The immediate accusation is something that stops him in his tracks.
He was good at covering himself up. Good at masking his gaze, good at averting his eyes even when Sherlock would trample around bare as could be in a sheet in the middle of Buckingham Palace. He was good at making certain that his interests were masked by worries; he made certain that he maintained a respectable distance. Personal visits were usually forgone in place of cameras and CCTV and bodyguards. Drugs were thrown out because the way that Sherlock looked, sallow and pale was nothing compared to the way he normally was, beautiful and full of life. He had felt "stirrings" of events, had immediately squashed such urges and tailored his behavior and speech to make certain nothing was immediately obvious.
His expression in something blank, watching Sherlock as he figures it out. intimate feelings. Focused on my whereabouts. He's frowning as he watches, observes. He was not entirely focused on sex. Not entirely. Feelings for his brother had transcended such physical and physiological reactions, thus his desire and need to consistently hide such "feelings" as it were. He watches as Sherlock remarks on his state, eyes flicking down - shame. Certainly shame.
Who wouldn't feel shame in having feelings for their younger brother?
"Whether you're right, or wrong Sherlock, it's irrelevant." He's cold and icy in response. The iceman as it were. He had grown adept to being able to mask such emotions and feelings on his part, grown adept to being able to order assassinations and cause governments to topple, and far be it from him to spare his own feelings (or his brother's) in the name of something that could never - would never - be able to happen.
There were reasons he kept it so quiet. Reasons he had distanced himself so far away from the very notion.
no subject
He was good at covering himself up. Good at masking his gaze, good at averting his eyes even when Sherlock would trample around bare as could be in a sheet in the middle of Buckingham Palace. He was good at making certain that his interests were masked by worries; he made certain that he maintained a respectable distance. Personal visits were usually forgone in place of cameras and CCTV and bodyguards. Drugs were thrown out because the way that Sherlock looked, sallow and pale was nothing compared to the way he normally was, beautiful and full of life. He had felt "stirrings" of events, had immediately squashed such urges and tailored his behavior and speech to make certain nothing was immediately obvious.
His expression in something blank, watching Sherlock as he figures it out. intimate feelings. Focused on my whereabouts. He's frowning as he watches, observes. He was not entirely focused on sex. Not entirely. Feelings for his brother had transcended such physical and physiological reactions, thus his desire and need to consistently hide such "feelings" as it were. He watches as Sherlock remarks on his state, eyes flicking down - shame. Certainly shame.
Who wouldn't feel shame in having feelings for their younger brother?
"Whether you're right, or wrong Sherlock, it's irrelevant." He's cold and icy in response. The iceman as it were. He had grown adept to being able to mask such emotions and feelings on his part, grown adept to being able to order assassinations and cause governments to topple, and far be it from him to spare his own feelings (or his brother's) in the name of something that could never - would never - be able to happen.
There were reasons he kept it so quiet. Reasons he had distanced himself so far away from the very notion.
"This will never happen."