[identity profile] ameonna.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] sparklefiction
I do not own Sherlock. The BBC does.
I do not own the characters, they are public domain.
I do not own the kinkmeme ([livejournal.com profile] sherlockbbc_fic), either, I just spend way too much time there these days.
I do not know what is wrong with me.
I do not even ship Mycroft/John.


WhatisthisIdon'teven-



"This is a bad idea," Sherlock informed him.

"Look, what have I told you about my experiments? I don't bother you about your experiments," John reminded him.

"Yes, you do," Sherlock countered. "Don't leave heads in the freezer. No fingers in the butter dish. If I ever catch you storing piss samples in my shot glasses again so help me, Sherlock Holmes-"

"That's different," John said dismissively. "Those were disgusting. I'm doing something nice."

"You're doing something nice for Mycroft, who, may I remind you, is my brother, and my nemesis, and an altogether unpleasant person."

"He warned us he was coming over," John said, beating the eggs. "We have to reward his good behaviors or he won't learn to repeat them."

"So we will reward him by not leaving the house," Sherlock growled. "There's a reason I have tried to give my brother an eating disorder."

"Well, you shouldn't," John said mildly. "That's not nice."

"Ugh. Fine. Give him dessert, and may God have mercy on your soul."

***

Mycroft was, naturally, precisely on time. He had said he would come around at 17:00, he was there at five on the exact and knocked at thirty seconds after, presumably, John thought, to give them time to get down the stairs.

"What is that delightful smell?" Mycroft asked, seeming genuinely mystified.

"Crème brûlée," John said. "I thought you might like it."

Mycroft flushed, from his hair to his collar, a very light, very even pink, which John found very interesting. "What did Sherlock tell you?" he demanded, his voice dangerously low, as though he might murder John on the spot.

"To give you dessert, and may God have mercy on my soul?" John was perplexed.

"Ah. So. Hm. I see." Mycroft did not see. Mycroft looked confused. Panicked. John had no idea why.

"So- are you coming up?" John asked.

Mycroft moaned. He looked back at his car, and his assistant, and his fingers clenched on his umbrella. John felt uneasy, as though he might be kidnapping the British Government, and that perhaps forcing him to eat crème brûlée might be treason.

"Mycroft?" John prompted.

"Yes," Mycroft breathed. "Oh, God, yes."

"Oh. Good, then." John led Mycroft upstairs. Wonderful. I'd thought I was used to them by now. The Holmes brothers never cease to be utterly confounding.

"Mycroft," Sherlock greeted his brother.

"Sh-Sherlock," Mycroft managed, still red in the face.

John was mystified. He ducked into the kitchen.

"Hmph," Sherlock huffed. "This is meant to be positive reinforcement, apparently."

"Why?" Mycroft begged.

"Because you texted first." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I didn't tell him," he said quickly, grinning cruelly. "I thought I'd let you embarrass yourself."

"What the devil is going on?" John asked, coming out of the kitchen. "It's just a bit of dessert."

Mycroft dropped his umbrella. "You- you own a dessert torch?"

"I borrowed Sherlock's," John said. "I sterilized it first, I'm sure he wasn't using it for its intended purpose. Sit down. You can borrow my chair, I know Sherlock doesn't want you on the sofa."

Mycroft sat in John's chair and looked unseasonably warm for October in London.

Sherlock took his helping, and started to eat it right away.

"You- slow down!" John said. "God, have some manners."

"Can't," Sherlock said, sucking his spoon. "Mycroft's going to put me off, and I don't want to waste it."

John stared from one of them to the other. Pressing his lips together in a thin line, he sat on the sofa by Sherlock with his own serving and watched as Mycroft stared at the glazed surface of the custard in reverent awe.

"What-" he began, but Sherlock punched his arm to silence him.

Mycroft gingerly broke the toasted top of the crème brûlée with the edge of his spoon, and John watched as he followed the tiny cracks in the surface. He raised his eyebrow when the very smell of it made Mycroft whimper a little.

The orgasmic sounds that followed kept John stock-still for the next fifteen minutes. When Mycroft finished, he loosened his tie, and looked ashamedly at the floor.

"I told you so," Sherlock said. "God, I may not eat again for a year."

"Have mine," John said.

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