"Right? Right about what, Sherlock." His tone is cold. Authoritative, like a scolding teacher to a child, as he always is to Sherlock. Mycroft is shifting, and then when Sherlock is still, continues to try to squirm. Tries to utilize his weight to his advantage, shove Sherlock back, and finally he manages to get himself loose.

Discomfort doesn't even begin to describe it. His eyes are closing, and he's counting backwards from a hundred. Thinking about baseball. Doing whatever he can to settle his own body down, because he knows fully well what Sherlock may be doing. Calculating. Deducing. Making an educated guess. It's there where he finds his solace, that Sherlock is dreadfully woefully unprepared when it comes to any carnal act, and he stands, straightening his suit.

"You're not right about anything." He grabs the rubbish bag and ties it, obviously prepared to take it out, to be able to run as far away from this situation as humanly possible.

Despite whatever fronts he'd put up, whatever shields he may have lifted, he immediately felt shame. Shame for feeling so amorous towards man so directly related to him. Shame for it being Sherlock. Shame and discomfort for everything he had felt for years regarding his dearest, lovely little brother. "It's a bodily function. Unfortunately one that is not always controlled."