Mycroft underestimated him time and time again. He underestimated his ability to look after himself, his ability to stay alive without assistance, but most important right now, he underestimated his experience. Mycroft still imagines him the way he was when he returned home from school, barely twenty and still growing into himself, but he’s not the same man that he had been once. Time had passed and his endless need to experiment, to learn by experience, it had changed him, and so had his addiction to the high. Whether it’s found in the end of a crime or in a syringe or a cigarette, getting high was something that let him feel and without it, without danger or drugs, all that was left was this maddening dull ache, screaming to be filled.
Sherlock is anything but innocent anymore. One can hardly remain innocent for very long undercover as an addict, or in their real life when every dealer refused them. Sherlock had experience with sex, in some measure of variety, but none of it something he’d consider a high in and of itself. He’d gotten off, it had felt good enough, but there had always been something missing, something more, some dark edge that set his pulse racing.
Everything now feels so rushed and out of control, but he notices some things, scrabbling to hold on to anything that he can hold over Mycroft later. He notices that he’s kissing him back. For a moment, however brief, he’s actually drawing him in, hands on his face, fingers in his hair, and it’s then that Sherlock realizes he doesn’t know what to do with his own hands. They’re on Mycroft’s arms, not intimate, but like he’s trying not to be thrown off.
The kiss is angry. That’s fitting, because so is Sherlock, but for very different reasons. Sherlock isn’t dangling anything in front of Mycroft that he plans to take away; no, he’s angry at Mycroft for meddling. For being so controlling, for taking the only high he can have right now away, for not trusting him enough with his own life to let him live it his own way. He’ll never admit that he needs it, that without the solid presence of Mycroft, his pursuit of the next greatest high would have killed him years ago. He needs that guiding hand, even if he isn’t the innocent that Mycroft imagines he is.
Or maybe, he thinks as Mycroft pushes him away, hand fisted in his hair, this is the next greatest high. They haven’t done anything more than kiss, and already Sherlock’s pulse is racing, eyes blown with lust or drugs or both. Perfect, plush lips parted, he exhales one shaky breath and stares up into Mycroft’s face.
“Because I want to,” he breathes.
He broke through. There’s emotion in his voice, emotion he’s never heard there. It feels like a victory, and there’s just the barest a hint of a smirk, but it hardly lasts because there’s so much about this that is better than just winning. It’s more important, more real than any exchange they’ve had in these past decades, and more dangerous all at once.
Mycroft is still fighting him, restraining himself and holding Sherlock at a distance and it’s infuriating. Mycroft is always keeping what he needs at arms length from him. “Shut up,” he snaps back, refusing to accept we can’t. Instead, his hand finds something better to do, curling at the back of his neck to draw him in for another kiss.
no subject
Sherlock is anything but innocent anymore. One can hardly remain innocent for very long undercover as an addict, or in their real life when every dealer refused them. Sherlock had experience with sex, in some measure of variety, but none of it something he’d consider a high in and of itself. He’d gotten off, it had felt good enough, but there had always been something missing, something more, some dark edge that set his pulse racing.
Everything now feels so rushed and out of control, but he notices some things, scrabbling to hold on to anything that he can hold over Mycroft later. He notices that he’s kissing him back. For a moment, however brief, he’s actually drawing him in, hands on his face, fingers in his hair, and it’s then that Sherlock realizes he doesn’t know what to do with his own hands. They’re on Mycroft’s arms, not intimate, but like he’s trying not to be thrown off.
The kiss is angry. That’s fitting, because so is Sherlock, but for very different reasons. Sherlock isn’t dangling anything in front of Mycroft that he plans to take away; no, he’s angry at Mycroft for meddling. For being so controlling, for taking the only high he can have right now away, for not trusting him enough with his own life to let him live it his own way. He’ll never admit that he needs it, that without the solid presence of Mycroft, his pursuit of the next greatest high would have killed him years ago. He needs that guiding hand, even if he isn’t the innocent that Mycroft imagines he is.
Or maybe, he thinks as Mycroft pushes him away, hand fisted in his hair, this is the next greatest high. They haven’t done anything more than kiss, and already Sherlock’s pulse is racing, eyes blown with lust or drugs or both. Perfect, plush lips parted, he exhales one shaky breath and stares up into Mycroft’s face.
“Because I want to,” he breathes.
He broke through. There’s emotion in his voice, emotion he’s never heard there. It feels like a victory, and there’s just the barest a hint of a smirk, but it hardly lasts because there’s so much about this that is better than just winning. It’s more important, more real than any exchange they’ve had in these past decades, and more dangerous all at once.
Mycroft is still fighting him, restraining himself and holding Sherlock at a distance and it’s infuriating. Mycroft is always keeping what he needs at arms length from him. “Shut up,” he snaps back, refusing to accept we can’t. Instead, his hand finds something better to do, curling at the back of his neck to draw him in for another kiss.