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Mycroft took a deep breath before he opened the door to his house. He picked the heavy bags up again and carried them inside.
After closing the door, he listened into the house. Nothing. Total silence. Had Sherlock gone out? Probably not…
He took off his coat and hung it up, and then he carried the bags with the groceries into the kitchen. He winced when he heard a crash and a curse from the living room. A sound as if someone had kicked against something followed.
Mycroft swallowed. He hastily stored most of the stuff in the fridge and then he prepared a sandwich for Sherlock. Stilton with strawberry jelly, mustard and mixed pickles. The combination made Mycroft's stomach turn but Sherlock loved it. He put the plate onto the tray with a glass of low-fat chocolate milk and, after gathering all the courage he could muster, he carried the snack through the hallway into the living room, which was silent again.
Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, an expression of absolute boredom and frightening sulk on his beautiful features. He was dressed in black jog pants and a red shirt that was buttoned up the wrong way.
He glowered into Mycroft’s direction. “Where have you been?!”
“I…” Mycroft cleared his throat. “I bought groceries. I… I did tell you.”
Sherlock huffed, his right hand stroking over his heavily rounded belly. “Didn’t hear you.”
“Well, you must have, because you told me to bring you -…”
“Are you saying that I’m lying, Mycroft?”
“No, of course not.” He was still standing in the door, the tray in his hands, and he felt like throwing it into Sherlock's general direction and fleeing the house. But of course this was not an option.
“Or are you possibly hinting at me getting senile?” Sherlock's tone was strident.
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“Are you mocking me, Mycroft?! I’m carrying your child, and you are treating me like shit!”
To Mycroft's terror, a tear ran over his beloved Omega’s cheek. He hurried into the room and put the tray onto to the table, and then he took Sherlock's hand and brushed a kiss onto it. “No, dearest. Nothing like that! I’m so sorry!”
Sherlock sniffled. “Did you bring the beans then?”
Beans?! Sherlock had said nothing about beans! “Um…”
“Mycroft!” Sherlock screeched, outraged, and ripped his hand out of Mycroft's. “Are you not even able to remember such a simple request? Is it demanded too much?”
Mycroft made a step backwards; his ears were ringing. “No, dear. I will go again and buy beans.”
“Ah, forget it. I’m not worth the effort.”
“Dear, how can you say that? I love you and -…”
“Give me the sandwich.”
“Oh, sure.” Mycroft handed him the plate and Sherlock grabbed the thick sandwich and took a large bite.
A moment later he grimaced and spat it back onto the plate. Mycroft couldn’t have said he was very surprised about it. “What is that?! It’s awful!”
“You didn’t want any other topping for the past week and a half.” Why was he even trying to be reasonable? Last week he had, when Sherlock had complained about being bored, suggested calling John Watson to chat with him or even meet up, or asking DI Lestrade if he had a cold case Sherlock could look at. Sherlock had asked him, very calmly, if he wanted to get rid of him and if he should possibly just put his head onto a rail track so Mycroft wouldn’t have to see his face anymore.
Little brother sent him a death glare. “I would never eat something that ghastly.” He pointed at the glass in silent demand and Mycroft handed him the milk, his hand slightly shivering. Sherlock sipped at it and at least he swallowed it down but then he said in a low, dangerous voice, “Is that low fat?”
Mycroft estimated the distance to the door. But he damn well knew there was no way out. “Yes,” he said, simply. It was the same milk Sherlock had bought himself when he had still gone out. He had drunk hectolitres of it over the past two months.
“Are you… Are you saying that I AM FAT?!”
Wasn’t there a hole a poor Alpha could disappear in? “No, darling. Not in the least.” He cringed when Sherlock threw the glass against the wall, splinters and chocolate milk flying everywhere.
“You hate me! You think I’m fat and ugly and you’ll never fuck me again!” accused Sherlock, loud enough to let all neighbours know what was going on – and the nearest one lived in a house two-hundred metres away...
“No, precious, you are wonderful and beautiful,” [and totally mad], “and I love you to the moon and back. And I love you even more for giving me a kit,” [and if it’s as crazy as you are now I can shoot myself], “and I will always want to make love to you!”
“Now?” sniffled Sherlock, giving him puppy eyes.
Mycroft had no idea how to get it up right now. But of course there was no saying ‘no’ if he wanted to keep all his teeth. Probably Sherlock would change his mind within the next two seconds anyway. But Sherlock got up, groaning, and unceremoniously pushed his pants down. He wasn’t wearing underpants. He turned around and wantonly arranged himself on the chair, presenting his mouth-watering behind to him, and Mycroft, who had never even tried to be immune to the gorgeousness of this plush, inviting bottom, felt his cock swell in his pants at the sight. Damn… It even worked now…
He plunged his face into the sweetness of Sherlock's quivering Omega hole, licking the wrinkled skin before his tongue dipped into the opening, making Sherlock purr and curse and reach back to almost suffocate Mycroft by pushing his face into his crack as deeply as humanly possible.
Mycroft sighed in pleasure when he, after Sherlock had finally loosened his iron grip around the back of his head so Mycroft had been allowed to take in some much-needed air and gotten rid of his own trousers and underwear, pushed inside, his way eased by the small amount of slick Sherlock was producing albeit not being in heat. And finally Sherlock was going all pliant and aroused, and he meowed like an oversized cat when Mycroft reached around to stimulate his short Omega cock and tickle his sack with his small finger in the go.
As he wasn’t in rut, he had no knot to offer, but he still pounded into Sherlock with the vigour he knew his lover liked, enjoying the feeling of tight wetness around his prick and the fact that Sherlock didn't say anything but ‘harder!’ or ‘deeper!” or uttered cute little noises of pleasure.
And then Sherlock’s phone vibrated and he straightened up, bending Mycroft's cock in a way that made him groan in pain and immediately disentangle himself from his Omega. He stumbled backwards and Sherlock walked over to the table where he had left his phone. He stared at the display. “Fuck. Since when does Mummy know how to send texts?!”
Mycroft gaped at him in disbelief, holding his hurting prick. “I’m sure she can’t wait to welcome her grandchild,” he mumbled, his head feeling dizzy from the interrupted excitement.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “What does this have to do with my question?! And why does it sound as if you didn't want our baby?!”
For once, Mycroft was speechless. And so bloody tired… “You like to torture me, right?”
“I have no idea what you mean, Mycroft!” Sherlock closed the distance between them and his eyes were full of anger. “You hate me! You want to get rid of me! Have you poisoned the milk?!”
“I should have!” screeched Mycroft back, and Sherlock slapped him in the face.
*****
And Mycroft wakes up with his heart pounding in his chest, his face hurting. He turns his head and sees Sherlock sleeping next to him. Probably his brother had accidentally hit him while turning around.
God… What a nightmare! He looks at Sherlock with his halo of black curls on the pillow, looking like a sleeping angel in the dim morning light. Foolishly, he picks up the blanket and looks at his brother’s flat, muscular stomach, his pulse decreasing slowly. What has this even supposed to mean? Alpha? Omega? What kind of nonsense has this been?
“Mmm. Mycie? How late is it?”
Mycroft smiles at his rapidly blinking lover and glances at the clock. “Not even seven. Go back to sleep.” It is Sunday after all, John Watson is out of town for the weekend so they can spend it together without raising suspicion.
“What were you looking at?” Sherlock asks, smiling.
“Oh, just your stomach.” Mycroft touches the six-pack with reverence.
“What? You think I’m getting fat?!”
The End