i don’t think people understand that when i watch something, i don’t look for the gay
the gay looks for me
The gay always finds me.
But to be quite honest, I’m not really hiding.
I’m holding a sign that says, ‘GAY’ on it, like limo drivers do at the airport.
This is gorgeous.
Oh, for God’s sake.
You made me heal
My beloved kin
With every kiss we seal
This forbidden sin
x
My lips upon yours
Heat rushing through my veins
What do they call this
Disgusting, wrong - I kiss the fear away
x
No one shall ever know
How much I love you, brother-mine
Since I fear they might
Take you away from me
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
I just felt like doing this since the sentence “With every kiss we seal this forbidden sin” had been in my head for weeks now.
Mycroft. -SH
Sherlock. -MH
I can’t…I’m bored. -SH
When is the last time you slept? -MH
A few days. -SH
Sherlock. Is that the truth? -MH
A week and a half. -SH
Sherlock… -MH
Do you want me to come over? -MH
Please. -SH
Mycroft stepped up the stairs to 221b, his expression downcast. He really had to stop doing this. He knew what was going to happen. He knew it each time he came over. John could handle Sherlock’s three year absence, but Sherlock couldn’t handle any long period without his army doctor.
He straightened up and pulled his thoughts together as he stepped into the sitting room, immediately spotting his brother, curled up in his chair. Mycroft set his umbrella down and began tugging off his jacket, clearing his throat. Sherlock’s head sprung up and he snapped his eyes over to Mycroft. For a second, he looked like he was going to greet his brother, but then a broad grin spread across his face and he sat up, leaning forward eagerly.
“John!” the man said happily, looking at Mycroft like a giddy five year old. Mycroft felt the pang in his heart but let the unwanted smile tugged at his lips. “I didn’t know you were—Oh but that doesn’t matter, you’re back home. Wait till I tell Mycroft. Fat bastard said you weren’t going to come home. But look at you now,” Sherlock crowed, pulling himself off the chair and striding over to Mycroft.
Any size or weight differences were disregarded. Whether Sherlock just didn’t notice them while in his little world or he contorted John’s body to fit Mycroft’s, they were never brought up. Sherlock wrapped his arms around Mycroft in a tight hug and burrowed his face into the man’s neck, smiling happily before pulling back and seemingly remembered his manners. “Oh, oh, I’ll make you tea. Sit down, sit down. I know I don’t make it the way you like, I’ve been trying though, I thnk I got it just right this time,” Sherlock said as he sped of towards the kitchen.
“No, no, Sherlock, it’s fine. Let’s…let’s sit down, yeah? It’s been a while,” Mycroft said, in a cheer that was much like John’s. Sherlock halted halfway to the kitchen and swayed back and forth, his eyes darting between the sofa where John—no, Mycroft—was heading and the kitchen where he could make a cup of tea for him (that would surely make John stay, wouldn’t it?) before finally retreating to the sofa and curling up next to Mycroft, resting his head on the man’s shoulder.
Mycroft wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and pulled him closer. Sherlock trailed one hand up an down Mycroft’s leg and swallowed. “I missed you, you know. You’re here to stay, right? I don’t…I can’t be without you John. Please stay. I won’t upsest you again,” Sherlock whined softly, gripping Mycroft’s leg and staring at him, tears in his eyes. Mycroft gently hushed the man, cupping his cheek and sighing.
“I’m not leaving you, Sherlock. Shh, it’s alright,” Mycroft murmured, looking at his brother with pained eyes. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to stay with you. I’m not upset with you, I’ll never be upset with you,” he continued, brushing his thumb over Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock stared at Mycroft for a second before leaning forward so he could kiss Mycroft.
Mycroft had to remind himself Sherlock wasn’t in a right state of mind, he’d never be again. It was wrong to encourage the man like this, it was so desperately desperately wrong. But to see his brother smile again, to actually look happy, was worth the disgusting feeling he got afterwards.
So Mycroft let’s Sherlock kiss him, let’s him deepen the kiss and even let’s him undo his trousers to stroke him. He returned the favor, of course, and when Sherlock falls over the brink, he screams John’s name before going slack and drifting off to sleep. Mycroft cleaned him up, fixed his trousers, pulled a blanket over him, and left.
When Mycroft lets himself return home, he’ll shower off the shame of indulging his brother, he’ll have a calming cup of tea and read a few pages of a book he doesn’t care to check the title of, and before he goes to bed, he’ll stop at the small urn on the mantle above the fireplace in the sitting room where his eyes will trace the words, ‘John H. Watson’.
Motherfucking nose porn.
“Every fairytale needs a good old fashioned villain, but I’d much rather be your Prince Charming.”
