Mycroft is as infuriating as he ever was, staring back at him impassively. Ever the iceman, Mycroft earned his nickname, even if Sherlock had outgrown his own.
In concealing everything, he’s giving himself away. If there was nothing to give away there would be nothing to hide, so then why is he hiding? It’s not new. It’s the same distance Mycroft has kept for all these years, visible in his face now the same as it is every time they’re in the same room together. The difference is the extremity of it, how in his face it feels to have Mycroft refusing to confirm or deny, as though Sherlock is some political opponent calling him out.
In the end, it’s a toss up as to what finally set him off. Mycroft’s coldness, the threat of losing his hard-won stash on the heels of coming down from his high unpleasantly fast, or the fact that, whether he’s right or wrong about Mycroft’s interest, Sherlock’s interested too.
He’s getting something out of Mycroft, his drugs or a reaction. That much goes through his head clearly, though most of his thoughts right now aren’t terribly coherent. What he finally does, lunging at Mycroft again so soon, isn’t well planned out. It’s messy, and it’s awkward, and a testament to the inexperience Mycroft thinks defines him. With the wall nearby they don’t topple to the floor. There’s a moment where he’s maybe going for the rubbish bag that holds his drugs, but then it’s clear that’s not what he’s actually doing at all.
He kisses him hard, and it feels like a challenge in the face of this will never happen. Now it has, even if it goes no further, it has happened. He knows he’s not wrong because being wrong doesn’t add up, but the truth is he still might be. He’s not facing that right now, hasn’t really thought at all about what he’ll do if he’s wrong.
On any other day, this might not have happened. If he wasn’t high, if Mycroft hadn’t come to take his drugs, if Mycroft hadn’t paid off every bloody dealer, if John wasn’t home with his new baby, wasn’t married, wasn’t so agonizingly absent. But maybe it was inevitable. Maybe they always would have ended up here, somehow.
no subject
In concealing everything, he’s giving himself away. If there was nothing to give away there would be nothing to hide, so then why is he hiding? It’s not new. It’s the same distance Mycroft has kept for all these years, visible in his face now the same as it is every time they’re in the same room together. The difference is the extremity of it, how in his face it feels to have Mycroft refusing to confirm or deny, as though Sherlock is some political opponent calling him out.
In the end, it’s a toss up as to what finally set him off. Mycroft’s coldness, the threat of losing his hard-won stash on the heels of coming down from his high unpleasantly fast, or the fact that, whether he’s right or wrong about Mycroft’s interest, Sherlock’s interested too.
He’s getting something out of Mycroft, his drugs or a reaction. That much goes through his head clearly, though most of his thoughts right now aren’t terribly coherent. What he finally does, lunging at Mycroft again so soon, isn’t well planned out. It’s messy, and it’s awkward, and a testament to the inexperience Mycroft thinks defines him. With the wall nearby they don’t topple to the floor. There’s a moment where he’s maybe going for the rubbish bag that holds his drugs, but then it’s clear that’s not what he’s actually doing at all.
He kisses him hard, and it feels like a challenge in the face of this will never happen. Now it has, even if it goes no further, it has happened. He knows he’s not wrong because being wrong doesn’t add up, but the truth is he still might be. He’s not facing that right now, hasn’t really thought at all about what he’ll do if he’s wrong.
On any other day, this might not have happened. If he wasn’t high, if Mycroft hadn’t come to take his drugs, if Mycroft hadn’t paid off every bloody dealer, if John wasn’t home with his new baby, wasn’t married, wasn’t so agonizingly absent. But maybe it was inevitable. Maybe they always would have ended up here, somehow.