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Rated: 13+ · Fiction · Romance/Love · #2235035
Mycroft Holmes is a silent witness to the mystery of who will win Sherlock Holmes
Look at them! Mundane idiots!

All the eldest Holmes brother has to do is sit and observe from his hardback chair, his legs crossed and watch the exhibition unfold.
Caring is not an advantage he’s reiterated over and over to his younger brother since he was a teen.

Drinks in hand there are four of us seated and relaxed, in Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade’s office at the police station. Mycroft’s younger brother Sherlock, John Watson, the Inspector and himself.
It is disgusting to him to watch the fawning, the posturing of each of the two men, John and Gregory, vying for the attention of the young Holmes.
John Watson is standing next to Sherlock, one hand on the back of the seat, fingers almost touching the seated man’s shoulder, admiration dripping out of every pore. It is assumed by all that know them that John is already Sherlock’s lover, but they are all mistaken.
John, afraid to admit he’s gay, resorts to the sly scrutiny of his flat-mate, encouraging, praising, forgiving him his rudeness. Look at him now! Wide-eyed, just like a puppy standing on hind legs begging for a pat on the head.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade sits behind his desk, using it as a shield. His eyes though can be caught discreetly roving up and down Sherlock’s body.
John leans in to hear Sherlock discussing the case, while Gregory angles closer, his elbows on the desk, hands steepled in imitation of the man he desires. As if to say,” look, you and I are the same.”
What does one say about the Inspector and his obsession? Why this intense sexual feeling that has cropped up for the man that holds everyone’s attention.
This curly-haired, sharp-cheekboned, slender man. This rude, self-absorbed genius.
A sudden uneasiness fills the room, overcoming all of us. It’s as if we were in a slow-motion movie with each movement a beat slower than usual. The room crackles with the unsaid, the sexual desire. Male hormones rage and fight for dominance.

In Mycroft’s head, he’s playing a game of chance. Who will be the winner of this game?
Whoever it is will ride the wild wind. The wind called Sherlock.
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