He’d like to keep on ignoring him, but Mycroft can’t help but make a nuisance of himself. Sherlock tracks him in his peripheral vision as Mycroft makes his way into the room, Mrs. Hudson already sent away. He refuses to move until Mycroft makes it clear he hasn’t got a choice, choosing instead to remain on the sofa, stubbornly, until all other options are stripped away from him.
He can hear Mycroft in the kitchen, going through cabinets, dropping things into a bin. His drugs. Drugs that it had taken nearly a full day to get his hands on. He’d had to travel beyond London, he’d had to track down someone who didn’t already know who he was because of Mycroft. He’s scowling as he listens to him slamming drawers and cupboards, but then he makes it worse by opening his mouth and speaking. That just rubs it in, the fact that Mycroft’s the reason the hunt for them was so hard in the first place, and he’s here trying to take it away.
Sherlock kicks his feet untangled from the blanket at the foot of the sofa and storms into the kitchen. He’s still smaller than Mycroft, but just barely. He’s caught up to him, and what he lacks in height and breadth he makes up for in sheer will. His brother has never been keen on the dirty work, on exerting himself, but Sherlock is more than willing. He manages to look imposing in the doorway. At the very least, he looks unhinged, the same look as the last time they were here in his flat, Sherlock high and Mycroft with his hands where they didn’t belong.
And this time, if he pins Mycroft to the wall to prove to him that he can’t push him around like a little kid anymore, John isn’t here to stop him.
“Put that down,” Sherlock says, trying hard to enunciate every word, make them hard, make them commands, but his rage is leaking through. His control is gone, torn away from him, leaving him raw and sparking with emotions. He’s still sharp, still very much himself but there’s less filter than there ever was, and there wasn’t much to begin with.
no subject
He can hear Mycroft in the kitchen, going through cabinets, dropping things into a bin. His drugs. Drugs that it had taken nearly a full day to get his hands on. He’d had to travel beyond London, he’d had to track down someone who didn’t already know who he was because of Mycroft. He’s scowling as he listens to him slamming drawers and cupboards, but then he makes it worse by opening his mouth and speaking. That just rubs it in, the fact that Mycroft’s the reason the hunt for them was so hard in the first place, and he’s here trying to take it away.
Sherlock kicks his feet untangled from the blanket at the foot of the sofa and storms into the kitchen. He’s still smaller than Mycroft, but just barely. He’s caught up to him, and what he lacks in height and breadth he makes up for in sheer will. His brother has never been keen on the dirty work, on exerting himself, but Sherlock is more than willing. He manages to look imposing in the doorway. At the very least, he looks unhinged, the same look as the last time they were here in his flat, Sherlock high and Mycroft with his hands where they didn’t belong.
And this time, if he pins Mycroft to the wall to prove to him that he can’t push him around like a little kid anymore, John isn’t here to stop him.
“Put that down,” Sherlock says, trying hard to enunciate every word, make them hard, make them commands, but his rage is leaking through. His control is gone, torn away from him, leaving him raw and sparking with emotions. He’s still sharp, still very much himself but there’s less filter than there ever was, and there wasn’t much to begin with.