He’s had more than his fair share of Mycroft’s patronizing tone to last him the rest of his life. His eyes slide shut so that he doesn’t have to look at him and listen to him at the same time. This line is tired. The worried older brother, knows better for Sherlock than Sherlock knows for himself. Saving him from himself.
“Stop pretending you don’t. have. the time,” he nearly spits the words at him, mimicking his timing and delivery as he’s refusing to let Mycroft by.
“You have nothing but the time. You have cameras on my flat, you have men you send to tail me, you pay off every drug dealer inside of London, and you stand there and tell me you don’t have the time?”
He’s curling and uncurling his fist. He’s thinking about taking a swing, or maybe he’s trying to convince himself to instead of going for his throat, instead of pinning him to the wall again because he doesn’t trust himself not to break his arm this time.
“I don’t need you to clean up after me, Mycroft. I’m not eight years old and acting out to try and get your attention,” he says, reciting a line that Mycroft fed him over and over again throughout their childhood, scolding Sherlock for being stupid and needing attention. “I don’t know how I can make it any clearer that that’s the last thing I want anymore.”
It’s harsh and maybe he doesn’t mean it, but it certainly feels like he does. He’s hurt; there’s a lifetime of hurts that are suddenly at the surface again and he’s so very close to doing something he’ll regret later.
no subject
“Stop pretending you don’t. have. the time,” he nearly spits the words at him, mimicking his timing and delivery as he’s refusing to let Mycroft by.
“You have nothing but the time. You have cameras on my flat, you have men you send to tail me, you pay off every drug dealer inside of London, and you stand there and tell me you don’t have the time?”
He’s curling and uncurling his fist. He’s thinking about taking a swing, or maybe he’s trying to convince himself to instead of going for his throat, instead of pinning him to the wall again because he doesn’t trust himself not to break his arm this time.
“I don’t need you to clean up after me, Mycroft. I’m not eight years old and acting out to try and get your attention,” he says, reciting a line that Mycroft fed him over and over again throughout their childhood, scolding Sherlock for being stupid and needing attention. “I don’t know how I can make it any clearer that that’s the last thing I want anymore.”
It’s harsh and maybe he doesn’t mean it, but it certainly feels like he does. He’s hurt; there’s a lifetime of hurts that are suddenly at the surface again and he’s so very close to doing something he’ll regret later.