Sleepless
part sevenIn the weeks since his brother's rather miraculous return to consciousness, Mycroft had observed far more about his sex life than he'd ever cared to know. The exact amount of knowledge he'd ever wanted to possess in relation to his brother's intimate exchanges was exactly zero, with allowance in decimals for the general knowledge that a partner existed and who they were. That it was John was hardly unexpected. While Mycroft had always been aware of his brother's infatuation, its presence in John had only been observed after their return to the Ark years past. But the fact still remained that he did not actively want to see what was on his computer screen or hear what was being played on the quietest audio setting he could still perceive voices at. There was nothing in the least incestuous or perverse in observing the two naked men in their room with the lights out, camera shifting to night vision to maintain constant vigil. This was work. This was necessary. This was curiosity of a completely unrelated and yet unfortunately associated nature. And it was a great shame that there were certain parts of his mind that, like his brother, he could not simply shut off.
Even in the darkness, most of their bodies beneath the covers, Mycroft could see everything. It was a horrendous byproduct of understanding people and, of course, the act as well. He watched playfulness which could have been innocent wrestling melt into kissing and tangled limbs. He watched bodies gain necessary distance and arms and hands fade from view. Tonight he bore witness to the rising tension in his brother's face that lingered in his brows and spread down through his neck as he left it exposed beneath a raised and hardened chin. John's mouth was against the skin there, hands long gone, his body convexed around the space between them. There was no need for deductive reasoning when it came to their shared moments, laying face to face with the blankets only serving to hide the details of their indiscretions. He could tell in the flex of a bicep or the arch of a back almost everything he really didn't want to know about what went on out of sight but hardly out of mind. Over the weeks he'd watched it escalate from short sessions of stress relief to longer nights with variety and rounds. They were like disgusting little boys in school who spent their nights fascinated by their own bodies and lacked the sense of dignity by which to opt not to explore the similarities and differences in the study of another's. Still, in some misguided and appalling way, it was... laudable. His brother was learning. He'd always been a sponge for knowledge and it seemed he'd finally found himself a tutor both skilled in the art and worthy of his attention. The screen went blank.
Mycroft scowled at the recurring fault. There it was again. That was it. That wasn't supposed to happen. Technical issues were a new and irritating occurrence that hadn't existed at all before Sherlock had awoken and now were almost assured. If the sheet threatened to fall, if the momentum began escalating, if positions changed in such a manner as to facilitate a much more explicit mental image, the screen would go black and not return until both subjects were sated and half asleep. It never happened on any other screen nor at any other time. These were not observations he felt needed to be shared with the technical department, however. Explaining why he had observed his baby brother having sexual encounters with his male lover on enough occasions to observe a pattern of camera failure was simply never going to happen. They'd make assumptions. There'd be talk. There was enough conversation centered around Sherlock Holmes as it was.
There was of course a perfectly reasonably reason but no one really cared to listen to those when there was the potential for scandal. He'd simply been browsing through the lines of video and come upon his brother and John in a heated moment sat upon the bed when he turned his eyes to their room. He'd only lingered out of parting curiosity as to where they'd procured certain medical grade semi-liquids to find the screen flash black as though the camera had been turned off. This, of course, wasn't possible. He'd flipped to other feeds, into hallways and vacant rooms, finding everything in working order. The fault was in their room alone. The worry of how it had happened was only marginally lesser to the concerns of sending someone down to see while knowing full well what was likely to be occurring. He thought to give them at least ten minutes of which apparently they only needed five--really, Sherlock, there were thirteen year old boys with better self control than that. The camera turned itself back on to the sight of parting kisses and an acquired flannel discarded to the floor as they retired under the sheets. There were no further incidents of camera malfunction until the next time he caught them in each other's arms. From them on, it was simply a matter of research to try and define the commonality and through it a cause.
At first he'd thought it a clever rouse meant to disguise whatever it was they were planning. No one would bother them if they presumed they were being intimate and so the blackout would give them the privacy required to work on whatever part of their plan for survival had a visual element. Mycroft knew they had a plan--neither of them were the type to accept death or another's authority graciously. It wouldn't do to bring attention to the error if it was manufactured for such a purpose so he took to the research himself. But the flush of their skin, the sweat marks on the sheets, the looks of sated exhaustion and, just once, the bit of semen in Sherlock's hair he seemed to have been the only one to notice, pointed to there being no attempt at misdirection at all. They were delinquents. Whatever system error that caused the camera to die before their own little deaths was likely as unknown to them as it remained to Mycroft. Someone didn't want him or anyone else to see those private times of shameful, lustful fulfillment.
That in itself was an interesting thought. They had logs of activity, ways to discover who was doing what while where and with who. Nothing happened in the Ark that Mycroft could not see, no trail existed that he could not follow. But here there was nothing. He'd thought it might be the Morstan woman that John tended to hang around but had seen her sleeping peacefully in her own bed while the camera was out in the other. It was a mystery and sadly, due to circumstance, was required to remain that way. Mycroft could only imagine the ridiculous speculations that might be made to excuse the technical error if brought to light. Maybe when two diseased people were in the heat of lovemaking, they generated enough static electricity to cause a momentary shortage in technological equipment. Maybe they had super powers. Maybe the camera across from the lovers' bed was bashful. He didn't care to subject them to any further study that might come about by fear and confusion. Nothing would put a hamper on their chances of developing some manner of salvation quite like increased visibility. So Mycroft kept an eye on them himself and made note of each occurrence; a spreadsheet devoted to the occasions and duration of baby brother's sexual congress.
Stomach sour and bourbon at hand, Mycroft took a steady drink and thought without hyperbole that this was, indeed, a special hell.