He’s aware that it’s seen as wrong, as shameful as Mycroft obviously believes that it is, but Sherlock has never had much shame. The truth is, he’s considered it. Once he’d begun to compile data, he’d hardly been able to not. The pieces were slow to show the picture and spanned years of collection. When he was seventeen and Mycroft returned home from university and the events that had unfolded in the days and weeks that followed. His dogged pursuit of Sherlock’s whereabouts, companions, cohorts, dealers, targets. Mycroft had all but haunted him for years, dipping his fingers into every bloody thing he did. There were other, more subtle things. Uncharacteristic things. Perhaps it was a stretch. With anyone else, it would be, but Sherlock knew Mycroft, or he thought he did. There were glimmers of it when he admitted he didn’t want Sherlock to go, and when he quickly averted his eyes at Sherlock’s prodding that he find himself a ‘goldfish.’
Wondered about it, about just what Mycroft’s interests might be. It was almost amusing, as rational and cold as Mycroft is, to imagine this is hiding beneath. An interest, a desire like this. If he’s right, he knows it isn’t just a desire for sex. If it is, there’s plenty of opportunities for a man like Mycroft to satisfy that discretely. No, if Sherlock’s right, this is a great deal more than just that.
Maybe he’s wrong, but he doesn’t think he is, and right now, that’s more than enough to encourage him right now. Mycroft managed to get away from him, and while his brother climbs to his feet, Sherlock doesn’t do the same automatically. He’s watching for Mycroft to betray himself again, more than he already has, to give something else away. He sees his eyes slide shut, the way he always does when he’s counting to calm his nerves so he doesn’t, for example, kill Sherlock after he’s done something awful. Mycroft straightens his suit, but it’s still apparent that he hasn’t managed to completely control himself once more.
When his brother’s hand goes for the rubbish bag, Sherlock finally moves, standing again. He’s not between Mycroft and the door anymore, but it hardly matters, he can still stop Mycroft if he tries to leave.
“You’ve got feelings for me. Intimate feelings,” he ventured, voice a little harder than he’d intended it to be, staying Mycroft’s exit with those words, a hook to keep him here. It’s selfish; he doesn’t want him taking the rubbish away. And it’s curious, needing to know if he’s right, and interested, genuinely interested in what else Mycroft would give away if he were called out on it.
“You’re absurdly focused on my whereabouts and wellbeing, regardless how many times I’ve told you to just leave me be,” there’s more than a touch of annoyance there, though he continues, “You’re lonely, and yet you’ve never once pursued a relationship of any kind. And you’re ashamed,” he adds, remarking on the shame he’s noticed before and the shame he continues to read off of his brother as he speaks, “And not just because of a bodily function.”
Sherlock can tell it’s deeper than that. As he talks, shares his deductions aloud, his whole tone changes ever so slightly, becomes less hard and accusing and more genuinely curious, even interested.
“I’m right,” he pushes again, unable to let it be.
no subject
Wondered about it, about just what Mycroft’s interests might be. It was almost amusing, as rational and cold as Mycroft is, to imagine this is hiding beneath. An interest, a desire like this. If he’s right, he knows it isn’t just a desire for sex. If it is, there’s plenty of opportunities for a man like Mycroft to satisfy that discretely. No, if Sherlock’s right, this is a great deal more than just that.
Maybe he’s wrong, but he doesn’t think he is, and right now, that’s more than enough to encourage him right now. Mycroft managed to get away from him, and while his brother climbs to his feet, Sherlock doesn’t do the same automatically. He’s watching for Mycroft to betray himself again, more than he already has, to give something else away. He sees his eyes slide shut, the way he always does when he’s counting to calm his nerves so he doesn’t, for example, kill Sherlock after he’s done something awful. Mycroft straightens his suit, but it’s still apparent that he hasn’t managed to completely control himself once more.
When his brother’s hand goes for the rubbish bag, Sherlock finally moves, standing again. He’s not between Mycroft and the door anymore, but it hardly matters, he can still stop Mycroft if he tries to leave.
“You’ve got feelings for me. Intimate feelings,” he ventured, voice a little harder than he’d intended it to be, staying Mycroft’s exit with those words, a hook to keep him here. It’s selfish; he doesn’t want him taking the rubbish away. And it’s curious, needing to know if he’s right, and interested, genuinely interested in what else Mycroft would give away if he were called out on it.
“You’re absurdly focused on my whereabouts and wellbeing, regardless how many times I’ve told you to just leave me be,” there’s more than a touch of annoyance there, though he continues, “You’re lonely, and yet you’ve never once pursued a relationship of any kind. And you’re ashamed,” he adds, remarking on the shame he’s noticed before and the shame he continues to read off of his brother as he speaks, “And not just because of a bodily function.”
Sherlock can tell it’s deeper than that. As he talks, shares his deductions aloud, his whole tone changes ever so slightly, becomes less hard and accusing and more genuinely curious, even interested.
“I’m right,” he pushes again, unable to let it be.