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Family Master Post (Jan 21st 2012) -Cabinlock

Family, the rp between brilliantmartincrief and cravingdeduction

So far 17,224 words.

Began January 1st 2012.

Still on-going.

Family

The plane, if one could call it that, was quite obviously in disrepair. It looked unstable, and almost non-airworthy and as Sherlock stepped onto it, he couldn’t help but think maybe this plane would provide him with the fall he wouldn’t be able to survive.

Still. If Mycroft had hired them, he must trust them. Which means it was unlikely that flying with MJN Air would pose a significant risk.

He tuned back in to the incessant chattering of the steward-Arthur-as the man spoke about this being highly irregular.

“Surely you are hired to fly people often.” That was, after all, how things usually worked with an -well, he hesitated to call it this-airline.

Arthur nodded enthusiastically (why was everything about this man so damn enthusiastic?) and smiled brightly, “Yeah. But usually it’s just for one or two flights. Not for an entire year! We’re going to get to know you really well! It’ll almost be like you’re one of us! Isn’t that just brilliant!?”

There it was. The man’s absolute favourite word. Brilliant.

Sherlock sighed. He could already feel the headache building behind his eyes. “Yes. Well.” He mumbled, moving to sit on one of the seats.

Arthur hovered. “What?” He asked, to which the man smiled brightly (again!).

“Could I offer you a drink for which to you to partake in?”

Sherlock paused. Was this man for real? Or had Mycroft planted him there specifically to irritate Sherlock. “The strongest liquor you have.” he mumbled, “And then go away and leave me alone.”

“Right-Oh!” Arthur seemed to disappear, for which, Sherlock was glad.

Arthur for his part, walked past the galley and into the flight deck. “Hello gents.” he greeted, “Would you like a coffee?”

“Yes. I’ll have the usual, coffee with nothing in it, Arthur.” Douglas grumbled toward Arthur, his first officer cap set over his face.

“Douglas. Did you carry out the flight check?” Martin asked at his seat, turning knobs and flicking switches appropriately to prepare for flight.

The older man sighed out. “Why not have mercy on me this once, Martin?”

“I’m not exactly the reason you went out and drank half a keg last night, Douglas.” Martin bit back, shaking his head. “This is completely unprofessional.”

“It was a whole keg, actually, and as I recall you said, ‘let’s see it.’”

“Only after the vodka tonics you- God, never mind! This is childish. I shouldn’t have gone out with you last night. You shouldn’t even be here, this is a new low, having a hung over first officer.” Martin huffed out dramatically, looking to the roof of the deck as if mentally praying his circumstances would magically change in this moment.

“Oh? You want me to leave? Ta, sir.” Douglas grinned, going to get up before an old pale hand gripped to his shoulder.

“Stay right where you are, Douglas. Sober, drunk, or hung over, you must be present while flying.” She looked too them all with a proud smile. “We have a special vip passenger on board, and you all must be on your best behaviour.”

“Who?” Douglas asked, completely uninterested as the ache pounded in his head.

“Sherlock Holmes, the famous consulting detective the papers have been on about the past month.” Carolyn replied.

Martin’s eyes grew alight at the name. “Sherlock Holmes? Really… I follow the blog.” He gasped with intrigue. Well, he tried to read the blog whenever he could sneak onto one of the college kids computers. It simply fascinated him. “I-I should go say hello.” He interrupted nervously, leaving the flight deck in search of his small idol.

Arthur frowned for a moment, “But the newspapers said he’d died.” He said, “He jumped off a building. /I/ though he was Skips brother. Looks a lot like him.” He said brightly with a smile. “I’ll go make the coffee then!”

In the cabin, Sherlock had sprawled over several seats, his arm over his face as he tried to relax. It had been a trying few days, after all. Upon hearing the sound of footsteps, he lifted his arm, glad to see that it wasn’t Arthur.

But the mad that approached him was familiar. Frowning, he sat up and watched the stranger come to him.

Captain-obviously, the hat and insignia on his sleeves- Not very wealthy-threadbare clothing hanging off him loosely, obviously unable to feed himself adequately-. Enjoys flying-the exuberance that he walked with, the light in his bright eyes…

But Sherlock was distracted by the man’s face-the shape of it-the colour of his eyes…if it wasn’t for their significant height difference and the bright orange mop atop the man’s head, he would have thought he was looking in a mirror.

A memory came unbidden to his mind. A conversation with his dying mother.

Surely…no…Mycroft wouldn’t be /that/ obscene, would he?

“Martin Crieff?” Sherlock asked, frowning suspiciously at the man.

“Wow! You really do look alike!” It was the infernally excited man. Sherlock turned to him and glared, silently hoping he’d go away. But the excitable man simply grinned at them both and handed Sherlock a drink before turning to Martin, “Your coffee is in the flight deck. But I think Douglass might drink it.” Finally, the man frowned.

Martin was surprised that the man knew his name, frowning that he wasn’t addressed as captain. If Sherlock Holmes himself couldn’t even deduce that he was captain, Martin guessed no one would. He went to speak before Arthur suddenly came between them, bantering on about their similarities.

“U-um.. thank you, Arthur.” Martin replied with another frown. “That’ll be fine. Go on.”

Returning to facing Sherlock Holmes, Martin could feel his pulse jump as he got a closer look. They… they really did look a like. Startlingly so. He shook his head, and quickly spoke.

“Yes, I-I’m Captain Crieff. Captain Martin is fine though-well… no, just Captain I-I guess.” Well done in did. He cleared his throat. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes.” He stammered out, offering a hand.

“We’ve met.” Sherlock said, dismissing the hand and sitting down, “Though I’m not surprised you don’t remember it.” He looked at the man, “A captain…” He seemed to be sizing him up.

“Alright. Mycroft chose this company, and I refuse to believe it’s simply because of /you/. Though that is a distinct possibility I require a meeting with everybody who will be accompanying us on the flights that I charter. As soon as possible.” He took a sip of his drink and grimaced, “This is truly foul.” He muttered.

Martin was perplexed, they’d met before? When? Where? It didn’t appear that Sherlock was going to be willing to answer any of these inquiries as he demanded the crew gather. “Um, yes.. o-of course.” Martin stammered again, turning on his heal to return too the flight deck. He dragged Carolyn and Douglas, who was looking strangely cured of his hangover, toward Holmes, finding a spot beside them.

“This is our director Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, my f-first officer Douglas Richardson, and well… you’ve met Arthur and I. Th-this is your crew then, Mr. Holmes.” Martin finished, taking a breath.

Sherlock looked at them all for a moment, waiting for Arthur to join them -which he did a moment later (how predictable!).

He ignored Arthur’s questions about what was happening and looked at them all in turn. “As none of you seem to be aware, recently I had to fake my own suicide.”

“Woah that was faked!?” Arthur piped up from the back, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes.

“Yes. Obviously it was faked. I’m alive, aren’t I? Anyway, I need to know that I can trust you all to keep my identity a secret. From now on, you will refer to me as “Arthur Doyle” if you need to talk about me for any reason. That includes conversation between yourselves. If you cannot agree to this, my brother and I will find someone else to hire. I believe he’s paying you a substantial amount.” He directed the last part to Carolyn.

Carolyn stood prideful, a smile playing on her thin lips and she nodded in agreement. Martin bit his lip as he listened. This was indeed some very touchy business… he wasn’t sure if it was the best idea for Sherlock to be on THIS aeroplane, despite the fact that he was an idol of his. He felt his safety (and sanity) might be at risk.

“Arthur Doyle?” Douglas started then. “Sounds simple enough, we should b-“

“N-now, Douglas! Let’s not be hasty.” Martin cut off in a stammer. “Mr Sherlo-I-I mean Mr Holmes… are you certain you’re comfortable flying with us…?”

He stopped there, seeing Carolyn look toward him like she was stabbing him to death with her mind.

Sherlock watched, “Doyle.” He corrected, “And yes. My brother selected you for a reason.” His eyes trained on Martin, “And I believe that it’s because of you.” He turned to Douglas then, not saying anything further on the subject, “He also told me that you were among the best pilots on record but you also had a criminal record. Petty theft was it? Embezzlement, fraud?”

Douglas arched one of his brows, pursing his lips forward. “Smuggling, if you must know. I was a captain for Air England before.” He decided to fess up to the genius detective, knowing he’d remain in Carolyn’s good graces if he simply answered without a fuss.

Because of Martin? What did Sherlock mean by that? They’d never met until now… he’d only read up on the blog a few times. The only strange connection they had was their baffling physical similarities.

Sherlock nodded, “Then you’re perfect for the job. Your skills as a smuggler may come in handy. Though I do suggest that this time you don’t get caught.” He turned to Arthur, who had remained blessedly silent. “He didn’t warn me about you.”

“What about me?” Arthur actually looked confused.

“You’re an idiot. Don’t talk to me.” Sherlock said simply before turning to Carolyn. “My brother is paying you a substantial amount. That includes any necessary maintenance. Do to the plane whatever needs to be done and Mycroft will pick up the bill. But first, we must leave England. I’m sure the flight plan has been given to you?”

Douglas smirked, he would have fun with this. Martin nudged away from a quickly depressed Arthur and continued to listen carefully to Sherlock. Carolyn nodded once again, proud to be of service to the very tall many. “But of course, Mr. Doyle. I assure you, we will be most productive in flying, burgling, or keeping the idiot at a far proximity.” She assured, glancing back at her boys, especially toward Martin who was still not comfortable with all this.

Sherlock nodded. “Then we’ll get underway. I believe our first stop is Bangkok?” He waited for everyone to nod and head to their posts before speaking again, “Martin, a word?” He beckoned the man over as he drank some more of his disgusting drink.

Martin did stall, feeling the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He smiled best he could as he spun on his heel and stepped toward Sherlock again. “Y-yes, Mr. D-Doyle?”

Sherlock regarded Martin for a moment, “How is…” He searched his mind for a long forgotten name, “Meredith.” Martin’s mother. “Is her knee still playing up?” He didn’t really care about the answer-he just needed an in-a way to get this conversation out of the way.

Martin’s eyes widened again. How.. How in the world did he know his mothers name? It was impossible… Even for the consulting detective.. Unless.. “Mum? Sh.. She’s doing better. Got a replacement last year.” He explained before stepping closer. “Is there s-something I should know about…? A-about you and I.”

Sherlock nodded, “There is. Though I’m not sure of when the best time to tell you. You’ll likely react quite emotionally and that isn’t something I’m used to …dealing with. Would you prefer I explain it now, or after we’ve landed?”

Martin listened carefully before taking a breath and nodding gently. “Y-yes… probably.” He muttered, turning away. “I… I’ll see you when we land in Bangkok.” With that Martin struts down the alley and back into the flight deck. After a frustrating tug and pull with Douglas they took off and headed for Bangkok.

The flight was mostly uneventful. Arthur had mostly left him alone, and the few times that he approached Sherlock, he was scared away by Sherlock’s glares and angry words.

For the most part, Sherlock slept, but the hours that he didn’t sleep, he thought of Martin.

Why did he feel the need to tell the man this? Surely he was happy as it was. And did Sherlock really need another Mycroft around? Though Martin did seem more than a couple IQ points lower than Mycroft.

But it was a need. Sherlock /did/ feel the need to tell this man the truth. What it would get him, he didn’t know. But it would be far easier to tell him now, than to wait.

At least living with John had taught him /some/ social niceties.

He thought of how John would have told him. He’d sit him down, offer him a drink and take it slowly.

Sherlock didn’t have the patience for that-and he didn’t want to think about John. That just hurt.

So when they landed in Bangkok, he pulled Martin aside and took him to the cafe. First thing.

He could complete his mission after this-give Martin time to absorb the information.

They sat down, and he ordered them both a coffee. “Twelve hours before you can fly again, right?” Sherlock asked.

Martin was surprised that Sherlock so eagerly pulled him from the group, next thing he knew they were in a Chinese cafe, and he hoped whatever they served wouldn’t make him sick. “Uh, y-yes. Twelve hours. Correct.” He stammered, scooting in closer too the table. He had to admit the entire flight he hadn’t stopped thinking on what Sherlock had said for a moment. He wanted to know what secret he was hiding.

Sherlock nodded, not quite sure where to begin. He needed this man to stay friendly with him-he was the captain of the plane they were using, after all.

“Do you know much about your biological father?” He asked, wondering if Martin even knew that the man he called dad wasn’t his father.

“B-…” Martin stalled then, his demeanour changing instantly at the query. “B-biological? What do you mean…? I know my father well…”

“No.” Sherlock said, “Not the man who raised you. Your father, your biological father.” He watched Martin and sighed softly, “Have you never done the math? Your mother was already a month pregnant when she met your ‘father’.” He rolled his eyes, “You’ve honestly never thought about that?” He sighed and sipped at his coffee.

Martin bit his lip and looked down at the coffee. He felt his breath quickening slightly as the realization set in. He did the math in his head then, and, no… Martin blinked a bit, trying to keep his nerve and not pass out.

Sherlock watched Martin for a moment, not sure how to proceed. He watched Martin struggle to come to terms with this and he sighed. “Breathe.” He instructed. “Deeply.” He leaned forward and looked at Martin. “Your biological father’s name was Sigmond. He died more than twenty years ago. I’m not surprised your mother didn’t tell you-he had a wife and two children. All of whom are aware of your existence but because of their high status didn’t want the scandal.”

He tried his best to listen to Sherlock’s instruction on his breathing, but the man suddenly spilt all of the news out and it was harder for Martin to stay awake. It was like his old asthma was coming back, he set a hand on his chest, trying to regulate the breath. His father wasn’t his father? He was related too Sherlock and his high class family?

Oh this wasn’t good. Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a paper bag, thankful that he’d thought ahead enough while on the plane to take one.

He moved, crouching beside Martin and placing the bag over his face. “Breathe.” He said calmly, his hand on Martin’s back, rubbing it gently. He smiled softly at him, surprised that it was a genuine smile. “Hello little brother.” he said at last.

Martin took advantage of the presented paper bag and huffed into it deeply, some sweat gathered on his brow. He needed it, especially when he saw Sherlock smile like that and address him as… Goodness, he just concentrated on the brown bag.

Sherlock watched as Martin slowly calmed down, his hand never once leaving his back. “That’s why Mycroft chose MJN. Not because of the plane, the service, the relative cheapness nor your lack of fame. No. He chose MJN because you’re family. Carolyn has been instructed to pay you for these trips. I’m not sure how much, but do let me know if it doesn’t seem enough. Mycroft is funding this expedition, so Carolyn shouldn’t have to complain about the money.” He paused for a moment, watching Martin with a little concern. “Should I have not told you?” He asked again quietly, “Social situations are not my strong point.”

Martin really was ready to pass out then. He was going to be paid?! What?! This… this was too much! He tried to calm his nerve when he noticed Sherlock was concerned for him. “I-I…” He gasped out, pulling the bag from his lips. His throat was still tight, making it hard to properly speak. “N-no… it’s fine. J-just…. I had… no idea.”

“Your mother is aware of your biological father.” He said, “We went to see her after he died. You were there. Like I said, we /have/ met before, though I’m not surprised you don’t remember it. We were there for less than an hour.” He smiled softly, “You wanted to be an aeroplane until I pointed out that aeroplanes are objects without sentience and would it not be better to be a pilot-the one in control of the plane.” He stood and sat down on the chair next to Martin. “Would you like a glass of water?” He asked quietly.

Martin’s eyes widened from realization, yes, he remembered the scrawny brunette kid at that time. Martin was six… and he was convinced he’d get to be an aeroplane one day, until he visited and… “O-oh… I… I remember.” Martin exclaimed, his air pipes beginning to open up again as he relaxed. He nodded when Sherlock offered the water.

Sherlock pulled aside a waitress and spoke quickly in Mandarin, ordering a couple of glasses of water and a few sandwiches. Then, he re-joined Martin. “How old are you, Martin?” He asked quietly. He couldn’t quite remember the age difference.

“T-twenty-six.” He replied, taking another breath without the assistance of the bag. So that would make it twenty years since they’d seen each other. He glanced up carefully at Sherlock, trying to take this all in. “Y-you’re my… brother?”

Sherlock nodded with a soft, hopefully reassuring smile. “One of them. There’s also Mycroft, but he’s a domineering dick. Best you stay clear of him. He’ll manipulate you into doing whatever he wants, regardless of weather or not you want to do it. Though..” He paused for a moment, “When mother died, she put you in her will. You weren’t told because we realized you didn’t know. You’re illegitimate, so unless you actually /claim/ it, you won’t receive anything.

“You have until your thirtieth birthday. After that, it automatically gets divided up between Mycroft and myself. It’s not much, I think thirty thousand. But it should be enough for you to find a decent flat when this is over.”

Martin could only thank the God’s that the waiter had been slow on that water, because he would have choked on it considerably. Martin felt light headed again. “Th-th…. thirty thousand?!” Sherlock had to be kidding… this… This wasn’t possible!!

Sherlock watched Martin for a moment, “Your father was a duke.” He said softly, “Thirty thousand is nothing. I got a castle and a lot more than thirty thousand-unfortunately due to my previous drug habits, my brother-Mycroft-has control over my finances.” He shook his head and sighed softly.

The waitress came then, handing them the water and sandwiches. “Eat.” He offered the man and sat back, ignoring his own food.

Martin quickly began to eat, hoping the carb intake would keep him from passing out. He looked up, dumbfounded, at his… brother, chewing on a big bite and muttering, “Yuu’ph gat ah casoo?”

Sherlock grimaced at the full mouth and turned away. “Yes. In Scotland.” He said, “We can visit it when this is all over, if you would like.” He added distractedly, feeling a vibration in his pocket. He pulled his phone out and studied it for a moment before standing. “I have to go.” He said, pulling a card from his pocket. He threw it down on the table and turned. “Keep that.” he said, “It’s ‘spending’ money from Mycroft. It’s got no cap, but he said to be careful not to spend too much. It’s the government’s money after all.”

The name on the card was Captain Martin Crieff.

Martin swallowed down the sandwich while Sherlock stood and the card was tossed too the table. He licked his lip and picked it up, reading the name on it… Jesus. When he looked up, Sherlock was gone, only a faint vision of his dark trench coat in sight as he slipped out the door. Martin sat their, frozen and numb beyond belief, and his fingers lightly trembled as he held the indestructible card.

He finished all the cups of water and the sandwiches, sliding the card securely in the duct taped wallet, that Arthur had made for him, before standing and heading straight for the crews rooms. He was thankful, so bloody thankful that… M-Mycroft had arranged each to have their own rooms, he needed to be alone. Just as he rounded the corner Arthur sprung out in front of him like a gopher game and Martin gasped out in shock.

The lad was going on about the showers.. and the beds, and something about monkeys on the telly, but, God! He couldn’t do this right now. He literally ran to his room, hands shaking as he shoved in the card key and got inside, shutting the door firmly behind. Within moments of being surrounded by the perfect silence, Martin found himself curled up against the door, holding his knees tight against his chest and crying.

The first agent to track down was simple, but Sherlock received notice that there was a second, and even a third. Those took a little longer to track down and were more than a little dangerous.

When he finally returned to the rooms, he was holding his bleeding stomach closely, trying to stop the bleeding. He couldn’t find his key card, so he made his way to Martin’s room and pounded on the door, not caring in the least that it was two o’clock in the morning.

“Martin!” He wheezed, “Let me in!”

Martin gasped aloud, having not slept a wink since he’d gotten to the room. Was it Sherlock? He rushed too the door and opened it, crying hoarsely at the sight before slapping a hand over his mouth. “G-God!” He exclaimed, doing his best to help Sherlock inside. “D-did a Chinaman attack you?!”

Sherlock chuckled, “Russian, actually.” He muttered, closing the door behind him and all but collapsing on it. “I need you to go downstairs and ask for a spare key for my room. Then go in and find the first aid kit in my belongings.” He ordered, heading to the bathroom. “Thankfully the knife didn’t go all the way through, and as far as I’m aware I have no internal damage.”

“R-right…” Martin huffed out, trying to gain his courage. He double checked that he had his key card on him, and darted out of the room and down the stairs till he came too the counter. Again, he was so glad this was a higher class hotel, perhaps they’d understand his English. “H-Hello! I-I need a key-a-a card key!” He exclaimed, holding up his own and gasping when he realized there was blood on his sleeve.

The Chinese woman looked at him with fear. “O-oh, please. It’s pomegranate juice!” He chuckled awkwardly. “Hah… haha, please. I need key for room 224, quickly please.”

He eventually received the key and ran up the stairs, short on breath as he found Sherlock’s room and entered, finding the kit and returning to his own room, only to be confused at the two identical keys. He tried one, it didn’t work, and he fought not to curse aloud before he slid in the other and it opened.

“Sh-Arthur! I’m here!” He gasped, getting into the bathroom to find he’d removed his shirt. Martin set down the kit and rushed to find what Sherlock would need.

Sherlock was holding a towel against his stomach, his shirt having already been removed. “Good.” He reached for the kit, taking it from his brother and opening it. He pulled out a kit and got to work with stitching his own stomach.

“Call the others. We need to leave. It’s only a matter of time before they trace me back here, and I don’t want them knowing which airline I’m with.” He said, “We need to leave as soon as possible.” He grimaced as he pulled the needle through his skin.

“Ok. Ok.” He nodded, stepping out of the room again and knocking heavily on the three crew members doors. After a stuttered but relatively quick explanation they all quickly collected their things. Douglas pushed Martin aside and entered the bathroom to find Sherlock nearly through with the stitches.

“You’ll be needing some pain killer.” Douglas observed. “You’re lucky it hasn’t gone deep.”

“You know something of medicine?” Sherlock asked, wincing as he pulled the final stitch through. He began to tie it off, but the pain was actually making him lose his dexterity. “I’ll wait until we’re in the air.” he said, “And drink myself silly.” He paused, taking a few shaky breaths, “Can’t take painkillers.” He said, “You know how it is. What are you, five years sober?”

Douglas smiled at Sherlock, kneeling on the ground and swatting his hand away to properly tie the string in place. “Just general knowledge.” He quipped, pulling a peroxide wipe to get rid of the blood around the mans cut, before pulling out one of the fresh white shirts from Sherlock’s suitcase and dressing it on him.

He smirked at the mention of alcohol. ”That was going to be my second recommendation.” He stood and gathered Sherlock’s coat and scarf, suddenly feeling like Alfred, Bruce Wayne’s butler. “7, actually, and still kicking it.” He offered a hand to get Sherlock too his feet.

“Six.” Sherlock said, “Though I’ve never had a problem with alcohol.” He leaned heavily against Douglas, “Sorry,” He said, “Might need a hand to get to Gerti.” He was having trouble breathing, the adrenaline wearing off and the pain in his side flaring up. He grimaced and groaned, and would have doubled over in pain if he hadn’t already had his arm around Douglass.

“Forgot how much getting stabbed can hurt.” he half moaned.

“I can always carry you, ya know? You may be far taller than Martin but you’re just as thin.” Douglas offered as they began to step from the room and to the lift.

Martin picked up Sherlock’s suitcase and followed close behind, worried for his.. brother.

“One does not always get a chance to stop and eat with my lifestyle.” Sherlock pointed out, still leaning heavily on Douglas. “And I don’t need carrying ” He muttered darkly. “I’ve been stabbed, not had a limb cut off.” He turned to Martin, “Martin, go start the pre-flight checks.” He ordered, “I want to get off the ground as soon as possible. Arthur,” He said to the dim wit. “Make sure we haven’t left /anything/ behind. Carolyn,” He said as she joined them, “Talk to air-traffic control. Use the name ‘Sigmond’ and they’ll grant you immediate clearance to take off, and wave the fees.”

Martin swallowed with a nod, doing as instructed, Carolyn smiled at her order and also carried it out immediately. They were soon in a cab and headed back for the airfield, Douglas keeping an eye on Sherlock as they pulled in and Martin rushed too the plane to pull down the ramp.

It didn’t take long for them to be up in the air, and the minute that Sherlock knew they were away from China, he relaxed, leaning heavily against the seats, a bottle of something seemingly expensive in his hands.

Douglas’s idea. He looked at the bottle and chuckled. Talisker Whiskey. Expensive, definitely.

As Arthur mirandered past, he reached out and snagged his shirt, causing the boy to yelp and turn quickly. “Oh-Hello other-Arthur!” he said with a too bright smile.

“Arthur,” Sherlock said, “Tell Martin when he’s available he should come see me.”

“Right-oh!” Arthur, seemingly happy that Sherlock was talking to him, headed towards the flight deck to deliver the message. “Skip, other-Arthur wants to see you when you’re ready!” He said with a grin.

Martin had only just begun to relax as well. He’d never done anything like that in his life, he was only glad they made it in the air safely. Arthur popped in then and Martin only glanced toward Douglas to receive a nod from the older man before he rose to his feet and made way to Sherlock.

“Yes, Other-Ar— I mean, Arthur?” Martin asked as he approached.

Sherlock chuckled at Martin’s slip, “You can call me ‘brother’ if it’s easier.” He said, feeling quite happy due to the alcohol. He gestured to the seats on the other side of the isle and turned to face them, making it obvious that he wanted Martin to take a seat.

“You okay?” He asked eventually. “I just told you that you’re not who you think you are and that you have a family you never knew about and that you’re actually kind of rich and that -” He forgot where his sentence was going and he frowned down at the half drunk bottle in his hand. “I’m drunk.” He muttered and shook his head.

He then looked back at Martin. “I want to know my baby brother.” he mumbled.

Martin obeyed and took a seat across from him, his shy eyes looking up as he carried on like that. “Y-yes… I’m fine…” Was all he offered, pulling off his captain’s hat and fussing with it nervously. He was surprised by the invitation and looked back toward Sherlock then. It HAD to be the alcohol. “Y-you do…?” He stammered. D… don’t you know everything?”

“No.” Sherlock half glared at Martin, “My family wanted nothing to do with you. For all I knew you could be another Mycroft. Why would I want to bother knowing about you? But you’re not. You’re not like Mycroft. You’re not like /anyone/ in the family. You’re /nice/.” He sounded very surprised at that.

Martin looked back down at his hat self consciously. “W-well, yeah… most people are… generally.” He explained softly. He wasn’t special, he was anything but special. He’d rather be a brilliant arse like Sherlock… unique, impressive, SMART.

Sherlock watched Martin for a moment before frowning, “You’re not humble.” He said, “You honestly think you’re w’rhtless.” He was starting to slur and he put the bottle down and looked at his brother. “Idiot.”

Martin blinked at the harsh observation, looking back toward his brother. He didn’t now what to say, so just chewed on his inner lip.

Sherlock sighed and looked at Martin even harder before closing his eyes and shaking his head. “Right.” He muttered, “Stop that.” He shuffled against the seats, almost spilling his whiskey. “You’re a good guy. Not many of them around. Not legitimately good. Like you. So stop being all…” He gestured to Martin, to all of Martin.

Martin’s brows rose up at the gesture and he only mumbled under his breath. “I…. I-I’m just a… p-professional.” That was all. There was nothing else he could describe himself as.

Sherlock sighed and nodded, “Well you are now.” he muttered, “Getting paid and all.” He smiled at Martin, “We can arrange it so that you’ll always get paid for this.” he said, “Mycroft is rather.. influential.”

That’s when it dawned on him. “I… I AM… aren’t I?” He asked, sitting up straight in the seat. It looked as if he was having an epiphany. “I… I’m being paid to be a captain.” Martin smiled despite himself.

“Still your life’s dream then?” Sherlock asked, reaching for the alcohol. Unfortunately, this put a strain on his side and he yelped, his hand going to push over the burning pain. With a few muffled curses, he leaned back against the seat.

“Arthur!” He gasped, rushing to Sherlock’s side. He grabbed some spare pillows, holding his torso and setting them behind them. “Y… you need to go to a hospital.”

Sherlock simply glared at Martin, “Oh yeah. A dead guy walks into a hospital. Good one.” he shook his head. “It’s fine. Just hurts. Getting stabbed does that. Can’t take pain killers.” He grimaced, “Though I could go a shot of coke right about now.” He muttered, relaxing into the pillows.

“‘M fine.” He tried to assure Martin. “Go help Douglas. Should be in Portugal soon…”

Martin licked his upper lip and looked down. He felt useless, again, but he was used to the emotion. “Y-yes. Alright.” He quickly replied, turning away and going back to the flight deck. He was happier when he could be in control. Flying was the only thing he could ever be really control of and he was glad to settle back down in his respectful seat and set his cap back onto his head.

Arthur was sat in the flight deck with Douglas when Martin came back in. He grinned at the man, “We were just saying that you look a lot like other-Arthur!” he said brightly, “You could be his brother or something! He’s not your brother is he?”

Martin glanced in their direction when Arthur began to speak. His eyes paled at the younger man as he guessed how the two men looked so similar, and he could only turn to Douglas then. Should he say anything? He honestly didn’t know what was secret anymore.

“N.. no. Of course not, Arthur.” Martin replied, setting his hands back on the controls, looking ahead.

Douglas’ lips thinned at the humorously obvious lie, but he didn’t speak up about it. Martin noticed… God was he ever grateful.

“Oh! Well. Then he must be your evil twin!” Arthur said with a massive smile. “Isn’t that just brilliant! You get to fly around your evil twin!”

“Yes, good, thank you, Arthur.” Martin sighed, emphasizing sarcastically on the thank you. He furrowed his brow and bit his inner lip. He didn’t want to fess up to anything right now. He wanted another silent warm hotel room, where he could tuck away himself and his thoughts. It had been so perfect while it lasted.

Arthur continued blathering on, hardily noticing that he was annoying the others around- he was /always/ annoying the others around. But after a moments consideration, he frowned, “Shouldn’t other-Arthur have some medicine?” He asked, “To stop the pain and make sure it doesn’t get infected?”

Martin shifted in his seat with a sigh. “Yes, well, I’m hardly a medical man, Arthur. Chances are if I bothered I’d end up poisoning him.” Martin turned to look at Douglas slightly. “Could you? I… don’t think he’s doing well taking care of himself back there. He’s quite drunk.”

Douglas looked back to Martin and let out a lazy sigh. “Yes, yes, very well. He’s at least more interesting than the flight deck right now.” He replied, getting up and going to assist Sherlock.

Sherlock was lay back on the seats, drinking the expensive whiskey -and spilling most of it over the chairs.

He looked up when the door to the flight deck opened and sighed softly. “What now?” he asked, tone somewhat whiny.

“Oh hush. I’m only here to check on your wound.” Douglas huffed, bending down and tugging the whiskey from his hands, setting it aside. “You are making a mess, Arthur.”

Sherlock grunted but complied with Douglas, pulling his shirt up so that he could check on it. “I’m fine.” He muttered, swaying lightly. “Hurts like hell.” He muttered, grimacing a little. “Got any morphine on board?”

“I don’t think you need any of that mixing with the alcohol. Let’s see what you have in here.” Douglas said thoughtfully going through the kit again. “This ointment should relieve some pain.”

Sherlock grimaced but allowed Douglas to administer the ointment. He closed his eyes and tried to not to think about the fact that a man he barely knew was touching him.

After it was on, he opened his eyes and shook his head, “Still hurts.” He grumbled, reaching for-and missing-the whiskey.

“Probably because you need to give it a few minutes to take effect.” Douglas replied, wiping his hand off with his handkerchief. He sighed and grabbed the whiskey from him. “No, I think you’ve had quite enough for now. Don’t need you poisoning yourself on top of all this.”

Sherlock glared at Douglas. “You have-” He said, frowning as he slurred a little, “No idea what I’ve been through in the last few weeks. If I want-If I want to drink until I pass out…I think I’ve deserved that much.” To his mortification he hiccupped and grumbled. “Fine.” He muttered, closing his eyes. “If this doesn’t kick in before we land, we’re going to go get something a little stronger.”

Douglas snickered through all of this, setting the whiskey away. He turned after to face Sherlock again and nodded. “Sounds like a deal. Now try and rest, we’ve only an hour and a half more.”

“I want to see the flight deck.” Sherlock demanded suddenly, sitting up with a grimace and a grumble. His hand went to his stomach, as if putting pressure on the wound would help.

“Take me to the flight deck.”

Douglas came along his side and helped him stand, raising a brow with confusion. “Why in the world do you want to go there?”

Sherlock gave Douglas his ‘are you really that stupid?’ look. “To see the flight deck.” He said slowly. “To watch my brother work and to see what you have to do to keep this hunk of metal airborne.”

So it was true. They were brothers. Douglas grinned with a nod, “Yes, alright Arthur.” He replied and dragged him too the flight deck. “Other-Arthur’s here for a visit.”

Martin bit his lip at the news, not taking his eyes off the darkened sky.

Sherlock elbowed his way to Douglas’ seat and dropped into it, looking around at the buttons. He didn’t touch anything, rather, he simply looked around. After a moment, he looked at Martin, “Teach me.” He demanded.

Martin’s heart began to roar when Sherlock found the seat and wanted to scream to Douglas to get him out, but it was Sherlock Holmes! Martin remained uneasy, praying inwardly that he wouldn’t touch anything, then their eyes met and Martin’s face went pale at the request, well, order. “Tha-Now… This is hardly the time to do something like that, Sh-Arthur! We are in the air. P-perhaps tomorrow on ground when your sober…” He exclaimed, his voice growing in a higher pitch as the stress set in, his eyes turning back to the graphs.

Sherlock watched Martin for a moment, a frown on his face. After a few seconds, he looked around, “Leave.” He ordered Douglas and Arthur, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Arthur grinned and nodded, “Right-oh!” He then turned and left instantly.

Douglas stood for a moment, looking at both men with interest before he shrugged and closed the cabin door behind him.

“Wh-what?! Wait! Douglas!” Martin gasped out, feeling odd and abandoned. “What is it, Sherlock? What?”

Sherlock regarded Martin for a moment, “Are you uncomfortable with me, now that you know we’re related?” He asked bluntly.

Martin felt like he was swallowing a rock after he heard the query and he tried to remain focused with his hands on the controls. “Wh… what do you mean? What are you talking about?” Martin replied in defence, not really wanting to talk about it.

“As much as you try to pretend to be, you’re not an idiot, Martin. You heard me. Are you uncomfortable around me, now that you know we share a father?” He repeated his question, eyes never leaving Martin.

He began to feel a pain in the back of his eyes, and the water starting to fill them but he shut them tight and took focused breaths that came out shaky. He swallowed again, biting his lip as the first tear fell, fortunately on the cheek that wasn’t facing Sherlock but he was still certain he’d noticed. Martin exhaled painfully and sniffed, and he gave up on focusing on the empty sky and turned on auto-pilot before settling back in his seat.

“I…. I’ve been a disappointment my whole life. Especially too my fa-… too the man who raised me.” Martin sniffed again, wiping his nose and cheek before continuing. “N-now… it all makes sense but… I just can’t see myself being related too you. I am an idiot, for all I’ve tried in life, I am still nothing like you, Sherlock.” It was a lie, to say he was an idiot, but one too many times being fed it had Martin believing it, and comparing his mind too the Holmes family… there was no contest for their intellects.

“You’re not an idiot.” Sherlock muttered, feeling a little too drunk for this conversation. Still, he’d started it. Martin was going to get to know the brutally honest side of Sherlock-the one seen only when he was drunk.

“Okay. You are a bit of an idiot.” He amended, “But you’re emotional. You actually understand your emotions and allow them. Growing up, Mycroft and myself were taught that emotions and sentiment are unwanted, and that we should strive to make sure never to really care about anyone or anything.” He looked at Martin, “It allowed for greater heights of intellect, but our brother and I are what some would deem ‘emotionally retarded’. We do not form connections with people. Not easily. We do not love. And until I met John, I thought that it was ‘cannot’ rather than ‘will not’.”

He shook his head, “You’re different. But I envy you.” He said quietly, “You are able to be yourself, you are adored by people because of that.” He leaned back heavily in the seat. “You can’t see yourself being related to me?” He asked, “Look in a mirror. Have someone take a picture of us side by side. You’re younger than me, and you have red hair, but there is definitely some family resemblance. You resemble me more than I do Mycroft-who is fully related to me.”

Sherlock had no idea where he was going with this conversation-only that he didn’t want Martin to be crying anymore.

“Be glad you’re not like me.” He said finally, “Be glad that you can at least be normal.”

Martin listened to Sherlock, watching him and wiping a tear when it would fall again. Certainly there was a point in Sherlock’s drunk argument, and Martin tried to take it in. There were some poor points though too, such as Martin being beloved by others… By who was Sherlock was referring? Certainly Martin’s mum loved him, but who else? And normal? Normal? Martin Crieff normal? Hardly. More like the most bumbling awkward man to walk the planet. He shook his head to himself before taking another steady breath.

“Y-yes… ok, Sherlock.” He replied, rubbing his sleeve all over his face. “We do look alike. I’m convinced we are related, and, I’m glad. It’s just all the other bits… those are what I can’t see. But it’s ok, like you said.”

Sherlock frowned, his brain not quite running at full efficiency. He stood, wobbling a little and gestured for Martin to stay where he was. He then headed out of the room and returned a few minutes later with Arthur in tow.

“Arthur,” He said, “In one word. One word only, describe Captain Crieff.”

Arthur didn’t even think, “Brilliant!”

Sherlock grimaced at the exuberance, his hand reaching for his head were a headache was beginning. “Alright. You care for Martin, don’t you? More than a boss. Perhaps as a friend?”

“Oh definitely.” Arthur said with a nod, “So does Douglas. And mum. We all love Skip. Is something the matter?”

“No. Just proving a point. You may go now. Make me some coffee…” He ordered with a wave.

Martin felt more hot tears well up and spill from his eyelids as Arthur was dragged in and asked the questions, answering in only the way Arthur knew how. Honest. As the manchild was welcomed to leave and the door was shut again Martin let out an achy laugh and desperately tried to pick up the dampness from his cheeks. He was a fool.

“Has my point been made?” Sherlock asked, sitting down again on the co-pilot’s seat. His side complained and he sucked in a breath, grimacing. Still, he turned to look at Martin.

Martin nodded gently. “Yeah…” He sniffed with a boyish smile, wiping at his cheeks till the tears had gone.

Sherlock nodded. “Right then.” he said. “Are you feeling better?” He asked, looking away from Martin to stare out at the black sky.

“M… mhm…” He muttered, embarrassed, looking at his knees sheepishly.

“Good.” Sherlock muttered, clearing his throat. He shuffled a little, “I’m not good with…emotional stuff.” he admitted. “Just…don’t cry. You’re my little brother. You’re not allowed to cry.”

Martin looked to him, his matching blue eyes glistening toward Sherlock. “You… you want me? I mean… do you want me to be your b-brother, Sherlock? Really?”

“Want has nothing to do with it.” Sherlock said, “You /are/ my brother. One way or the other.” He looked at Martin, “But yes.” He said, “You’re my little brother. I’ve known about you for years, ever since mummy died. But I was worried you’d be another Mycroft…” He shook his head, “But you’re not. You’re nice.”

Martin smiled more at the thought and was soon standing, well, bending a bit awkwardly, in the flight deck. He took a small step forward and pulled Sherlock into his arms. He hoped it was alright, it was nice for him at least.

This was strange. Sherlock wasn’t normally one to hug, but he let his brother hold him, and even eventually brought his arms up to awkwardly encircle martin. “Uh.” He eventually pulled back and looked away. He hoped that the flush on his cheeks could be attributed to the alcohol. “Right.” He said. “Shouldn’t you be… flying…or something..?” He asked, gesturing to the controls.

Martin look down at him and nodded with a half smile, finding his seat again. “Thanks, brother…” He muttered before turning off auto pilot and taking control again.

Sherlock said nothing, still feeling a little unnerved by the hug. Nobody hugged him. Not really. Only Mrs. Hudson did…

But then… Martin was his brother. His baby brother. Maybe he felt the need to hug his older sibling?

Clearing his throat a little, he shuffled and looked at Martin. He needed the answer. “Why did you hug me?” he asked.

Martin wasn’t expecting that question, usually people just took one and paid no attention after. He thought for a moment, trying think of a significant reason. “I… just wanted to… I’ve wanted to since you told me about who I really was. Well… I actually wanted you to hold me, actually.” He chewed his lip, feeling awkward. “It would have softened the blow… and, well, we are brothers.” He hoped that made sense.

Martin had wanted Sherlock to hold him? That was…odd. Sherlock was very much /not/ used to this. “Oh.” he said, “Sorry.” He added, “As I’ve previously stated, I’m not…good.. with emotions… And… As for the brothers thing…if Mycroft ever tried hugging me, I’d probably stab him.”

Martin laughed despite himself. “Yes, don’t worry. I… I expected much.” He nodded. “No need to apologize. Your words put me at ease.”

Sherlock nodded, still a little uncomfortable. He looked at Martin, then away, then back at Martin. “Did you still want-” He opened his arms a little, indicating a hug.

It was awkward, indeed. Perhaps Martin shouldn’t have hugged him in the first place. He looked at the open arms and could already picture them feeling stiff and robotic, as if Sherlock had gestured from a static picture rather than actual tender care. Still, Martin could only smile and he turned the auto pilot back on and nodded. “S-sure, brother.” He mumbled, he was the kind brother after all, and maybe he could teach Sherlock how to do certain things, like hug.

Sherlock stood, his stomach’s protests ignored as he turned to Martin and awkwardly enveloped him into a stiff hug. He wasn’t exactly sure what this was supposed to accomplish, but it seemed that it was what Martin wanted at that time. So…he gave it to him.

Martin smiled again, the hug being what he’d expected, and so he raised his arms in return to pull his brother in. He let out a sigh, and kept him close, tucking his cheek against Sherlock’s shoulder, stroking his back gently, trying to put what he could into it to hopefully teach his brother to not be so rigid.

Sherlock was feeling more and more uncomfortable the longer the hug went on. He felt Martin tighten his grip and couldn’t help but grimace at the pain in his stomach. “M-martin.” He gasped out, “Stomach.”

“O-oh! I’m sorry.” Martin exclaimed, releasing him and chewing his lip. That probably damaged the man more than helped. Figures.

Sherlock had gone pale, his breathing light and his eyes closed against the pain. He reached blindly behind him for the seat and all but collapsed into it, his hands on his stomach. “It’s fine. I’m alright.” he tried to reassure his brother.

Martin stood, completely concerned. “W-w-we should get you back too your seat, Sherlock.” He stammered, going to open the door to call for Douglas.

Sherlock kept his eyes closed, trying to breathe through the pain. He took deep breaths, and allowed Douglas to help him to his seat. He sat down heavily in it and opened his eyes to look at the man. “Thank you.” he said quietly.

“You really need to rest, Arthur.” Douglas said, setting him back more, the pillows below him. “What the hell did he do to you?”

“Gave me a hug.” Sherlock said quietly, leaning back carefully and grimacing still. To top it all off, he was starting to feel a little unwell. His stomach protesting to both the stab wound, and the expensive whiskey he’d been guzzling.

Douglas tried not to laugh, coming to his side again. “What do you need? Other than morphine, whiskey, or a hug.”

Sherlock glared at Douglas. “Food. Something to eat.” Maybe that would settle his stomach? “Preferably bread-related.” He closed his eyes, ignoring Douglas for the moment.

“That I can provide.” Douglas drawled, heading to the galley, and returning with a few packages of rolls they used for lunch trays usually. He unwrapped one and offered it too Sherlock, setting the rest close beside him with a brown paper bag. “In case the bread feels like revisiting.”

Sherlock grimaced and nodded, “Thank you.” He said, taking the bread and slowly nibbling on it. He didn’t really have anything else to say to Douglas, but at the same time, he didn’t exactly feel like being alone. The only other options were Carolyn-who reminded him far too much of his mother, Arthur, who was a bumbling fool, or Martin, who seemed very content in worrying over Sherlock.

No. Douglas would be the best company right now.

“What did you smuggle?” he asked as he ate slowly.

Douglas grinned and sat back beside him on the corner of the seats where Sherlock’s feet were. He was more than happy to share, especially with Sherlock Holmes. “Oh, whatever I could get my hands on, really. I befriended all of the flight crews around the globe worth befriending, and it became one big happy operation. Some were just local items that needed to be transported under radar, and yes, there was the occasional drug too.”

Sherlock nodded, smiling, “You probably imported a lot of the drugs I had.” he muttered, “What was it that you got caught with?’

Douglas took a breath before replying. “Believe it or not, it was actually the pickles that got me caught. Yes. At last three dozen jars of Indian pickles. They were my single largest export.” He chuckled, watching for Sherlock’s reaction.

“Pickles…” Sherlock asked, his mouth twitching as he felt amusement. He managed to last a moment before laughing. He shook his head and sighed, “And yet I’m trusting you to smuggle /me/.” He said with a tired, pained laugh.

“Been smuggling lately?” He asked, “Anything that might help with the pain?”

“I’m afraid those days are mostly over, Sherlock. Unless it’s Mr Birling’s talisker.” He grinned with a chuckle. “Unless the price is right, and with you it certainly is. Next time we land, just say the word and I’ll get you what you need.”

Sherlock nodded, “We land in Portugal soon.” He said softly, “Can you…get me some there?” He asked quietly.

Douglas grinned with a nod. “Yes. I know a medical man there. What would you like, exactly?”

“Seven per cent cocaine/saline solution.” Sherlock muttered, “Just get me the coke and saline. I can procure the correct equipment and mix it myself.” Douglas was going to help him. He smiled at the other man-a genuine, thankful smile. “But Douglas… Don’t get me more than two grams.” He said, “I need pain relief. Nothing more.” Two grams was enough for a few hits, but not enough for him to use regularly. “And after this you must refuse me.”

Douglas nodded as the pale man spoke and he took note of every instruction. “It will be done.” A small grin grew across his lips at the last part and he nodded again before teasing carefully. “It will be hard to refuse you… other-Arthur.”

For some reason, Sherlock felt himself flushing at Douglas’s use of Arthur’s nickname, especially in that slightly teasing tone. Sherlock wasn’t used to social interaction, so his brain almost short circuited at a simple realization.

“Douglas… are you /flirting/ with me?” He asked, eyes widening slightly and mouth going dry.

Douglas chuckled almost statically before he replied. “Hardly, and it all depends depends. Would you like it if I flirted with you, Arthur?”

Sherlock was hoping that the deep flush on his face could be attributed to the alcohol. He swallowed thickly, mind slowing to a crawl as he tried to answer. “I-ye-uhm w-” He cleared his throat eyes impossibly wide. “I don’t-I just- yes?” The last part was little more than a squeaked question.

This wasn’t like him. He knew. But he was in pain, he was drunk and… and he /liked/ Douglas. He’d never had someone he actually /like/ flirt with him before. He wasn’t quite sure how to deal with it.

Douglas grinned wider, enjoying every second that passed and each stutter that fell from Sherlock’s lips. He drew in a breath to reply but then the speakers chimed and Martin could be heard at the other end. “D-Douglas, we’re landing. I need you here now.”

Douglas glared at the ceiling and pouted dramatically as he faced Sherlock again. “To be continued, Arthur.” He grinned, standing up and leaving for the flight deck.

Sherlock was still flushed and breathing quickly. He licked his lips as he watched Douglas leave. Slowly, he sat up and put his seat belt on, even before Arthur came to remind him.

“Are you alright, other-Arthur?” He asked, concern clear on his face and in his voice.

“Y-yes. Fine. I’m fine. Fine.” Sherlock swallowed and nodded, “Go-do whatever you’re supposed to do pre-landing…”

“Oh! I’m supposed to ask you to put on your seat belt and let you know that we’re going to be landing soon!”

“Right. You’ve done that. No go away.” There was very little malice in his voice, he was still reeling over Douglas’s flirting. Did he mean anything by it or was it simply a way to pass the time? Sherlock had no idea.

It wasn’t long before they’d landed in Portugal, it was daylight there now since they’d been flying the opposite direction of the sun. Douglas returned almost immediately after the landing, winking happily toward Sherlock before handling him delicately to get him into a car Mycroft had sent to wait for them. Martin came out of the flight deck a few moments after, watching his brother coyly, still feeling bad about hurting him from the embrace.

Sherlock flushed deeply, not looking at Douglas as he helped him into the car. While he was leaning over him to help with the seat belt, he spoke quietly, “There’s enough loaded onto this.” He slipped a card into Douglas’ pocket, “Pin code 6943. Credit account.” He leaned back, still not making eye contact and still more than a little flushed.

Douglas said nothing and gestured nothing, keeping the exchange completely private between them. He set his hands in his pockets, ensuring the card was deep enough, before helping the crew with post flight safety steps. Soon, they’d all piled into the dark limousine and Douglas shut the door behind, sitting beside Sherlock.

Sherlock licked his lips and looked away, flushing darkly. Every so often, he glanced at Douglas before quickly looking away again.

The ride to the hotel took less than twenty minutes, but it felt like a hell of a lot longer for Sherlock. Once they arrived, he struggled out of the car and stood, swaying on the spot lightly. The pain and alcohol were beginning to get to him.

Almost falling, he caught himself on Douglas, gripping him tightly, “Hurry,” He whispered under his breath, knowing the man would hear him, even through his hyperventilating.

Douglas caught and held on to Sherlock carefully. “Yes. Soon. You need to get to the room first.” Douglas replied, looking up. “Martin, can you get Arthur to the room?”

“What? Me?” Martin sputtered, concerned. “Why can’t yo-“

“I have an errand I have to run, concerning our next departure. Here.” He huffed, handing over Sherlock to Martin who tried to hold him up with his pathetic strength.

“B-but, Douglas!”

“Ciao.” He grinned getting back into the limo and heading off.

Sherlock clutched to his brother, somehow managing to keep mostly on his feet. Their movements were slow going, but eventually, they ended up in Sherlock’s room, Sherlock lay on the bed breathing deeply.

“God.” He moaned, “Too much moving.” He swallowed and bit his lip, “Martin can you get me some water?”

“Y-yes, of course.” Martin stammered, rushing to the bathroom and finding a plastic cup, filling it with the water in the sink and returning to his side quickly. “H-here you are.” He offered gingerly, his smile still coy, keeping a fair distance to not cause any more damage.

“Don’t be an idiot.” Sherlock muttered, “Stop blaming yourself. You weren’t the one who stabbed me, so just…relax.” He muttered, feeling the beginning of his hangover.

Martin nodded carefully, sitting near his brother on the bed. “Shall I check your wound?” He asked, not really sure what he’d do if it wasn’t doing well.

“If you’d like.” Sherlock said quietly, “But when Douglas gets here, I’ll need a moment or two alone with him.” He didn’t want to expose Martin to his habits.

“Oh, yes. Of course.” Martin nodded, reaching his hand to Sherlock’s shirt to lift and inspect his stomach. “There are some dark bruises…”

“Yes.” He muttered, “Cracked rib from the force. Thought you were looking at my stab wound.” He opened his eyes and looked at Martin, smiling softly, “Are you alright, Martin?” He asked.

“A-am I alright?” Martin repeated with a puzzled frown. “What do you mean…?”

“Emotionally.” Sherlock elaborated, “You just found out you have an older brother, and then he gets stabbed.” He shook his head, “You’re an emotional being, Martin. How are you handling this?”

Martin chewed on his lip, looking at the wall and holding to the corner of the bed. “I… I don’t know. I’ve been curling up every now and again and just screaming really loud to get m-my head cleared? Th… that’s worked out well so far, I guess. This is all just mad.”

Sherlock nodded. “I don’t normally do sentiment. But…” He licked his lips and looked at Martin, a little nervous, “If you need to talk…or…something…?”

“I’m fine…” Martin replied with confidence. “I mean, we talked in the flight deck and.. that was all I needed.”

Sherlock nodded, still looking a little nervous, “You didn’t… want another hug…did you?” He asked, obviously trying not to look as uncomfortable as he felt.

“No..” He muttered, staring at his knees. “No more hugs…”

Sherlock nodded, “Good. That’s…uh..good.” He closed his eyes and sighed, “How does it look?” He asked, gesturing to the wound in his stomach. “Stitches holding?”

Martin gulped, glancing too the wound, “I… I haven’t the slightest, I’m afraid, Sherlock. I wish I could help, but…”

Sherlock pulled his shirt off with a grimace, “Are the stitches still each in one piece, or have any of them split open?” He asked, “Should be easy enough to spot. Especially if it’s bleeding.”

Martin licked over his upper lip as he inspected them carefully. “I.. I think the last two are being pulled apart. I-I think they are!”

“It’s alright.” Sherlock said in what he hoped was a soothing tone, “Just keep calm. Go get me some clean towels and hot water. Not too hot.” He added.

Martin listened to Sherlock’s advice and took a deep breath before rising back up and going to the restroom. He found a towel and tested the water before dipping it under. He did the same with three others before returning with them in hand. “L-lay them on it, right?”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes closed and his head leaning heavily against a pillow as he tried not to think of the pain. He hissed at the first contact of wet towel and gently pressed down on it. “Can you find out where Douglas is? Find out how long he’ll take to procure the….items..”

Martin nodded carefully. “Yes, yes, I.. I’ll do what I can, Sh-Arthur.” He replied, rushing to leave the room, tugging out his mobile as he did, before running head first into the very man they needed. “D-Douglas!”

“Yes, here I am, Martin. Dear God you are pale… well, more than usual. What’s going on?”

“Sh-Arthur i-is, um… his stitches a-are-” Martin lost his ability to speak then, and he gestured too his own stomach with his hands and squinted his face in a pained way.

Douglas rolled his eyes and patted Martin’s shoulder. “Yes, good. You. Go too your room and get some proper rest. I’ll handle it all from here.”

“G-good idea!” Martin replied, heading straight for his room, very glad he’d finally gotten permission to do so.

The door closed and Douglas stepped inside the room, approaching Sherlock on the bed. He tugged out a very small ziplock bag that had the powder inside. “A getting to know you present.” He teased, handing it too him before kneeling down to inspect the wound and manage it.

Sherlock picked up the bag with one hand, inspecting the powder through the clear plastic. He felt Douglas’ warm hands on his stomach and tensed slightly before consciously relaxing. “You bought far too much.” He mumbled, having difficulty concentrating on anything /other/ than the pain in his stomach and the hand on his skin. “Will have to dispose of some.” He gave Dougla another minute on his stomach before sighing. “What are you /doing/? If you’re quite finished feeling me up, I have to do something about this pain. Did you get any saline?”

“Just doing a proper job of cleaning, and of course I did.” Douglas replied without hesitation, withdrawing the vile from his other pocket. “Better too much than too little.” He mused with a grin before standing and pulling off his coat, rolling up the sleeves on his shirt, and stepping too the restroom to find the first aid kit. “I’ll have to re-stitch that bit.”

Sherlock groaned, “Bring out the cup.” There was always a cup next to the sink. “Fill it with water.” He added, raising his voice so that Douglas would have no problem hearing him. “HOT water!”

With shaking, bloody hands, he reached for the drug and the saline. He grimaced as he realized that he didn’t have a needle. “And the /entire/ med kit!”

“Yes, Darling!” Douglas replied, feeling the need to inject some humour in any tense situation. He took care of what Sherlock had instructed and soon returned with the cup of hot water and the aid kit. He set both on the table. “Well, aren’t you looking particularly sexy.” He drawled dramatically, brow arching at the state of his bloodied skin. “But unfortunately I’m not a vampire.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the dark flush or the small sound he made at the compliment. He licked his lips and began to busily prepare his injection. He didn’t have any scales, so he made sure to underestimate and pushed the rest of the powder away.

After the syringe was ready, he looked at Douglas. “Stay with me?” He requested. “It’s been a long time, and I’d rather not die from unforeseen side-effects. Also, it would not do for my brother to see me like this.”

Douglas watched Sherlock carefully and set a hand on his shoulder. “Not to worry. I took all of it into account. Do what you have to do to take care of yourself, and I’ll manage the rest.”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes looking at the hand on his shoulder for a moment. Why was it he didn’t mind Douglas touching him? Why was it that whenever Douglas spoke, he blushed? He’d never done that before. It was almost as if-

Sherlock’s eyes widened before he closed them. Well. That would explain that. “Just one more thing.” Sherlock said, opening his eyes again and looking at Douglas, “I tend to get… horny.” He said, “My libido increases exponentially and…well…you’re very attractive.”

He flushed even darker at that. God, how embarrassing “Just… Don’t let me force you into anything you don’t want. You can hurt me if you need to. Or tie me up-” Oh god. The images that that brought- “Or whatever you need to do. Hell, you can knock me out if needs must.”

The older man couldn’t stifle a devious chuckle in reaction. “Why don’t we see where the night takes us? I am a genius when it comes to improvisation. If I have your permission I’ll gladly take responsibility for any messes we make.”

Sherlock was sure his skin couldn’t get any more heated, that his face couldn’t get any more red. But he shook his head. “I-” As much as he wanted to, he didn’t want to like /that/. “No.” He said, “I-Uh-No. I’d rather-when I’m not-” He lifted the syringe, hoping that Douglas could hear his unarticulated words.

He was /never/ at a loss for words. This was more than mortifying.

Douglas’ grin grew with every stammer and he soon held Sherlock’s chin and knelt in to capture his lips against his own. He remained there for a moment before slowly pulling back and looking at him steadily. “You definitely are related to Martin..”

Sherlock had let out a soft squeak as he was kissed, his eyes closing as he sighed into it, about to respond when Douglas pulled back. He opened his eyes and all but glared at the man, the look softened with the pout on his lips. “Should I be offended that you think of my brother when you kiss me?” He asked, reaching up with his free hand, “Or should I be pissed off that the kiss was too short?” His hand clenched Douglas’ shirt and pulled him back down, kissing Douglas clumsily.

With a soft groan Douglas pressed earnestly back against Sherlock’s perfect lips. His hand rose to feel his skin, soft, pale and pure. With a tilt of his head, Douglas drew in more of Sherlock, certainly wishing he could do more, but aware that the would provided some irritating boundaries between them at the moment.

When Sherlock found himself growing hard, he pulled back with a soft groan. “Better.” He mumbled, panting and a little red. “Did you think of Martin that time?” He asked, gently pushing Douglas away so he could pick up the syringe from where he’d dropped it on the bed.

Douglas licked Sherlock’s flavour from his lips and he shook his head. “No, of course not.” He replied in a breathy way. “I meant your nervous speech was Martin like, cute, but, not Sherlock Holmes.” The older man explained calmly, sitting on the bed in front of Sherlock. “I expect more from Sherlock Holmes… only Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock looked down at the needle in his hand. He knew that Douglas didn’t mean that, that he didn’t mean he expected more than him to be an ex-junkie with a needle in his hand, but suddenly, he felt rather ashamed.

“I’m a little out of my depth.” He admitted. “I’ve never… You’re someone that I actually like. Most people tend to want to get as far away from me as they can, as quickly as they can. But you…” He looked at Douglas then, “I’m unused to being flirted with. I find it hard to….think.” He could feel his cheeks burn again, “If it makes you feel better, you’re the only person to get this reaction from me.” He muttered, lowering his head to hide his flushed face. His eyes trained on the needle again.

All ready ready. So close. He just had to… But…” He sighed softly and moved, putting it down on the bedside table. “Get me some over the counter pain meds then.” He muttered, his tone defeated.

Why did it sting so much that Douglas was disappointed? That he expected more-more that Sherlock couldn’t give. Why did it matter? Why did it matter to /Sherlock/ what this man-a man he’d known only a hand full of days-think? He didn’t understand his own emotions. And he certainly didn’t understand why his lips were still tingling.

Douglas’ brows rose as he watched Sherlock discard the syringe. He hadn’t expected that, and he looked right back too his… friend? With a warmth in his eyes. He’d always respected him, but this… it really was a sight to say the least. He found himself coming close again, setting a hand on Sherlock’s thigh, and looking him over with a note of concern. “Are you sure?”

Sherlock shrugged, not looking at Douglas as he folded his arms and lay on his side, grimacing at the pain in his stomach. “Was probably a stupid idea anyway.” He muttered, “Took me three attempts and five years to get clean.” He shook his head, “Just…get rid of it.” He mumbled, burring his head in his pillow.

Douglas frowned thoughtfully but listened to Sherlock. He brought a fresh cup of water along with the pain killers before grasping the syringe and taking the proper steps to dispose of the substance and tool.

Sherlock watched him go, his eyes trained on his back before he reached for the home grade pain killers. He took them with a grimace and drained the water before laying back down, his mood significantly darker than when Douglas first walked in.

Ten minutes later Douglas had returned empty handed, approaching Sherlock across the bed, his hands in his pockets. He looked over the younger man, deducing that he’d taken the pills and was simply in a foul mood. “Still want me around?” Douglas asked just in case he’d over stayed his welcome. Perhaps he’d been mistaken.

“Why did you kiss me?” Sherlock asked, the question having been churning in his head for the last ten minutes. He rolled onto his back with another grimace before looking at Douglas, eyes demanding an answer.

Douglas stood there quietly for a moment before tugging his hands from his pockets and crawling over the bed to lie beside Sherlock. He sighed as he relaxed his head on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. “Well, there’s the obvious “I like you” bit, but…” He paused before looking too him. “I can’t explain it. I just feel… drawn too you. I can’t help myself, and, well… we meld really well together.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but snigger at that. When Douglas had lay down, he’d turned so he was half lay on him. “Right. Meld together.” He muttered before letting out a chuckle. He turned his head to look at Douglas. “You’re being sentimental.” He said, suddenly turning serious again, “Do you intend to keep doing it?”

Douglas smiled, turning on his side and kissing Sherlock again, running his hand across his arm supportively. “As long as I have your permission to, I intend on never stopping what I’ve started.”

Sherlock leaned into the kiss, his stomach doing something strange-almost…fluttering. His eyes closed and he gasped. When Douglas moved away to speak, he opened his eyes again and looked at the man. “I’ve never-” He started the swallowed, “I mean.. I’ve… Well… somewhat had sex but I’ve never…” he swallowed then spoke quickly, “I was…abused. Both by my father and my first lover. I-I only ever-Emotional attachment I don’t-” He wasn’t sure how to say what he was feeling-how he wanted to allow Douglas close but…couldn’t. Not yet.

But at the same time, he didn’t want to let him go.

He couldn’t figure out how to articulate that, how to tell Douglas that he wanted to try, that he honestly wanted to give…whatever this was a shot. But… He couldn’t.

So instead he said possibly the worst thing he could. “I can’t have any distractions.” He said at last. “I need to-I need to finish my work.” He knew that his face was red again, but he couldn’t care about that right then. He turned away from Douglas, but didn’t disentangle himself.

If Douglas Richardson was a regular man, hearing about Sherlock’s past horrors and that he demanded space, he would have swiftly withdrawn and left the bed and the room in two seconds flat. But, as fate had it, Douglas Richardson was anything but ordinary, and he had also had extensive experience with the Crieff way of speaking. Sherlock need not say anything else, Douglas saw it all as an excuse, a defence, and he soon bowed his head down to kiss and suck hot at Sherlock’s open throat.

Sherlock gasped loudly, his body pressing into Douglas’ touch. His eyes closed and he let out a sharp moan as Douglas found a sensitive spot on his neck. “W-Douglas.” He moaned again, swallowing and breathing harshly, “What..?” His heart was beating at least three times it’s normal rate and there was no way that he was supposed to breathe that fast. And god-his groin was swelling. At such little input. How embarrassing.

Douglas nipped at the sinfully white skin. He wanted to claim it, all of Sherlock, so badly. Mark him red with soft bites, scratches, and suckled kisses. He’d at least leave that mark on his throat tonight. Douglas held Sherlock tenderly, sliding his leg between the man’s thighs and pressing up to his crotch. “You’re beautiful.. fuck, I can’t get enough of you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock moaned, and what little of his face wasn’t already flushed turned a deep crimson. He wasn’t used to hearing things like that and them being genuine. The feeling of Douglas between his legs sent a thrill through him. He closed his eyes and instantly opened them again, memories unbidden flashing behind closed eyes.

He made sure to look at Douglas, not taking his eyes off him as he reached out. “D-Douglas. I’m-I can’t. Not-not right now.” He said, disappointment in his voice. “I-” He winced as he moved too quickly, “Don’t particularly want to rip my stitches.” His fingers were gently stroking the man’s face, learning it. “Again.” He added, deadpan. He swallowed thickly, aware that his groin was insistently throbbing against Douglas’s leg and he flushed even darker.

Douglas panted gently as Sherlock handled him and he did feel a bit guilty. He didn’t want to rush Sherlock, but, damn, he could only imagine what they would have done by now had Sherlock not been injured. Douglas, nuzzled against Sherlock, loving the heat and weight of him resting on his upper thigh. “Sherlock..” he muttered out. “Let me suck you off. Please.”

Sherlock sucked in a breath, but it wasn’t arousal-in fact, that let him completely. He closed his eyes and tried to will away the images, his body shaking. “N-not a good idea.” He managed to get out, gently pushing Douglas’ head away. “I-It’s.” He opened his eyes and forced himself to calm down. “No. Please. He-” He shook his head and struggled to sit up. He pulled his knees (or rather tried to, he grimaced and aborted the movement as it pulled on his stitches). “Sorry.” He said, still taking deep breaths and closing his eyes. After a moment, he relaxed and opened his eyes, looking at the man.

“Y-you can now. If-if you still want to.” He spread his legs, even knowing that he was flaccid in his trousers. “I just need more warning…I think.”

Douglas licked his lip, running a hand along Sherlock’s face with care before kissing him once more. “I’m sorry…” Was all he offered in reply, his hand feeling through his brunette locks, memorizing the soft curls. “I’ve never wanted anyone like this…”

Sherlock relaxed with the touch. He sighed softly in contentment, nuzzling into Douglas’ hand. “Nobody’s ever wanted me like that.” He muttered, “Not without simply trying to take it.” He lifted his head to look at Douglas. “You…stopped…” He said, “Thank you.”

Douglas smiled with a nod, kissing his temple and sighing. “Of course… I’d never force you.. never.” He assured, laying beside him comfortably. “We should rest, you especially.”

Sherlock turned his head, and his body a little as he faced Douglas. “The kissing thing…” He muttered, “Can we keep doing that?” He asked quietly, shuffling a little closer to Douglas. He felt the exhaustion creeping in, and he wanted to feel like that again.

Why did he want this man so much? He’d only known him a hand full of days, but he already felt more than comfortable with him.

“Mm…” Douglas mumbled with a sigh, coming close again. “Certainly.” He pressed his lips back to Sherlock’s, being gentle with him.

Sherlock hummed softly, pressing himself closer. He turned his head slightly and opened his lips, inviting Douglas in.

The kiss became wet and hot as their tongues joined together, but Douglas kept the pace steady. His hand felt up Sherlock’s side, minding his wound, dipping back across the small of his back.

Sherlock moaned softly, pulling away only long enough to suck in some air. He moved back to the kiss and pushed himself closer, freezing and grimacing as his stomach protested. “Guh.” He lowered his head, resting it on Douglas’ chest as he sucked in deep breaths, trying to hold back the pain. “I-” He swallowed. “God that hurts.”

“Easy, Sherlock.” Douglas cooed, drawing him close and kissing his head, his hands rubbing over his back. “Breathe…”

Sherlock nodded taking deep breaths and closing his eyes as he let it out slowly. He was trembling, but knowing that Douglas was there was helping also. “Fuck.” He muttered, “Don’t get stabbed. Fucking hurts.”

“I will keep your wise advice in mind, Sherlock.” He chuckled, kissing his forehead then. “Let it take its course… I’m here.”

Sherlock nodded, keeping his eyes closed and holding on to Douglas. The pain was beginning to recede and he relaxed slowly. He sighed softly as the pain became bearable.

Nuzzling against his lover, Douglas ran a hand through his now damp hair. “I’m sorry… I should have protected you. Maybe I should come along next time?”

Sherlock snorted, “What, so you can get hurt too? You have no obligation to ‘protect’ me.” He opened his eyes and looked at Douglas, “You’ve known me a few days. Don’t act like we’ve been intimate for years.” he ordered.

Douglas arched a brow. “And why shouldn’t I?” He bit back with a grin. How he loved a challenge. “I may have known you for only a few days… but I don’t want to see you get hurt.” Douglas explained, stroking his jaw.

Sherlock was relaxing, her eyes closed and breathing slowing. The exhaustion was slowly taking him. “I can take care of myself.” He muttered, voice slow and thick.

Douglas noticed, settling his head back down and watching the fair man begin to doze. “Of course you can..” He chuckled.

”..can…” Sherlock muttered, frowning a little before his features relaxed. He moved slightly, nuzzling the side of Douglas’ neck. “…’s nice…” He was obviously trying to keep himself awake, and struggling.

Douglas pulled the covers over them, purring gently at the nose against his throat. “Good, I can add that to my resume. First officer, smuggler, and part time pillow.”

“F’ll t’me.” Sherlock slurred, “N’t giving this up.” He sighed softly, “I think…I’ll sleep.” He couldn’t fight the exhaustion any more.

Douglas grinned, relaxing with Sherlock and shutting his own eyes. It didn’t take him long to doze off. It was so warm being beside Sherlock.

Sherlock slept and unprecedented six hours. Normally, he’d only sleep that long after a case had been solved-and even then it was never as restful as it was that night. Blinking his eyes open, he frowned at the unfamiliar setting. And the unfamiliar feeling of someone else in his bed.

Carefully pushing himself up he looked around, grimacing as his stitches pulled. He looked down at the sleeping Douglas, his stomach doing something strange with the knowledge that the man was there, and seemingly cared for him.

Blinking, he lay there and studied Douglas for a moment.

The breath than left Douglas’ nose was a bit loud and his arm was wrapped around his pillow, so he didn’t feel Sherlock move. The sunlight that broke between the blinds hit across his face and starting interrupting his rest, his eyelids flinched before they opened, and saw Sherlock looking straight back. “Mm…” He sighed out, squeezing his eyes a bit to get them to focus. “Hey…”

Sherlock blinked down at Douglas for another moment before leaning forward and almost shyly bringing their lips together in a chaste kiss, his cheeks flushed darkly.

Douglas welcomed Sherlock’s quick lips and a warm smile spread across his face as he watched his lover go red. “That was nice..” He complimented, lifting a hand to stroke the mans lips and cheekbone.

Sherlock leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering closed again. “I’ve never slept beside someone before.” He admitted after a moment. He carefully lay himself back down. “It was… new.”

“Did you like it?” Douglas asked, smiling more as Sherlock joined him again. “I know I did…”

Sherlock paused for a moment. “Every experiment must be conducted at least three times.” He said, smirking slowly. “Would you be amiable to a few repetitions?”

“Only if I’m allowed to conduct my own experiments.” Douglas smirked, kissing Sherlock deeply.

Sherlock moaned softly, returning the kiss before pulling back. “And what would those experiments be?” he asked, feeling a little breathless.

“Hmm..” Douglas thought with a grin. “Perhaps… how you react to my lips kissing and nipping different parts of your body.” He replied, tracing his fingers all over Sherlock. “I did love your reaction last night, when I kissed your throat.” Douglas finished, feeling over the hicky on Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock shivered, the memories of the touch assaulting him. “Mm.” He agreed, nodding. “Yes. Yes. I think, yes, I’d like that. Yes.” He swallowed, “I just-” He flushed, “Might not-” He licked his lips. “React well to your mouth on my genitals.”

Douglas blinked gently to Sherlock before kissing him. “Then I wont…” He assured, nuzzling close. “What else don’t you like? You can tell me…”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock admitted, “But I will tell you if I don’t like something.” He touched every part of Douglas that he could, fingers gently stroking him. “I like this.” He said, “And the kissing. Especially my neck.”

“Fair enough.” He shrugged, kissing his forehead before breathing out at the sensation of Sherlock feeling him. “I liked it to… I like you touching me, Sherlock.”

“I want to touch your skin.” Sherlock admitted, almost breathlessly, flushing deeply with the admission. “I want to feel your skin against mine.”

Douglas’ eyes widened slightly at the confession and went to kiss him again before a hasty knock came from the door. He sighed out irritably and sat up. “I should check that. Stay right here.” He ordered calmly, a bit of a tease, but truly wanting to come back to this exact moment after he dealt with whoever was at the door.

He opened it and, oh, of course, it was Arthur… “Morning, Arthur.” He specifically excluded the /good/ from morning. “Are you jumping right into your “helpful mood” early today?”

“Oh Douglas! I wasn’t expecting you to be here!” Arthur said, a grin on his face, “Skip asked if I could make sure that Other-Arthur is okay. He’s really worried. And it’s breakfast, so we all have to go down and have breakfast. Mum said that it’s the most important meal of the day and it might help Other-Arthur get better. So mum says we need to be down at breakfast in five minutes. So is he?” The man was rocking back and forth on his heals.

Helpful mood indeed. “Other-Arthur is in no condition to be moving. He needs at least a day to lay still. I’m certain he can afford room service, so, go on and do what you like, Arthur.” Douglas replied. “How’s Martin?”

“Oh, he’s really worried. Like, really worried. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were brothers and Martin’s worried about his brother because he was stabbed. But they’re not brothers, so Martin’s just worried about the client, though he’s never been that worried about clients before. Maybe it’s because this one is paying us lots? Mum said I shouldn’t worry about why Martin’s worrying and just worry about Other-Arthur. Why are you in his room? You look like you’ve been here all night, your hair is all-” Arthur’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open.

“I didn’t know you like men!” He exclaimed, looking more than a little surprised.

Douglas arched a brow toward Arthur and shook his head in defeat. “So what if I do? I’ll have you know I’ve been taking care of Other-Arthur, as I am the only one on the crew who can. Now, go on and eat your ruddy breakfast. Code Red.” Douglas finished, knowing that code was specifically for Carolyn, but this seemed like an appropriate time to use it himself.

Arthur was still stood there, his eyes open wide and his mouth doing impressions of a fish. When Douglas said code red, he closed his mouth and nodded, turning on his heel and scurrying away.

Behind Douglas, Sherlock chuckled, “You realize, he’s now going to tell everyone that he saw you here. And you do look like we’ve done more than we have.”

Douglas rolled his eyes dramatically when turning to Sherlock and shutting the door before pulling him in his arms. “Do I look like a man who cares about any of that, Sherlock?” He asked with a worn sigh. “Let the idiot babble for all I care.”

Sherlock lifted his arms to place them on Douglas’s hips, tentatively moving to brush his fingers under his shirt. “Kiss me?” He asked.

“Gladly.” Douglas replied with a sharp grin, kissing Sherlock once more, loving the sensation of the fingers trailing his bare waist. He deepened carefully, pressing him to the wall.

Sherlock moaned into the kiss, hips pushing themselves forward. His fingers became more bold and he flattened his palm against Douglas’ chest, fingers stroking lightly, fingertips accidentally brushing against his nipples.

Douglas drew in a breath as the cold hands felt across the sensitive buds and his hip rutted forward to meet Sherlock’s. Now, this, was getting interesting. He dropped his hands to grip Sherlock’s arse when another infuriating knock came from the door again. “Christ.” Douglas growled. “Go away, Arthur!”

It went quiet until the sound of a card key was swiped through and the lock was unlatched, a frantic and bright red Martin burst in, angry and embarrassed. “Y-y-you! N-…NO!!” Martin pointed to Douglas with a trembling hand before grabbing his collar and shaking him. “You go! Now!!” He cried out, shoving him out the door and shutting it in his face before turning to his brother.

Douglas stood in the hallway in a confused stupor, and sighed out. “Martin…”

Sherlock slumped against the wall, his support having been yanked away. “Hey-” He looked towards the door, then to Martin. “What was that?” He asked, a little angry but still mostly breathless. He frowned at his brother and used the wall to push himself back up. He stood as straight as he could and didn’t even bother hiding the beginnings of arousal in his trousers. “Martin…” He said slowly, his voice low and dangerous, “What’s wrong?”

Martin tried to avoid seeing the southern region of Sherlock’s body and tried to stand just a straight though it hardly made a difference, Sherlock was far taller. “Y-you can’t, Sherlock! You just CANNOT!!” He stammered out with conviction. “You can’t… n-not with Douglas Richardson, I wont allow this! No! This is wrong! This is very, VERY wrong! I cannot believe you…. I can’t believe you both are doing this! Why?”

“Because he’s attractive and likes me.” Sherlock said simply and looked at his brother, “Martin, what makes you think you have the right to say who I can and cannot have sexual relations with?” He asked, half glaring at the boy. “And what does it matter to you if I decide to enter a relationship with Douglas? What, are you jealous? I didn’t think you were interested in him. He certainly didn’t say anything, if you do have claim on him.”

Martin’s eyes blew wide and the colour in them grew pale at the accusation. He choked on breath, and took a moment before he could actually respond. “Th-that… That is COMPLETELY absurd, Sherlock! God… NO! I do not like Douglas! P-perish the very thought! Good God, no!” He panted, trying to return to the main point again. “H-he’s not a good person, Sherlock. At least not the type to sleep with, e-especially in your circumstance! That and I FLY with the man! I am stuck with him, Sherlock. I can’t sit next to him knowing he took advantage of you!”

“Advantage!” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, “You think he’s taking advantage of me!?” He shook his head and pushed himself off the wall, “I’ll have you know that I am quite capable of looking after myself.” He took a step forward, shaking. “I am not a good person. And even if Douglas isn’t good for me, that’s my decision to make.” He clenched his fist. “What makes you presume that you can make it for me!?”

Martin trembled a bit as his older brother began to take the upper hand and it hurt to hear all of it. Perhaps this… all of it was simply useless, like Martin clearly was. He couldn’t help his own brother, only a horny Douglas Richardson could, what good was he to anyone? “I-I… I’m your brother.” Martin eventually replied, tearing up a bit. “I care about you… You don’t need to be sleeping with Douglas!” He trembled again on the last bit. “Things are confusing and awful enough as they are. I just… I can’t condone it…”

“You’re right.” Sherlock said, still glaring at Martin. “I don’t need to be sleeping with Douglas. I want to be.” He shook his head, “You’re my brother, yes. But you don’t know me. You have no right questioning my personal decisions. There’s something you should know about me, Martin. I’m a sociopath. I don’t feel the same way as other people but I do feel for him. I don’t care if you approve or not. What happens between myself and Douglas is exactly that. Between us.”

Martin went numb, it was all he could do to keep from crying then, and he set his jaw. It was quiet for a moment before Martin gulped and replied. “I suppose that’s your final decision then?” When he saw Sherlock unmoving he bit his lip and nodded. “Fine. I’ll… I’ll just distance myself like I have been. I don’t mean to ruin your /good time/ or… whatever this is. I just… wish I could understand why you’d tell me I’m your brother when you don’t want me to be one.” He shook his head and turned to walk out the door.

Sherlock sighed, watching his brother go. Great. That was all he needed. Another Mycroft. Why was it that nobody in his family trusted him to make his own choices.

Running a hand over his face he leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes and sagging a little.

Martin stepped out to see Douglas still standing in the hall, he set his jaw again in reaction, his eyes cold toward the man. He turned on his heel and made his way back to his room, feeling betrayed, and mostly upset because he knew Douglas didn’t care about his opinion in the least. Sod this. Flying would be a nightmare now.

Douglas caught the door before it closed and he went back in to see Sherlock. “I heard it all…”

Sherlock looked up at Douglas and sighed, “Interfering brat.” He muttered. He let his hand drop and looked away from Douglas. “So what now?” he asked quietly, hands behind him on the wall.

Douglas came close again and took a breath. “I prefer finishing things that I start.. nothing’s changed for me.” He looked the man over. “And from what I heard I assume you feel the same?”

“I’m not really…in the mood…” Sherlock mumbled, leaning forward and placing his head on Douglas’ shoulder. “I suddenly feel very exposed.” He said quietly. “You heard it all?“

“More or less, yeah.” He replied, rubbing Sherlock’s back. “I’d say sorry but… it seems that wouldn’t help anything.”

Sherlock shook his head and sighed, taking comfort in the embrace. He closed his eyes, relaxing a little. “Any idea why Martin is so adamant that we don’t have sex?”

“We don’t have the most incredible friendship. Granted, we have come far.” He shrugged in thought. “I suppose he still doesn’t trust me.”

“Well…you are a smuggler.” Sherlock said with a small smile, “I suppose he’ll appreciate you more when he wants pickles on his burger.” He added, lifting his head and looking at Douglas. “I think I should go back to the bed.” He said, his knees feeling weak and his stomach burning in pain.

Douglas bowed forward and picked Sherlock’s light body into his arms, carrying him to the bed and setting him in. “How about a bit of breakfast, hm?”

“Hmm…” Sherlock looked up at Douglas, “Maybe.” He smiled and leaned up, taking Douglas’ mouth with his own. He then let his head drop onto the bed and he looked up at him. “Yes.” He said, “Breakfast. I don’t eat much. Get whatever you want, and I’ll just…have a bite.” He smirked, biting his bottom lip.

Douglas smiled in the kiss and nodded in agreement. “Alright, fine, though, I will get you to eat more than just a bite, Sherlock. You desperately need the nutrients.” He replied, picking up the phone on the bedside table.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the idea of having to eat while being so inactive. “I don’t normally eat during cases.” He told Douglas in a grumble. “Slows down my mind.”

Though this case was mostly legwork. He wasn’t the one tracking the web-that was Mycrfot with all his resources.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re taking a day off anyway, give your head a rest.” The receptionist answered and Douglas ordered a tray to come up, emphasizing the need for both coffee and tea, just in case Sherlock got bored with one or the other. He hung up and stepped to the med kit. “We need to set some fresh ointment and a bandage on it.”

“Admit it, you just like the chance to touch me.” Sherlock huffed, smirking a little before flushing as he realized that was exactly what he wanted. “Fine.” He said, “You can change my bandages, but-” He added quickly, “You have to do it shirtless. If you get to see me half naked, I should at least get the same.”

“How barbaric, Sherlock, really.” Douglas quipped with a swift grin as he lifted his shirt from his torso. His body was average, much like Johns, but neither were anything to snuff at. He also hand dark hair across his chest and the love trail of his navel. “Satisfied, Luv?”

Sherlock swallowed as his heart rate picked up. “Hmm. Aroused apparently.” He muttered, eyes roaming the expanse of skin that was now visible and taking in every detail. “Come here.”

Douglas grabbed the bottle and bandage before returning, setting them to the side to settle where Sherlock wanted him. He ran a hand across his cheek and down his jaw, throat, and finishing at his collar bone. “Arousal is a good thing..”

Sherlock breath hitched and he nodded, looking up at Douglas. “Yes.” He said, “Arousal is a good thing.” He repeated, leaning into the touch. Reaching up, he let his fingers gently caress the man before him, hesitantly on his warm skin. “I think…” He said, voice thick, “That I would very much like to do something…” He wasn’t sure what, but he knew he wanted /something/ from Douglas.

“Oh, we’ll get to plenty of that, Darling.” He smiled, grabbing the med items. “But first we have to fix you up, there will be less hiccups whilst we do “something” together.” Douglas finished, reaching down to mend Sherlock.

Sherlock could barely concentrate. Was this what lust was? The complete inability to think of anything other than the feeling of another touching you? To become hot, flustered and sensitive. Each touch of Douglas’ hands on him sent his body into overdrive and his prick to stiffen.

Douglas was only seeing to his wound, but still, Sherlock felt himself gasping at the touch.

“My my my, Sherlock, you are simply an erotic beast right now.” Douglas observed, continuing his work. “Do please continue though, the sounds you’re making are incredible, and I think if I had a match I could burn the pheromones that are coming off of you.”

Sherlock’s face burned as he flushed deeply. “I have a half-naked, very attractive man touching my naked skin.” He muttered indignantly. “A man that has been teasing me with touches for over an hour. Do you expect me not to be affected?”

“Oh I expected, I’m simply delighted beyond words.” He replied, leaning forward to lay and open kiss on one of Sherlock’s nipples. “You’re sweet..”

Sherlock couldn’t help the moan as he felt Douglas’ lips on his chest. “D-Douglas, that’s mean.” He admonished with a gasp, feeling a heavy pulse between his legs. He couldn’t believe how hot and bothered he was by a simple touch.

“But I’m only getting started.” He replied with a wink, setting a bandage over the wound and rubbing over it to be sure it was sealed and set in place. “There… now we can play.”

With that, Sherlock reached out, lifting himself as he grabbed Douglas and pulled him close for a very heated kiss, his arms going around the man’s neck as he tried to get as close to him as he could. He needed the man’s heat, the warmth coming from his skin, the scent of him, the feeling of his skin touching his own. Sherlock had never in his life felt so desperate for physical contact.

Douglas handled Sherlock’s sides, turning his body to comfortably lean over him. His lips were just as eager, and he claimed Sherlock’s with vigour, hands caressing the pale skin with delight. Soon, his body was turned over so he properly hovered over Sherlock on the bed.

Pulling out of the kiss to gasp for breath, Sherlock let himself relax into the bed and look up at Douglas. He licked his lips as his hands trailed down the man’s arms, feeling the skin below his fingertips. His eyes darted down to watch them before lifting back up to look into Douglas’s eyes before he lifted his head again to take Douglas’ mouth in a soft, intimate kiss.

Watching Sherlock observe and deduce Douglas’ own body was a full show on its own. The man was magnificent, gorgeous, mysterious. As Arthur would say, brilliant. Douglas had never been so attracted to anyone in his life. Sherlock Holmes was a whole new level of perfection. Douglas joined in on the pleasant kiss, groaning at the feel of it. As they pulled back to breathe, Douglas bent down to kiss right on Sherlock’s incredible cupids bow.

Sherlock was panting softly, eyes fluttering closed so he could concentrate on the feelings. He trembled lightly, mouth opening in welcome.

Douglas nipped Sherlock’s lower lip before he trailed his own across his jaw and chin. His hand strayed downward and found his stiffened crotch, settling a hand over to palm at it gently.

Sherlock moaned loudly, thrusting his hips up into Douglas’s hand as he tipped his head back, mouth falling open. He sucked in a shuddering breath as he gyrated his hips, attempting to get more friction, to feel more of that tingling heat and pleasure run through him.

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