recent fantasies. He desperately hoped not. Not unless they’re going to suggest I join in. He braced himself against the sink and stared into the mirror again. All right. I’ve been in combat; I can take whatever the Holmes brothers care to throw my way.

Sherlock looked over at Mycroft and quirked his lips into a slight smirk. “Well, that was more… spontaneous than I’d expected.”

“Indeed. I didn’t think he’d say anything while I was here; he must be getting more comfortable with my presence.”

“I think we should ask him now.”

“God no,” Mycroft replied. “Give the poor man some space. Let him get used to the idea that you’re not going to have some sort of… negative reaction.”

“Jesus, Mycroft. You make it sound like I’m some sort of noxious chemical.”

“Your words, little brother. Not mine,” Mycroft replied with barely disguised mirth.

John strode back down the hallway, his confidence rebuilt.

He sat down in his chair and gave the brothers a closed-mouth smile. “Right,” he said. “Well, now that that’s out of the way…”

Sherlock spoke up. “Why were you so reticent, John; did you really think I would react badly? You can be such an idiot at times.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s complete lack of tact.

“And you can be a complete prat,” John replied without hesitation. “It was prior history: Harry didn’t speak to me for a month when I told her.”

“Ah… Harry. I always get her wrong. She thought you were stealing her thunder.”

“Actually, ‘belittling her life choices’ was the phrase she used, but yes, that was essentially it. I came to terms with my sexuality long ago; it always seems like everyone else has a problem with it.”

“That’s usually the way,” muttered Mycroft, and John felt a rather surprising pang of sympathy for him.

“I’m touched that you felt you could share this with us, John,” Mycroft continued. “Perhaps we should go out for a meal sometime in celebration.”

“Yes, that would be… nice,” John said, hesitating a little. He had the disturbing feeling that Mycroft and Sherlock were up to something.

Life continued as normally as it usually did, considering that he lived with Sherlock. Every now and then he thought Sherlock might be flirting with him, but he drove the idea from his mind. He wasn’t venturing anywhere near that minefield. His common sense was intact, no matter how much he might fantasise about his flatmate; Sherlock had been fairly unequivocal in his declaration of love for Mycroft, after all. The flirting was either imagination on his part, or some sort of ego-boosting on Sherlock’s. Either way, he wasn’t about to respond.

And then on Tuesday, while he was quietly reading the newspaper after some Indian take-away, the questions started.

“John?”

“Mm?” he replied absently.

“When was the last time you slept with a man?”

John nearly spat out his tea. “What?!”

“I believe you heard me, or you wouldn’t have reacted like that.”

“Yeah, yeah. I heard you. What makes you think I’d tell you?”

He shrugged. “You tell me everything else.”

“Why the sudden interest?”

“You wouldn’t have brought it up the other day if you didn’t want to talk about it.”

It was partially true, but ‘Subtly letting your roommate know you’re available’ was more accurate. He shrugged; it seemed Sherlock believed he’d be ‘playing therapist’, and that was far safer for everyone involved. “It’s been a while - when I was in the Army.”

Sherlock nodded, knowingly.

“Don’t give me that look,” he said defensively. “The Army had nothing to do with it. It wasn’t the only time I’ve slept with men, I’ll have you know.”

Sherlock smirked. “It sounds like you had quite a hectic social schedule before you met me.”

“You’ve singlehandedly helped destroy it, certainly.”

“Oh, come on, John. You’ve never seemed that enthusiastic about your dates. Why do you even bother?”

“Because some of us still enjoy a little sex every now and then, even if we haven’t met our soulmate.” It sounded more bitter than he’d intended.

Sherlock looked away.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. It’s just… hard not having anyone, you know?”

“You don’t seem to be looking for a relationship…”

“Because you’ve wrecked them,” John chimed in.

“…so why not just have sex?”

“It doesn’t work that way with most women. Once you hit thirty, the exceptions to that are few and far between.”

“From what I understand, a lot of gay men don’t feel the same way.”

“Mm, well. Not exactly subtle to go down to the Rainbow Room and bring back a young stud for the evening. I think you would have noticed.”

Sherlock huffed. “I wouldn’t have cared.”

“No, I know. It’s just… inertia, really. It’s easier to date women and not have discussions like this one. If I was really interested in someone, I wouldn’t let you put them off so easily. As it is…” he trailed off and shrugged.

“So you just used them for sex?”

“I never promised them anything long-term, and they never asked. There was mutual, er, usage. Wait, we’re still talking about women, right?”

Sherlock looked up, suddenly interested.

“I was right,” he said with immense satisfaction.

“Right?”

“You did have a long-term relationship with a man. When was it? University?”

“Yes. How did you… oh, nevermind. Yes. Ten months. We were roommates.”

“Let me guess: he wanted to stay closeted and you gave him the ultimatum of outing himself in order to take the relationship seriously or leaving. He left.”

“I don’t want to discuss it, Sherlock.”

“Well, it explains why you have a lot of flings.”

“Sherlock,” he started, warningly. “Just… enough, all right? I’m not having this conversation. I don’t want my relationships reduced to a series of deductions that’ll make you feel good about yourself.” He stormed into the kitchen in search of a cup of tea. Sherlock followed him.

“You shouldn’t be offended, John. I’m actually quite impressed with your ability to separate your romantic relationships from your sexual ones.”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment, Sherlock.”

“Don’t be silly; of course it is.”

John busied himself with the kettle as Sherlock leaned back against the counter. John rolled his eyes; every movement Sherlock made seemed graceful and almost choreographed. His apparent ignorance of his own sensuality frustrated John to no end. Or perhaps he was all too aware; he wouldn’t put it past him.

He’d just gotten out the teapot when Sherlock spoke. “I’ve been with Mycroft so long that I’ve forgotten what casual flings are like.” He said it with the casual breeziness of someone making polite dinner conversation.

John froze, suddenly very glad that Sherlock couldn’t see his face. Thoughts raced through his brain: all of them sexual and none of them helpful. Images of Sherlock on his knees in front of Mycroft. Except this time, it wasn’t Mycroft. He swallowed as the room started to get unbearably close. Say something. Anything. “I suppose that’s what it’s like then, you know, in long-term relationships?” he asked, willing his voice to remain steady.

“I suppose so.”

Sherlock’s voice was closer. Right behind him. He turned around to find Sherlock standing entirely too close for comfort; he instinctively backed up against the counter, but there was nowhere to go.

“We’ve never had what you would call a ‘conventional’ relationship, John.” His voice had dropped well below its normal range and dripped with sex.

John’s eyes were focused on Sherlock’s; he seemed unable to pull away. It had been entirely too long since he’d said anything. Was there a question? It was difficult to keep track. Sherlock held his gaze, not even blinking. “What?” John croaked, hoping to re-establish his thoughts. They’d completely left his mind and been filled with more images of Sherlock.

“Mycroft and I. We’ve never had a conventional relationship.”

Oh fuck. Mycroft. Mycroft will kill me. He scurried away sideways, breaking Sherlock’s predatory gaze, and bolted from the kitchen. “Mycroft. Right. Like you said, no casual flings.”

Sherlock followed him.

“Not traditionally, no.”

“Jesus. Are you coming on to me, Sherlock?”

“I’m certainly trying, but at least one of us is completely clueless about the mechanics because I seem to be failing spectacularly.” The statement was tinged with exasperation.

“Sherlock, I… we can’t. It’s not that I wouldn’t love to, but I won’t let you cheat on Mycroft with me. It’s wrong. I thought you said you were happy?” He didn’t want to sit down: sitting meant being cornered, no escape routes. His brain had switched to fight-or-flight mode, and ‘flight’ was definitely the order of the day. He settled for a nervous ‘I’m casually leaning against the back of my chair’ stance that he hoped didn’t seem too panicked.

“Of course we’re happy.” The exasperation was gone, and the deep chocolate voice had returned. “And who said anything about cheating? As I said, we have a very unconventional relationship.”

“Are you telling me that he knows you’re hitting on me?”

“We’ve discussed the concept, yes. He does get jealous, though.”

“He’s going to kill me, isn’t he? Oh Christ, I should never have said anything; I knew you’d figure it out eventually. Fuck. Look, I can move out if that’s what it takes.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow.

The gears in John’s brain jammed into reverse and ground to a halt. “Wait, what? Why are you giving me that look?”

“The bastard. He was right; you’ve been interested all along.”

“No! Well, perhaps sort of. But it’s never been worth ruining our friendship over. Besides, I didn’t even think you ‘did sex’ until recently.”

“So what you’re saying,” he said with a smile, “is that this is another excellent example of your ability to separate your emotional and sexual needs.”

“It is?”

“Yes, but I’m not just asking you to have sex with me, John.”

“You aren’t?” Two word sentences were apparently all he could manage.

“No, I’m asking you to have sex with both of us.”

John suddenly realised that combat hadn’t even remotely prepared him for the Holmes brothers. “What?” he managed to get out, his voice not much more than a squeak.

Sherlock took another two steps towards him. Once again, he stood entirely too close, effectively pinning him against the back of the chair.

“Mycroft doesn’t want my curiosity to hurt our relationship; he’d prefer to keep a close eye on the situation.”

His brain oscillated between the word ‘curiosity’ and the idea of sleeping with Sherlock. With both of them.

‘Curiosity’ won. Barely.

“Hang on a sec. What do you mean by ‘curiosity’?”

“Weren’t you paying attention for the last ten minutes?” Sherlock replied, less caustically than John would have expected.

“Um…”

“I’ve been in this relationship for a very long time, and I have no intention of sabotaging it. But a certain amount of variety would be most welcome… with the right person.” He uttered the last phrase slowly and then wet his lips with his tongue.

Once again, John struggled to keep his mind on the conversation.

“Mycroft is not averse to the idea, although his level of participation would be entirely up to you.”

“You two have already discussed this?” he asked, incredulously.

He shrugged. “Your point?”

“Shouldn’t you have asked me first?”

“Not really: my relationship with Mycroft takes precedence.” Then he gave John the cheeky grin that John was powerless against. “But I’m asking you now.” He took another step towards John. “So, are you interested?”

He didn’t even have to think about it. “God, yes.”

Sherlock slowly leaned in to kiss him and John’s stomach nearly fell through the floor in anticipation. Then Sherlock’s phone chimed with a message.

Sherlock growled in response and pulled back. “Goddamnit,” he muttered, and pulled his phone from his pocket.

Not without me. -MH

A second message followed quickly on its heels.

I’ll be there in five minutes; I left when you started stalking him in the kitchen. I know how much self-control you have. -MH

And apologise to John. -MH

Sherlock backed away and stormed off across the living room in a huff.

John’s phone beeped.

I apologise for our behaviour. Sherlock was supposed to wait until we were together to discuss this. -MH

He looked up at Sherlock with surprise. “You really have talked about this, then?”

“Of course,” he replied, waving away the question.

“But how did he know about… this?” He motioned to the space between them.

“The camera in the kitchen, most likely.”

“Ah. The camera. In the kitchen. There’s a camera in the kitchen?” he asked, wrinkles creasing his forehead.

“They’re all over the flat, everywhere except the bedrooms and the toilets. I insisted he remove those.”

Images of his past ‘dates’ flashed through John’s head.

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock replied, guessing his thoughts. “Voyeurism isn’t his thing. Surveillance, yes, but not voyeurism.”

“Well, that’s reassuring,” John replied, in a tone that indicated it really wasn’t.

“Between his position and my profession, there is a certain amount of risk to my well-being. Surely you’ve seen that by now.” He shrugged and added, “He worries.”

John rolled his eyes. “You could have mentioned it.”

“Would it have made a difference?”

“I wouldn’t walk around in a towel, for one.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, John; you look fantastic in a towel.”

Somehow, the unexpected compliment and the slightly lewd tone in which it was delivered defused his irritation. He walked over to Sherlock, who was staring out the window with his back to him. Two can play at this predatory thing. Before he could think about it too much, he pushed right up against him and trapped him in place. “So, you’ve been watching when I wander ‘round half-naked, eh?” His tone was no longer mild, but the authoritative voice of an Army officer. He felt Sherlock tense beneath him. “And now you want to fuck me?” he continued, drawing out the sentence in a way that was both sexual and slightly menacing.

Sherlock sucked in a shuddery breath and nodded, still with his back to him.

It seemed ‘predatory’ worked just as well on Sherlock as it did him. If not better. Which was good, because John had no intention of bottoming in this situation.

“Well, you should be careful what you wish for, Sherlock. I might make you pay for all those things you ‘forgot’ to mention.”

Sherlock twisted around, but John didn’t give the taller man any more space. He looked up at Sherlock and grinned. His roommate’s eyes focused down on him, full of fascination.

“This is unexpected.”

“Perhaps this’ll teach you to cross me,” John replied and pushed Sherlock back against the window frame. He held him there and looked up at him; he could feel Sherlock’s breath on his face.

“I don’t know, I’m sort of enjoying it.”

He wanted to kiss him, but he didn’t know if Mycroft would approve and that could be dangerous. Footsteps on the stairs a second later made it a moot point. Better judgement suggested that he should release Sherlock, but better judgement didn’t really figure into any of this. He stayed where he was.

“Hello, John,” Mycroft practically purred as he walked through the door. “I see you have Sherlock firmly in hand.”

John raised his palms away from Sherlock, a little defensively.

“Figuratively. There’ll be plenty of time for a literal interpretation later, won’t there, Sherlock?”

“I sincerely hope so,” his brother replied.

“John, we all need to sit down and talk about this. It’s important that you understand the complexity of the situation.”

“Oh, Christ,” Sherlock muttered.

John backed away from Sherlock and turned to face Mycroft. “That’s all right; I think I get it. Just sex. No emotional entanglements. You have to be present. Any exceptions and I’m guessing I’m out on my ear. Is that about right?”

Sherlock smirked at John’s assessment.

“A little more blunt than I’d have put it, but that is the gist of it; yes.”

He looked Mycroft over and gave him a lascivious smile. “Good. Sherlock said you might be interested in joining in?”

“It doesn’t sound like that would be a problem,” Mycroft replied, the statement not quite a question.

“Not in the least,” John said brightly. They both turned and looked at Sherlock. He leaned against the wall with his half-lidded eyes full of lust and his full lips slightly open; the absolute picture of sex.

“Wonderful,” Mycroft replied. His eyes raked over his brother once more and then he turned to John with a conspiratorial smile. “Where shall we start?”

John wasn’t sure if his question was rhetorical; he planned to defer to Mycroft unless they told him otherwise. Besides, as much as they both featured in his fantasies, his primary interest lay in Sherlock. “With his clothes, I should think, unless you meant ‘Where should we start?’” He motioned towards the hallway.

Sherlock spoke up. “I know where I’d like to start.”

Mycroft raised his brows. “Mm?”

“On my knees.”

The statement sent a surge of heat to John’s gut and a sudden desire to see that lithe body used for anything other than ‘transport’. He was about to pin him to the wall and snog him senseless when he stopped and turned to Mycroft. “Kissing off limits?”

“No, but thank you for asking,” he replied, smiling.

“Good, because I’ve wanted to do this for a while.”

“You’re not going to ask me?” Sherlock enquired, sarcastically.

“I think we both know what you want,” he said and pushed Sherlock gently backwards until he was backed up against the window. He crowded against him, forcing Sherlock to look down to meet his stare. When Sherlock moved to kiss him, John pulled back. “Actually, I think you should ask me. Nicely.”

Sherlock slowly ran his tongue across his upper lip, leaving his mouth slightly open. “Please,” he whispered, “kiss me.”

He had a sudden realisation that he had no idea what Sherlock liked. Did he want it hard and rough, with his hands pinned against the wall and their lips smashed together? Or would he want it to be soft and tender? His own sexual impulses leaned towards hard and rough, but this was Sherlock: their shared history, and their shared future, required him to get this right. And he had no idea what ‘right’ was.

But Mycroft did.

And involving Mycroft in these decisions would make this whole bizarre experience seem less like ‘Fucking Sherlock’ and a lot more like a threesome. Because at the moment, no matter how much Mycroft participated, it felt like ‘Fucking Sherlock’, and that was probably a Bad Thing. He didn’t care whether Sherlock believed he could separate sex and emotions - he knew was treading on thin ice.

“C’mere, Mycroft.”

Sherlock whimpered a little at the delayed gratification.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get yours,” John whispered.

When John sensed Mycroft directly behind him, he reached and pulled him forward so the three of them were inches apart. Mycroft’s scent - dark, sensual, and entirely unexpected for a man wearing a conservative three-piece suit - made his gut throb. “So Mycroft,” he whispered, “tell me what he likes. Better yet, show me.” He left the wording deliberately ambiguous. Mycroft could choose to interpret it the ‘obvious’ way and demonstrate on Sherlock, or… John was starting to hope he’d choose the alternative. This close, with Mycroft’s carefully measured breath on his cheek, he felt surprisingly drawn to him. If Mycroft didn’t choose to demonstrate on him, perhaps he’d have to take the initiative. He turned his head to face him and gave him a querying look with a hint of a smile: enough to say, ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I meant.’

Before he had a chance to think about it further, Mycroft’s hand gripped the back of his head and pulled him in for a hard, possessive kiss that flared white hot in his brain. It made his knees want to give out. Jesus. When Mycroft let him go, he opened his eyes to a slightly questioning look on Mycroft’s face. He smiled in response. He blinked. Once. Twice. Took a deep breath and exhaled. “Right, then.” He tried not to lose his cool and did anyway; the words in his brain spilled out of his mouth unheeded. “Jesus, Mycroft. Who taught you how to kiss like that?”

Mycroft smirked and inclined his head towards Sherlock.

Fuck. Of course.

As John turned back towards his flatmate, he saw Sherlock’s expression flit between lust and irritation.

“What?” John asked in a low voice, as he put one arm around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him closer, “Have to be the centre of attention, don’t you?” He kissed him forcefully before Sherlock could respond. He didn’t give Sherlock the chance to lead, and it didn’t seem like Sherlock wanted one - not if the low moans coming from him were any indication. Sherlock pulled him closer, and John became aware of Sherlock’s warm chest pressed against his own. He’d never imagined Sherlock could be this intoxicating, this sensual. He’d expected clinical, but clinical wouldn’t make his dick this hard.

He finally pulled back, and for once Sherlock didn’t have any words at the ready, just a stupid grin.

“Kiss Mycroft,” John said; he felt like some sort of lecherous porn director but he didn’t particularly care. What he got surprised him. Mycroft kissed his brother with the same intensity as he’d kissed John, but there was an underlying tenderness to it that made it so much more significant. Ten years (longer, he supposed) of emotional history tinged even the twitch of an eyebrow with depth and meaning. Watching them share a kiss was almost mind-blowing.

By the time they’d finished, Sherlock looked debauched. His shirt was half-pulled out of his trousers, which were bulging obscenely at his groin, and there was a light flush on his chest, barely showing at the top of his shirt. It made John want to tear the expensive piece of material right off him. He restrained himself, but pushed him back against the wall and palmed Sherlock’s erection.

“God, I want to see you,” he growled. “I want to hear you moan.” He pressed against Sherlock’s dick; it seemed thick and heavy, and his mouth watered at the thought. “Perhaps we’ll strip you naked and make you take both of us while we’re still dressed. Would you like that?” He wondered if he’d crossed a line, being dominant like this. Mycroft was right next to him now - another pair of hands pinning Sherlock to the wall. John gave him a quick, questioning glance and he almost-imperceptibly nodded his assent. Good. John wasn’t sure why this felt so right, ordering Sherlock around, but God, it was hot. “You said you wanted to be on your knees, and I’m going to give you your chance. Get your kit off, and make it quick.”

Sherlock squirmed out from beneath their grasp and almost ripped the buttons from his shirt in his enthusiasm to remove it. Mycroft leaned against the wall and watched with a smile on his lips. John joined him, watching with a hungry gaze as Sherlock toed off his shoes and pulled down his trousers.

Sherlock wasn’t beyond putting on a bit of a show. He left his pants on while he bent over at the waist to take off his socks, giving them both an eyeful of his plush arse.

“Tease,” John said, glad for every second of it. He knew Sherlock’s form from his clingy dressing gowns, and he’d certainly gotten more than an eyeful at the Palace, but being allowed to watch like this felt like a guilty thrill.

Sherlock twisted around, still bent over, and gave him a dazzling grin. “You don’t seem to have a problem with that,” he retorted, glancing at John’s groin. He inched his pants down around his ankles and stepped out of them.

John couldn’t stop staring at his cock. He knew it was rude, but fuck. Sherlock was gorgeous.

And waxed.

There wasn’t a shred of hair anywhere near his cock.

John was absolutely fascinated, and more than a little transfixed. “Jesus, Sherlock, doesn’t that hurt?”

“My erection? Not yet. Not as long as one of you does something about it.”

“No, I mean the waxing. Good God. I can’t even imagine…”

Sherlock gave him an enigmatic smile. Glancing at them, he said, “What about you two? Don’t I even get a look?”

They were both still fully clothed, if rather uncomfortably. His earlier idea of letting Sherlock suck him off with his clothes on went by the wayside, and he started getting undressed.

Mycroft looked at both of them, shrugged mildly, and started doing the same.

Sherlock batted John’s hands away from his shirt buttons. “Let me,” he said in a low voice. He pushed John backwards against the wall as he worked his way down his chest. He pressed against him, grinding his erection against John’s trousers.

John let out an embarrassingly needy moan. It didn’t bode well for his campaign of ‘impassive dominance’. He looked over; Mycroft was faring much better - calm and in control - but he’d had ten years with Sherlock and was probably used to this.

John had slumped against the wall to let Sherlock take care of his trousers when Mycroft spoke. “He can get awfully pushy if you let him, John.”

Sherlock shot his brother a wicked grin even as his fingers slid John’s trousers down over his hips. “He doesn’t seem to be complaining, Mycroft.” He ran his tongue over his lips and leaned in to give John a quick kiss. “Do you, John?”

He’d have been quite happy to let Sherlock do anything he wanted.

“Unless you’d like me on my knees, that is,” Sherlock added, coyly.

It was enough to remind John just how much he’d enjoyed ordering him around. “You’re damned right I want you on your knees,” he said, pushing him firmly to the floor.

Sherlock looked up at him before rubbing one hand along his cock through the material of his pants.

“Want a look at that, do you? Here; I’ll give you a nice close look.” He thumbed them down over his hips and his erection bobbed free. John took his dick in hand and rubbed it across Sherlock’s delicate features. “Not as pretty as yours, is it? I never went in for that waxing stuff. Doesn’t look like you mind though.”

Apparently, he really didn’t. Sherlock laved his balls as John rubbed his cock across his face. At some point, Mycroft moved to stand behind Sherlock. The only reason John noticed was because his brother’s long, delicate fingers gripped his head firmly in place while John let Sherlock observe as much of his cock as he wanted. He moaned at the delicious sensation of Sherlock’s soft face against him. “What do you think? Can you get it all in that gorgeous mouth of yours?”

Sherlock didn’t even answer, he just showed him. He pulled John lower, eagerly taking his dick inside. He couldn’t manage all of it, but he was close.

“Oh, God, yes,” John moaned as the hot, wet suction enveloped him, and his head fell back against the wall as Sherlock’s mouth did unspeakably delicious things.

It wasn’t until he felt warm breath on his neck that he realised Mycroft had moved again. The man was a ghost.

Mycroft’s lips brushed gently at his ear. “Is that all you want to do to him, John?” he asked in a low voice. “Or is there something else?” His fingers skimmed across John’s warm skin and came to rest on his hips. “Perhaps you’d like to concentrate your attentions elsewhere.”

And now that Mycroft had given him the idea - the permission - of course there was. He moaned, trying to summon the words to reply. “Yeah, God…” he could swear Sherlock was being particularly good at this, right now, on purpose, just to drive him mad. “Um, condoms and lube… bedside table,” he eventually stuttered.

Sherlock pulled off his cock, giving the head a teasing lick. “I’m so glad, John,” he said. “I was afraid you were going to get spooked.”

It sounded like a challenge, and knowing Sherlock, it probably was. Still, he wasn’t beyond taking the bait, especially when it was so pretty.

“I’ll show you how spooked I am, Sherlock,” he replied. He grabbed a handful of hair and yanked his head all the way back. The position forced his mouth open. With his other hand, John ran one finger beneath Sherlock’s chin, over his Adam’s apple, and down to his chest.

“Have you ever sucked cock with your neck like this, Sherlock? It leaves your throat completely open… just like a sword swallower. If there’s any way I’m going to get my cock all the way down your throat, this is it.” He kept his head pulled back, leaving Sherlock unable to move. “Do you think you can manage it? Or are you spooked?”

Sherlock tried to respond but his position rendered it as “oh”. He shook his head. Mycroft came back down the stairs, saw Sherlock’s position, and smiled at John in approval.

“Good,” John replied. “I should warn you, having my dick lodged that far down your throat will cut off your breathing.” As he said it, he clasped the fingers of his free hand around Sherlock’s long, pale neck, and slowly tightened them.

Sherlock’s eyes widened as John cut off his air, but he offered no resistance. John counted off seven seconds in his head and released his throat. Sherlock rasped in a deep breath.

“I see you have the situation well in hand, John, but it looks like you have something else in mind?”

“Oh, no - in addition to. He seemed to think I lacked the nerve to fuck him properly. I thought I’d make him work off the insult before I give him the pleasure of my dick up his arse.”

Mycroft hummed his agreement. “Best not to let him get too pushy. Going to see just how much of you he can take?”

“Something like that. The angle should let me shove the whole thing down his throat.” A quick glance at Sherlock’s erection and the look of utter lust on his face made it very, very clear that the prospect excited him. Sherlock was more of a sub than John could have ever imagined, getting off the very idea of having his throat fucked raw.

John let go of Sherlock’s hair and let his head and neck come back to their normal position. “I think we’ll need the bed; doing it like this would probably give both of us back problems, and God help me if I had to have you as a patient.” He pulled back on Sherlock’s hair again and kissed him roughly; Sherlock moaned into it and writhed against him. “God, look at you,” John muttered. The phrase ‘wanton slut’ drifted through his mind, in only the most positive of ways, but he didn’t dare utter it. Some lines were better left uncrossed. He stood up and took Sherlock’s hand. “C’mon.” He looked at Mycroft and added, “Both of you.”

Sherlock needed no persuasion as they entered the bedroom; he crawled sinuously onto his large bed, lying across it sideways on his back. He shimmied to the edge so his head hung off the side. “Is this how you want me, John?” he asked wickedly, holding his head up slightly to look John in the eye before he let it fall back - completely opening his mouth and throat to whatever John had in mind.

John could only nod; he was too busy watching Mycroft (creamy, freckled, ginger: so different from Sherlock) crawl onto the bed, and then onto Sherlock. He pinned his brother’s arms down into the plush mattress and stopped, halfway up his body. His long, delicate tongue whipped out and circled one of Sherlock’s nipples, causing him to buck against the mattress and moan.

“Good Lord, Sherlock,” Mycroft chided. “Anyone would think you were starved for touch.”

“I just crave it; there’s a difference,” he said, raising his head to reply.

“There’s another word for that,” his brother retorted, and Sherlock laughed as he lowered his head back against the side of the bed.

“Come over here, John. I don’t know what you’re waiting for; I’m ready and more than willing,” he said, in that voice that dripped sex.

Mycroft smiled and went about marking his brother’s skin with bites and kisses, grinding against him and keeping him pinned to the bed. “Don’t worry John, I’ll make sure he stays still.”

“Mm, thank you, Mycroft. Very noble of you.”

“I do what I can,” he replied, dryly.

John wondered just how many people ever saw this side of Mycroft Holmes. Not many, he suspected.

He gave his cock a few strokes to bring it back to full hardness. If Sherlock wanted to take it all, he wanted to make sure it was a challenge. He moved to the side of the bed and stood directly in front of Sherlock. “Sure you’re ready?” he teased.

“Ready for anything you can give me, John,” he replied in a tone calculated to provoke.

That was just fine by him. He looked up at Mycroft, who had switched from licking Sherlock’s nipples to leaving teasing bites that promised something more.

Sherlock’s shoulders lined up against the edge of the mattress, and his head hung completely over the side. He gave John a dazzling smile.

John moved closer and pressed his groin gently against Sherlock’s face. He sighed as his balls brushed across the soft skin of Sherlock’s eyes and nose. He wondered what it felt like. Light pressure? Ticklish from his pubic hair? Certainly the smell of sex would fill his nostrils as John fucked him. He leaned back a little and pulled his hard cock lower so he could angle it into Sherlock’s mouth, and eased it slowly inside.

He was tempted to thrust his entire length in at once, but there would be time to work up to that. He didn’t want Sherlock gagging and miserable. He wanted this to be good for both of them, not just a show of dominance on his part. Well, not completely.

He shuffled back slightly and braced his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders as he pushed himself deeper into his hot, wet mouth. Earlier, Sherlock had been able to take about two-thirds of his cock. It had been amazing, regardless - the best cocksucking relied on finesse rather than the ability to take it all - but the sheer amazement of seeing his entire length disappear between those perfect, stretched lips made him gasp. And then there was the exquisite sensation of it - the soft wet slide across Sherlock’s tongue felt heavenly, and when he pushed in further, the narrowing of his throat surrounded the head of his cock in a slick, tight embrace.

Sherlock’s body tensed, and John looked up long enough to see why; Mycroft had moved further down his brother’s body and taken him into his mouth. John suspected Sherlock would have bucked up into it, but Mycroft’s hands pinned his hips firmly to the bed.

“I’d like to see how your massive intellect deals with this,” John muttered, grinning.

John continued to take Sherlock’s mouth. It was, indeed, the perfect angle. He’d started slowly, but Sherlock seemed to have no problem taking him almost all the way in, especially for short periods of time. He smiled to himself; the thought of fucking his face with abandon hung tantalisingly in his mind, but it wasn’t time. Not yet. He contented himself with long, sure strokes, pulling almost all the way out of Sherlock’s mouth and then pushing back in. Nothing John did seemed to bother him; he willingly offered up his mouth and throat for John’s pleasure.

The sensation of his balls slapping against Sherlock’s face sent a curl of heat up his spine, and suddenly he wanted more. John pulled all the way out, and Sherlock gasped in a few deep breaths - probably the first he’d had in a while. John cradled the back of Sherlock’s head with one hand and raised it level with the bed. Sherlock didn’t have to be told - he opened his mouth wide and sucked one of John’s balls into his mouth, moaning and swirling his tongue across it. The vibrations of his moans and the sudden sensation of heat jerked out a stream of pre-ejaculate from his cock. It dripped down onto Sherlock’s wet chin, looking deliciously obscene. After a while, John fed him the other one, his eyes rolling back at the exquisite sensation.

He glanced up. Mycroft seemed to be giving Sherlock a masterful blowjob, and John couldn’t help but wonder where Sherlock’s concentration lay. Certainly Mycroft had it at the moment. Perhaps they could play tug-of-war with Sherlock’s attention.

He needed his cock back in Sherlock’s mouth. Now. John lowered Sherlock’s head back down to rest against the side of the bed, and his ball slipped out of Sherlock’s mouth with a wet ‘pop’.

“You taste delicious,” Sherlock said before John could fill his mouth.

“It looks like you do, too,” John replied, looking at Mycroft; he had Sherlock’s entire length in his mouth, despite the somewhat awkward angle. One of Mycroft’s hands had disappeared from Sherlock’s hip, and Sherlock’s body arched upwards as his brother breached him with a finger while continuing the blowjob unabated. One finger? More? John couldn’t see, but his imagination filled in the details. And the details were fucking hot.

“Okay you, break’s over,” he said, looking down at Sherlock. “I’m gonna fuck your throat raw.”

Sherlock smiled and opened his mouth as wide as he could.

God. What a sight.

He braced himself against Sherlock’s shoulders once more. He’d need the stability in order to push his cock hard and fast into Sherlock’s throat.

Sherlock let his arms - no longer pinned to the bed - drop free, dangling straight out at right angles to his body.

“Is that comfortable?” John asked, incredulously; it looked anything but.

“Surprisingly, yes,” Sherlock replied.

John filed it away under the category of Weird Sex Positions and briefly wondered how Sherlock’s arms would look tied to a bamboo pole, splayed out like this. The idea seemed delicious, but unlikely; he didn’t have a bamboo pole, for one.

Sherlock moaned as Mycroft captured his attention once more, no doubt grazing his prostate or doing something equally distracting and gloriously devastating. Mycroft seemed to have just as much skill at sex as he did with politics. John felt a faint pang of jealousy at what they had together, but it was quickly forgotten as he guided his cock back into Sherlock’s waiting mouth. He’d planned to stop halfway through the blowjob and fuck his arse, but this - this was unreal. All he could think about now was fucking his face with abandon.

After a few strokes to re-acclimatise him, there was no holding back. Sherlock’s whole body tensed as he made his first, hard thrust, but he didn’t gag. Each push seemed to go deeper, although John didn’t see how that could be possible.

He took one hand from Sherlock’s shoulder and placed it on his elongated neck. He could feel his cock moving against the entrance to Sherlock’s throat with his hand. The utter strangeness of this - feeling Sherlock’s body yield to him both inside his mouth and outside on his neck - was a complete mind-fuck.

The muscles of Sherlock’s throat were slick and tight around the head of his cock. It almost felt like breaching someone’s arse, but without the satisfaction of that inexorable slide inside. His body unconsciously responded by pushing in harder, desperate to be deeper. Tighter.

Sense finally crawled through the thick fog of pleasure and reminded him to give Sherlock air. He wasn’t sure how Sherlock managed to go for so long without breathing, but once he pulled back far enough, Sherlock gasped a deep breath through his nose. Then one of Sherlock’s hands found his arse and pulled him back down into his throat, and sense once again took a backseat. Everything had taken a backseat. He had no idea what Mycroft was doing. Hell, he wouldn’t know if the flat was burning down around them. The whole world had been reduced to his cock and Sherlock’s mouth.

And then, Sherlock swallowed.

The muscles of his throat contracted against the head of his cock, stimulating it. Oh God. It felt amazing. Bizarre. Mind-blowing.

He heard himself swear, and Sherlock did it again.

His hand flew back to brace himself on Sherlock’s other shoulder. There was no way he could cope with sensations like this while leaning on one arm.

Sherlock kept trying to pull him deeper and swallowed whenever he could.

It was doing him in.

“Gonna come,” he managed to mutter, just in case Sherlock didn’t want him to come in his mouth, but Sherlock apparently had no such issues. John’s entire body tensed as he came violently, shooting his load deep down Sherlock’s waiting throat.

John rode out the aftershocks, muttering obscenities and praises.

He pulled out of Sherlock’s mouth, gasping at the sensitivity of his cock. When he glanced down, he was horrified to see that Sherlock’s face was almost crimson. He’d lost track of time. How long had he been hanging off the side of the bed, upside down like this? Fuck.

Sherlock gave him a massive grin, his wild curls splayed out around him; he didn’t seem to care. John dropped to one knee and cradled Sherlock’s head, supporting his neck and slowly raising it level with the bed. Mycroft was still sucking him off, but he glanced up and saw what was happening. He took his finger out from Sherlock’s arse and gently tugged him down so that his entire body was back on the bed.

“You all right?” John asked, worried.

“Don’t be silly, I’m fine,” Sherlock replied. He lifted his head, but rapidly dropped it back onto the bed.

“Dizzy?” John asked.

“Obvious.” Then he added, “My, why’d you stop?”

Mycroft chuckled and went back to sucking his brother’s cock.

John crawled onto the bed with them and lay down next to Sherlock on his side, curling over him, sliding his hands across his skin, memorising him. He could feel the tension throughout Sherlock’s body as he got closer to orgasm, his brother’s mouth and hands guiding him down that inexorable path. Without John vying for his concentration, the pleasure seemed to assault him hard and fast, and John watched with fascination as his brother took him apart.

It didn’t take long.

Sherlock moaned his brother’s name and threw his head back as he came, his face contorted in bliss. Mycroft swallowed his semen down and pulled off him. After he wiped his face with the back of his hand, he beamed at his brother. “That was lovely,” he said.

“Mm,” Sherlock agreed. “It was. Thanks.”

Mycroft pulled himself across the bed to lie on the other side of Sherlock. John saw that he was still half-hard, and that he’d never gotten off.

“Do you want me to…?” he started.

“No, I’m fine,” Mycroft replied with a kind smile. “Thanks, though.”

He curled around his brother in a mirror image of John. Sherlock lay between them surrounded by warm skin. Surprisingly clean, dry, lubricant-free skin, John realised idly. Blowjobs. Self-cleaning. He giggled a little and Sherlock looked at him. “Self-cleaning sex,” John explained.

“Mm, I suppose so,” he replied in a neurochemical haze.

Mycroft rolled his eyes but grinned and curled closer to Sherlock. He pulled the bedspread off the pillows and down over the three of them.

The warmth and the post-orgasmic bliss settled over him and he drifted off into a light, pleasant doze.

Sometime later, the words “You awake?” drifted through his consciousness and he opened his eyes blearily. Sherlock was looking at him.

John squinted. “Huh?”

“I’m awake. You were both asleep. I had to wake one of you up to get off the bed, and you’re on the open side of the bedclothes.”

“Why do you have to get up?” John moaned, perfectly content to stay in his warm cocoon of bedspread and Sherlock.

“I’m bored.”

Mycroft stirred. “Sherlock, go back to sleep,” he mumbled.

Sherlock remained undaunted. “I want tea.”

Mycroft groaned.

“You never want tea,” John replied. “Is he always like this, Mycroft?”

“Yes. Whenever he’s bored or not the centre of attention.”

“Ah, right. Of course.” He realised, with some amusement, that he was bonding with Mycroft (Mycroft!) over their mutual experiences in dealing with a brilliant five year old. Given that neither of them actually wanted to leave the bed, they both nuzzled closer to give Sherlock the attention he wanted. It wasn’t as if either of them could change his behaviour; they might as well give in and everyone would be happy.

“So… where does this leave us… exactly?” John asked, as they sat in the living room.

It was the awkward type of conversation that was only possible after having sex with your roommate and his brother.

Mycroft and Sherlock looked at each other.

He’d gone up to his room to get fresh clothes after they all woke up. He could hear their murmurings as he went up the stairs and he hoped like hell that they hadn’t just made some awful mistake. No - that he hadn’t made some awful mistake. He didn’t think Sherlock and Mycroft generally made mistakes of this magnitude.

Sherlock was uncharacteristically gentle with his reply. “It doesn’t really change anything, John. Mycroft and I are still together. This doesn’t change that.”

“I know; I didn’t expect it to, but…” he trailed off, not sure how to continue.

“You’re wondering if this changes things between us. Of course it does, but not for the worse, I hope. We’re both adults.”

John stifled a laugh.

Sherlock smiled and added, “Mostly.”

“I have to know though - was this just a one-time thing? Which is fine, by the way. I can understand that.”

“We talked…” Sherlock started and then trailed off.

“Right. Of course.” Well, it was good while it lasted.

“No, John,” Mycroft chimed in. “We talked. Neither of us quite expected this to be, well, quite what it was. If you’re not against it, I think both of us would be open to the idea of this happening again. Occasionally.”

John looked up, stunned. “Really?”

“Yes. You must understand though, this relationship would only be sexual in nature, with no emotional component.”

“I believe the phrase Mycroft is groping for is ‘friends with benefits’,” Sherlock added. He looked immensely pleased with himself.

Mycroft nodded.

“Oh. Well. Yes, that sounds quite good then,” he replied, trying to stay cool. Trying to pretend this was a perfectly normal occurrence that of course he understood.

Because everyone slept with their flatmate. And his brother. On a purely sexual basis. Occasionally.