Mycroft doesn’t so much fight back as he just tries to block himself from the brunt of Sherlock’s abuse, trying to get free. There was a point in Mycroft’s struggling when his effort to get away became desperate, but Sherlock didn’t initially notice, didn’t think it was anything more than him finally having tolerated more than enough. Sherlock isn’t going to be thrown off so easily, though, and what had begun as a wild, scrabbling tackle and punching had become a savage sort of wrestling. He’s opening his mouth to lash back in response to Mycroft’s patronizing assertion that Sherlock can’t even manage to keep himself alive when suddenly, everything changed.
At first Sherlock looks startled, eyes wide as if he thinks he must be mistaken, but then it changes to shock. Indignation, perhaps. Revulsion, even. It’s hard to know which, because Sherlock finds Mycroft’s entire existence so repulsive right now that his face reflects the storm of emotion he’s feeling.
“Really,” Sherlock says when he finally says something, and his tone is as hard as Mycroft’s cock, but crueler, like a moral judgment on Mycroft’s apparent desires. There’s a mean curl of his mouth as he mocks him, “So I was right…”
He’s almost talking more to himself. The things he’d noticed, compiled together, gathered over time, they all fit. Mycroft’s occasional, apparently uncharacteristic sentimentality, his constant obsession with Sherlock’s health and wellbeing… if this is what he wanted it made sense that he didn’t know what to do about it, didn’t know how it would be received.
Sherlock looks uncomfortable. It’s part of the point. He wants to make Mycroft as uncomfortable as possible, wants him to feel that this is unwelcome, that Sherlock thinks less of him for it because he wants Mycroft to know how it feels to be judged inferior.
“I can’t believe you, coming in here all high and mighty to take away my drugs and tell me how poorly I manage my own life, and now this?”
He sounds completely aghast, like he’s not quite sure if he ought to hit him again or get off of him entirely. But for the time being, he does neither, he just holds him down and stares into his eyes, unrelenting.
no subject
At first Sherlock looks startled, eyes wide as if he thinks he must be mistaken, but then it changes to shock. Indignation, perhaps. Revulsion, even. It’s hard to know which, because Sherlock finds Mycroft’s entire existence so repulsive right now that his face reflects the storm of emotion he’s feeling.
“Really,” Sherlock says when he finally says something, and his tone is as hard as Mycroft’s cock, but crueler, like a moral judgment on Mycroft’s apparent desires. There’s a mean curl of his mouth as he mocks him, “So I was right…”
He’s almost talking more to himself. The things he’d noticed, compiled together, gathered over time, they all fit. Mycroft’s occasional, apparently uncharacteristic sentimentality, his constant obsession with Sherlock’s health and wellbeing… if this is what he wanted it made sense that he didn’t know what to do about it, didn’t know how it would be received.
Sherlock looks uncomfortable. It’s part of the point. He wants to make Mycroft as uncomfortable as possible, wants him to feel that this is unwelcome, that Sherlock thinks less of him for it because he wants Mycroft to know how it feels to be judged inferior.
“I can’t believe you, coming in here all high and mighty to take away my drugs and tell me how poorly I manage my own life, and now this?”
He sounds completely aghast, like he’s not quite sure if he ought to hit him again or get off of him entirely. But for the time being, he does neither, he just holds him down and stares into his eyes, unrelenting.