Flesh, Bone and Everything in Between

WARNING: Contains a very slight spoiler for "His Last Vow" in the first paragraph (the one that begins with "As a child"), so those who haven't caught up can skip that, as it doesn't have an important impact on the rest of the fic. Also this story could be a trigger for those with anorexia and other eating disorders, this fic will also involve Holmescest, Johnlock, feeding, belly kink and fat admiring, so DON'T LIKE DON'T READ.

Ok, so this fic is going to be quite personal in a way, it's taken me a lot of courage to write as it deals with a lot of my own issues with food and various kinks, plus it's my first fic of this kind. I've read a lot of absolutely wonderful food kink and weight kink fics in this community, but never quite found exactly what I was looking for, so I decided to write one myself, to write it how I want it, and to give something back to the Sherlock fandom.

Now on with the show!

xXx

Sherlock had always been thin, very thin. It ranged between drastically underweight and painfully skinny.

As a child he was all coltish limbs and boundless energy. His appetite was near inexistant. He just never felt hungry; eating was "Boring!" There were just always so many more interesting things he could be doing, like seeing what would happen if Redbeard was fed some of the popping candy that he'd stolen from Mycroft or if he put a slug in the microwave (that result was not the prettiest), rather than being dragged to the table and made to sit still and eat.

It therefore went without saying that evening meals were hell on earth. Breakfast and lunch he could normally get away with, he'd run out the door to school before anyone could notice if he'd eaten or not. He'd then maybe eat a banana, or an apple or a small sandwich from the canteen at midday. But dinnertime was when he'd be forced to sit down with Mummy, Daddy and Mycroft and eat horrible heavy food that he just didn't have room for. He was also an incredibly fussy eater; there were too many foods and textures he didn't like. He didn't like different foods touching either.

Many times it would all end with Mummy crying, Daddy shouting and Mycroft smugly finishing Sherlock's plate, content to be the "good boy". But as the years went by and nothing changed his parents eventually came to accept, if begrudgingly, their son's eating habits and just added it to another one of Sherlock's many eccentricities. He did eat, just in baby-bird like quantities and appeared to be healthy enough. Mycroft on the other hand had begun to look rather too healthy.

"I just wish we could somehow scrape some off of Mycroft and add it on to you Sherlock." his mother sighed once, whilst stroking Sherlock's unruly curls.

Sherlock soon became used to this sort of comment. It was almost a part of daily life for him. His family and many others seemed to revel in making that sort of observation, commenting on his extreme thinness. He has very clear memories of his Grandmother's funeral when one of his uncles, whom he hadn't seen for a long time, said to him in way of greeting: "Bloody hell, if it's possible you look skinnier than ever!" Sherlock was fourteen at the time.

It was true that he did look very much out of place in his family, what with Daddy who was stocky and well built and Mummy who was rather…well…plump and Mycroft who was very much following in her footsteps. Sherlock on the other hand with his hair and build resembled a mop. His teenage years did nothing to help him "fill out" as Mummy had long hoped. The natural rounded cheeks of childhood were replaced with angular cheekbones. The only thing that broadened were his shoulders.

His late teens and early 20's were difficult. That was when he discovered cocaine at university, that way he didn't need food at all. But one too many days where he looked like a walking skeleton, with cheekbones threatening to slice open his skin at any moment and a few too many trips to the hospital after having collapsed put an end to that. Sherlock learned that for his own health and for that of his family, eating now and again probably wasn't too bad an idea.

And so over the years it had eventually become a central part of him, his thinness.

He had also become so used to the constant comments on his weight, or lack thereof that he needed them. He took a certain pride in them. To hear no remarks could mean that he was doing something wrong.

"You being all mysterious with your cheekbones", John had told him. Sherlock had felt a swell of pleasure at these words, one that even reached his groin, causing it to twitch in response.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes enjoyed being underweight. He liked his transport lean and hungry. He needed to be able to feel his bones, to be sharp, and light as a feather. Food just weighed him down, it was a distraction, a necessary evil, it slowed him, made him feel sluggish and useless.

He needed his thinness, for him it equalled superiority. It was proof he was better than average. Better than those regular human beings and above their base needs, better than those pathetic people who were dependent on and even addicted to food. Better than Mycroft.

Food had always been Mycroft's vice and how Sherlock loved being better than Mycroft.

Sometimes, when his mind needed distraction, he would go in to his mind palace and try to trace back where his odd and eventually somewhat sexual relationship with weight had come from.

The earliest memory he could trace it all back to was one of he and Mycroft together in Mycroft's bed. Sherlock had climbed in there because he was bored and couldn't sleep. Mycroft had agreed to read him a story and chose "Hansel and Gretel". Sherlock was seven and tiny, whilst Mycroft was thirteen and decidedly stout.

The fairy tale had terrified and delighted Sherlock. Why was it such a big deal that the family was hungry? Being hungry wasn't that bad! Then when Mycroft turned the page and revealed that the kindly old lady was in fact a witch Sherlock jumped in horror. She was going to trap Hansel in a cage and "fatten him up". Sherlock shuddered as these words were read aloud; so many times the same thing had been threatened to him. Not that he'd be thrown in a cage though of course. Could some of the grown-ups he knew actually be wicked witches? He clung to Mycroft with his spindly arms, his brother's solid, squishy mass was somehow reassuring and comforting. It blanketed his miniscule frame. It made him feel safe.

But there were also things that Sherlock was not satisfied with in the story, why would Hansel have to stick out the bone for the witch to feel if he was thin? He deduced that surely it meant that Hansel had put on a lot of weight if he needed to trick the witch, but why was that not written in the story then? He asked Mycroft as much.

"I imagine you're right", replied Mycroft, "but anyway, luckily for the witch that it wasn't you in the cage. You're so horribly skinny. She'd have a damn hard time fattening you up." Sherlock shuddered again at that word: "fattening". The way Mycroft's rich voice had stressed these syllables and how his pudgey fingers had stroked Sherlock's prominent ribs as he'd said it. Sherlock felt strange and tingly. His fragile little hands hugged Mycroft's girth harder. Many a night after Sherlock would be plagued with strange dreams of being trapped and force-fed by evil grown ups, however these dreams were not always unpleasant.

For years after he would often read this story, and always he would feel the same tingle, especially as he arrived at the word "fatten". He also searched obsessively for a version of the tale that described Hansel's weight gain, but alas he never found one.

In later life "fatten" still held power over him. It was what John wanted to do to him, it was what Mrs Hudson wanted to do him, it was what Mycroft wanted to do to him. It was something that he had to be stronger than, to rise above. As for Sherlock the idea of gaining weight was both repulsive and but also fascinating. Even as an adult he could not imagine what it could feel like. Sure, his weight would maybe fluctuate by a pound or two depending on what cases he was working on and how active he was, but nothing drastic; nothing that anyone other than himself could possibly notice. It would normally be a slight change of the visibility of his ribs, or whether his stomach was concave or flat, and nothing more.

He could not conceive eating until he was stuffed, sated and unable to move. He could not comprehend being soft and wobbly, like Mycroft, having layers of thick fat covering his scrawny frame. Suddenly finding that his clothes would no longer button or zip. He had always watched Mycroft's weight changes obsessively, thrilled when he'd put on more weight. That meant Sherlock was winning. However, Sherlock could simply not imagine giving in to such urges himself even if he wanted to. Yet weight gain and gluttony were both disgusting but enthralling for him.

That's where John Watson had come in.

John, wonderful John; the most important person in his life. With John Sherlock had slowly found that he loved the way that the other man ate. Sherlock adored watching him. The reckless abandon, his pure appreciation of food, no doubt born of long days in Afghanistan surviving on rations. He ate with a gusto that Sherlock himself could never hope to recreate.

Soon Sherlock began finding new excuses to drop in at Angelo's and various other eateries where the owners owed him favours. He would of course order nothing and instead watch John with hungry eyes as he devoured plate after plate.

"Mr Holmes! Dr Watson! Welcome! It is wonderful to see you both. Remember, anything you want is yours, and I'll cook it personally myself!" cried Angelo, looking thrilled to see them.

"No thank you Angelo I'm on a case, but I'm sure that the doctor will order something with pleasure."

"Oh Mr Holmes", said Angelo, laying a meaty hand down on Sherlock's gaunt shoulder, "you be careful, yes? You turn sideways, I can't see you no more."

Ten minutes later and there was a huge steaming mountain of spaghetti bolognaise, Angelo always gave them almighty portions, sitting in front of John. John dove straight in and ate a huge forkful.

"Mmf, you sure you're not going to order anything Sherlock?" said John thickly through his massive mouthful.

"No, no John please continue. As I said, I'm on a case, you know that I don't eat whilst on cases", replied Sherlock with an elegant and dismissive flick of his bony hand.

"And you're sure that it doesn't bother you, me eating in front of you?"

"Not in the slightest."

"You are so very thin though Sherlock, I do worry about you sometimes" said John, reaching across the table and laying his broad fingers over Sherlock's narrow wrist, gently stroking the prominent bone. Sherlock felt a jolt of sensation run through him at his touch.

"Please John, my body is used to this. I'm in no danger. I will eat once the case is over, which should be by tomorrow. I appreciate your concern though. But let's not let Angelo's hospitality go to waste."

After finishing the first enormous plate of bolognaise Sherlock insisted that John get another helping of something, ("I know you're still hungry John and besides it's free.").

Angelo's eyes lit up and he looked downright delighted as he went away to prepare another dish for John ("You see Sherlock, John loves my food! This is a real man.")

The doctor chose a gorgonzola risotto. Sherlock watched out of the corner of his eye in delight as John once more began wolfing it down. He observed with an approving smile as John's stomach began to distend in to a beach ball like shape. The wool of his jumper rising up slightly to accommodate this new mass, but sadly not enough to reveal any of the flesh beneath. It looked like he'd put on a stone in fifteen minutes.

"Oh god", moaned John, leaning back and cradling his tight and bloated abdomen, "why do you let me do this to myself Sherlock?"

"Because I like being able to do something nice for you. Angelo's kindness is somewhat squandered on myself."

"Nice is one thing, but this is obscene. I look like I'm 8 months pregnant! You're not letting me do this to myself again. Come on let's go."

Sherlock helped the good doctor to his feet, thanked Angelo then hailed a cab. The whole journey back the detective could barely keep his gaze away from John and his wondrous stomach. How Sherlock wanted to touch it, to feel that round orb stuffed to bursting.

"Ok Sherlock, I'm off to bed", yawned John after they'd arrived back at Baker Street, exhausted after his huge meal, "and remember, this isn't happening again."

"Goodnight John" replied Sherlock simply with a smile.

But of course it did happen again, many times, not every day of course, as Sherlock did not wish for John to become suspicious. Eventually, all these meals out began to have the effect that Sherlock was waiting for.

He greedily observed John's softening jawline, whilst tracing a lean finger over his own razor sharp cheekbones. He eyed the juicy love handles that were beginning to bulge at the sides of John's jeans, whilst he reached a hand down and felt his prominent hipbones in comparison. But what the detective loved most of all was the nice round paunch starting to strain the fabric of John's habitual jumpers.

Of course all this had not gone unnoticed. Mrs Hudson had commented on how "healthy" John looked. Lestrade had made a much less genteel observation, calling John "porky" one day during an investigation, which John did not take well.

However it was Mycroft who appeared the most alarmed. He had called at their flat to pick up some documents that Sherlock had been looking over for him. When John walked in to the room his eyes had widened in surprise. Luckily, he quickly regained his composure and John didn't notice anything. Sherlock on the other hand, who knew his brother only too well, had seen.

Later that evening his phone buzzed:

Come on over, we need to talk. MH

Boring. SH

It's about John, Sherlock. MH

And? SH

And what you're doing to him brother dear. MH

Fine. Where? SH

My place. MH

Be there in 20. SH

"John, I have to go, Mycroft needs to see me about something."

"What, now? It's nearly midnight Sherlock."

"I know. Don't wait up for me. Bye John."

"But Sherlock…"

All John got in response was the sound of the door slamming. Tutting to himself he went back to watching TV, those two, he thought; lord knows what they'd be discussing. He just hoped that the detective would behave and wouldn't murder his elder brother, as the doctor so often worried he would. He'd keep an eye out for any blue flashing lights rushing in the direction of Mycroft's townhouse.

Sherlock felt most intrigued on the cab ride over and also a little nervous. What on earth could Mycroft wish to discuss about John, and why at his place? It had been a long time since Mycroft had invited him over to his home. The last time had involved a naked Sherlock and the working out of some shared urges. Sherlock had needs, as his brother did, and often they could only find comfort in the intellect and body of the other. It was far safer than prostitutes and requiring much less effort than a normal relationship.

He had arrived; Sherlock bound across the pavement and burst unceremoniously in to the elder Holmes' living room.

"Alright Mycroft, what is this about?"

"Sherlock, do sit down please."

Sherlock practically threw himself on to the black leather sofa, before looking petulantly and defiantly up at his brother; gangly limbs crossed. Mycroft was pacing up and down and looking like he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

"Well, well, well Sherlock, I've always had my suspicions but now I know for sure."

"Know what Mycroft? For God's sake, get to the point."

Mycroft stopped pacing and turned to face the detective with a piercing stare,

"That you have a rather interesting kink brother of mine." He leaned forward, his face mere inches from Sherlock's, "A weight kink to be precise."

Sherlock's pale cheeks went pink at these words, but he did not break eye contact.

"Yes," Mycroft breathed, practically purring, "I saw the way that you were looking at John, your pupils dilated, a clear sign of arousal. I also noted where your gaze was directed. You may have only stared for a moment, but I noticed. Now, it's obvious that John being a military man and a doctor would be rather in the habit of looking after his health. After all, he was doing perfectly fine before you came along. So how has it come to be that he has put on such a lot of weight in such a short time? Hmm?" Mycroft smiled his smarmy, self-assured grin. The one that made Sherlock's blood boil and wish above everything to punch him in his smug face.

The younger man bared his teeth in response; he looked but a few moments away from snarling at Mycroft, even from lunging and ripping his throat out.

"Tsk, tsk. Temper, temper my dear," said Mycroft soothingly, burying a hand deep in Sherlock's ebony mane. "You needn't be so angry, as I said I've always suspected. But our dear doctor confirmed it all for me. But don't think that I'd never noticed your secret happiness that you thought you kept so well hidden. Your delight when I'd finish your meals when we were children, your obsessive cataloguing of my weight changes, your endless teasing, your sadistic joy if I had put on weight, your prodding and poking; also your own strict control of your weight. Yes Sherlock, you're attracted to what scares yet fascinates you, by what you can't comprehend, by your greatest fear. It's textbook brother. Fear and disgust are two of the strongest evocative feelings."

Sherlock merely stared up at his brother, eyes wild, breathing heavily. He looked like a feral creature caught in a trap. Mycroft just looked at him kindly and continued his stroking.

"Oh Sherlock, of course I don't mind you know. Now, there's just one last piece of the puzzle I need."

Mycroft crouched down and moved one hand over Sherlock's trouser clad crotch, gently feeling his semi-erect length. The other he snaked under the younger man's jacket and pushed against his side. Sherlock's heart began to beat faster.

The elder Holmes ran his hand up and down Sherlock's rib cage, pressing hard, hard enough to bruise. It felt so good. Yet Sherlock's heart started to pound even more, threatening to leap out of his chest.

"My goodness Sherlock, how horribly skinny you are" whispered Mycroft, "I'm going to have a dreadfully hard time fattening you up." Sherlock's cock sprung to life under his hand.

Mycroft grinned, but it was a predatory grin, that of a shark. He moved his mouth over to Sherlock's ear and breathed,

"I. Knew. It."

Sherlock gasped as Mycroft began sucking heavily on his earlobe as deft hands removed his jacket and began working on his shirt buttons.

When Sherlock's narrow torso was bare Mycroft pushed him down on the sofa and began removing his trousers.

"Look at you", he growled, his tongue trailing a hot path down Sherlock's impossibly flat stomach, "you're positively skin and bone. But you're so delicious looking that I could just gobble you all up, but there's so little of you I know that I'd still be famished after."

The younger man moaned and writhed in to the leather as his trousers and pants joined his other clothes in a heap on the floor. He was completely naked now, the dark fabric of the sofa a beautiful contrast to his alabaster skin.

The elder man kneeled above Sherlock, pinning him down as he gnawed greedily on his all too visible collarbones, his hands roaming up and down the worryingly slender body beneath him, grabbing, pinching and scratching.

Sitting up, he then placed a hand on Sherlock's concave midsection and began to stroke,

"You really are so exceedingly slight and malnourished Sherlock, I almost doubt that you're going to make it through the winter. I should surely fill up this tiny belly, fill it to the brim, cram you so full of food until you feel like you're going to explode. It'd be for your own good."

Sherlock began to pant. Mycroft moved his hand to Sherlock's painfully hard cock and gently began to pump.

"Or", his voice took on a louder tone, "would you prefer to stuff me until I can take no more, like you have John, to see my stomach swell, new layers of fat appear as I grow and expand. To revel in my plumpness which would only accentuate your slenderness. Hmm?"

The detective only groaned in response. To which Mycroft began to move his hand up and down Sherlock's length harder.

"Well Sherlock?"

"Both. Yes. All of it. Everything", Sherlock replied breathlessly.

"Good boy, as a reward for your honesty, I may just well get undressed".

Sighing in pleasure, Sherlock watched as Mycroft began to disrobe. This was a rare treat indeed; during most of their couplings the elder man had always remained clothed. As his plush stomach was finally unveiled, Sherlock could take no more.

"Oh Mycroft, please, consume me, smother me, make me feel tiny."

Mycroft smirked, "That shouldn't be a problem brother dear."

The elder man lay on top of Sherlock and the detective could feel his soft, loose flesh cover his entire angular torso. He moved his slender fingers against his brother's back, clutching the thick skin and fat, relishing in the feel and the suppleness of it in his hands, whilst Mycroft grazed his teeth against Sherlock's lean shoulder, moving up and down, bringing their two erections together and creating wondrous friction.

Suddenly Mycroft pulled away, reached over for his suit jacket and extracted a small bottle of oil. Sherlock smirked,

"So you were planning this?"

"I wouldn't go so far as to say planning, but you know me, I do always like to be prepared. And yes, I had rather hoped that tonight would turn out like this."

Sherlock sat up also and massaged Mycroft's flabby gut, loving how heavy and warm and pliable it felt.

"Yes Sherlock dear, it must feel rather intriguing for you, seeing as you don't have an inch to pinch yourself." To punctuate his point Mycroft reached across with thick fingers to try and grip at Sherlock's non-existent fat, anything he did manage to hold for a second slipped from his grip.

"You really are almost skeletal, there's nothing superfluous on you," said Mycroft whilst applying the lubricant on to his length, "now Sherlock on all fours if you would please."

The younger man did not need telling twice. Coating his fingers in the oil Mycroft inserted one finger in to the tight little entrance in front of him. Sherlock's ivory flesh was cool to the touch, no doubt due to his lack of insulation, but inside he was delectably warm. Soon another finger was added, then another, stretching and preparing. Until at last...he was ready. Mycroft positioned himself and slowly entered. The two brothers moaned in unison as Mycroft's cock was swallowed by Sherlock's narrow passage. Sherlock loved the feel of his brother's tubby stomach against his ass. Mycroft adored the touch of Sherlock's pert and barely-there butt cheeks, which he couldn't resist giving a quick squeeze. Gently thrusting he traced his hands from Sherlock's broad but bony shoulders, along his emaciated back with the all too pointy vertebrae, back down to his gorgeously narrow waist, which he squeezed hard.

"Yes Mycroft," Sherlock managed in between heavy breaths, "that's a waist. I imagine that you wouldn't know what one of those was."

"Skinny little shit" he replied, moving his hands down to Sherlock's jagged hips, which made perfect fuck-handles.

Mycroft very rarely swore. Sherlock found it very much a turn on.

"Fat fuck."

"Ah yes, but you love it little Sherlock. There's no use hiding that now."

"Yes. Fuck me with your fat cock Mycroft. Fill me."

"I plan to".

The younger man was so scrumptiously tight and hot. Mycroft began to quicken the pace of his thrusts, shaking all of Sherlock's lanky body and causing his own stomach to tremble. At this, Sherlock started to let out long luscious moans in that beautiful deep voice of his, which only spurred Mycroft on.

Slamming in and out and gripping Sherlock's hips with so much strength that the detective was sure he'd have bruises, Mycroft began to ride the younger man hard. Sherlock's moans became louder, turning in to shouts; his head began to swim, lost in a sea of sensations. He couldn't last much longer.

Then Mycroft pushed if possible, even further in, he was hitting Sherlock's prostate directly.

"Oh, Mycroft, I'm going to," but he never finished his sentence as stars exploded before his eyes and he spurted hot white on to the leather beneath him. At Sherlock's orgasm the tight walls of muscle closed in on Mycroft's length, wringing out his own completion. With a cry he filled Sherlock's narrow passage with his seed.

The two men then collapsed in a tangled heap, spent.

After a few moments of contented silence it was Sherlock who spoke first.

"That was probably quite good exercise for you Mycroft, you'll be allowed to eat some cake tonight."

"Shut up Sherlock" retorted Mycroft, but with no trace of anger in his voice.

They lay without talking for some minutes more, before Mycroft turned to look Sherlock in the eyes:

"Sherlock, you should tell John."

Sherlock's gorgeous blue eyes widened, unsure. He bit his full lip thoughtfully.

"I don't know."

"You don't have to tell him everything, you can do that gradually. But you should at least tell him that you find him attractive."

"But why?"

"Well Sherlock," said Mycroft gently, "I imagine that John has no idea how you feel and for most people gaining weight is rather an unpleasant business, especially for someone like John who is used to being fit and active. What with the remarks that others have no doubt been making, not to mention your track record of commenting and criticising the weight of others, I'm sure that John is wholly convinced that you find him very unattractive right now."

Sherlock elegant eyebrows furrowed, taking in this new information, why did people have to be so complicated?

"But why would John care if I find him attractive or not?" Sherlock asked slowly.

"Don't be dense Sherlock, John finds you just as attractive as you find him."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. You are a rather lovely looking creature Sherlock, do you not realise this? No doubt most people you come in to contact with find you highly desirable."

Sherlock processed his brother's words. Well, that would explain a lot of things.

"Anyway, you best get back to Baker Street and the good doctor. Let's get cleaned up."

After a quick shower and some light cleaning of the sofa, everything was as good as new.

Just as he was leaving out the door, Sherlock suddenly spun on his heels,

"Mycroft, one last question before I go."

"Yes Sherlock?"

"Were you ever jealous of my size?"

Mycroft took a deep intake of breath, before replying,

"Always, Sherlock. It was hard being the dumpy ugly stepsister next to the swan-like Cinderella."

"Ah. Right. Did my remarks on your weight ever hurt your feelings?"

"On occasion yes."

"Oh…well…I apologise then, Mycroft" mumbled Sherlock, looking at his feet rather than at his brother's face.

Mycroft felt genuinely touched at his little brother's sincerity.

"I told you before Sherlock. I don't mind. And I certainly won't be taking offense at any comments you make now."

Sherlock suddenly looked rather awkward.

"Yes, well…I should be going now, yes. So, good bye Mycroft."

"Good bye Sherlock."

He closed the door and then went and stood at the window, watching from behind the curtain until the retreating taxi was nothing but a dark speck in the distance.

xXx

Thank you so much for taking the time to read this! I hope you enjoyed it. Please know that I am open to all comments, plot suggestions and writing critiques.

Stay tuned for the next instalment where there will be loving, tender fat John/tiny Sherlock sex, John feeding and eventually kinky Sherlock stuffing.

Please if possible leave a review, your thoughts mean everything. Reviews are like crack for unpaid fanfic writers. You guys rock! Bye!