For a man who prides himself on keeping himself in constant control, he cannot win. For the first time in god knows how many years, he cannot win against his own basest desires, his own primal lust that he covers up in rent boys that he pays off well enough to avoid a scandal, or nights in Underground London that have nothing to do with the tube. He's always been so perfect, the perfect son and the perfect brother and the perfect countryman. For Sherlock to unlock this, something he's held back for so long is nothing short of terrifying, as though for the first time in all of his life he's walking a tightrope and taking a risk with nothing below him to catch him if he falls. And oh, does he fall.
That hand on the back of his neck, that snapped out phrase telling him to shut up - reminiscent of earlier days, when a young Sherlock would get angry at him, and despite the words bringing up echoes of early childhood memories before this all started to go down hill, the kiss brings him back to reality. He's grabbed again, fingers sliding into cropped short hair and gripping the back of his neck, and whenever he kisses Sherlock this time it's almost sweet. The anger in his movements, the furious way he had torn out strands of hair before melts away into his fingers sliding over Sherlock's shoulders, as though guiding him on what to do. He slides his hands down, shows Sherlock what to do with his hands, slides one around to the small of his back and the other a bit up, and he kisses him gently.
He doesn't say anything, as per his brother's (if not bratty) request, and he's allowing the kiss to say it for him. He's never been a man of words, never been one to tell someone just how special they are, least of all Sherlock. But there's something to be said for the gentle way he cradles him, for the way he just barely plays at his lips with his tongue, everything in slow motion as though he's trying to remember the way this feels.
He knows he can't win, he knows he's already lost, and when Sherlock is concerned, he always is. No other man or woman on Earth can get to him the way Sherlock can. Moriarty knew that. So did Magnussen, and every other enemy the two of them had ever faced off against one other worth their salt. Even Irene Adler knew that big brother would come running to save Sherlock if he was in any danger whatsoever. And now, he's completely in such a state. Entirely enraptured by the beautiful detective, such a smart and brilliant mind, so smart that even he would know.
If anyone would have been able to see past that protective big brother gaze into his heart, it would have been Sherlock.
He parts their lips for a moment, looking at him, watching him as though trying to understand. It doesn't make sense that Sherlock would return the sentiments. Sentiment is not an advantage, hadn't he told his brother that years ago? Caring was a weakness, and by allowing him to express his only true weakness, he felt exposed. Desperate to have an answer. He kisses him again, this time of his own volition, this time completely with himself in control, and he exhales as he parts again.
"You do want this." He repeats, because there's no way. There can't be.
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For a man who prides himself on keeping himself in constant control, he cannot win. For the first time in god knows how many years, he cannot win against his own basest desires, his own primal lust that he covers up in rent boys that he pays off well enough to avoid a scandal, or nights in Underground London that have nothing to do with the tube. He's always been so perfect, the perfect son and the perfect brother and the perfect countryman. For Sherlock to unlock this, something he's held back for so long is nothing short of terrifying, as though for the first time in all of his life he's walking a tightrope and taking a risk with nothing below him to catch him if he falls. And oh, does he fall.
That hand on the back of his neck, that snapped out phrase telling him to shut up - reminiscent of earlier days, when a young Sherlock would get angry at him, and despite the words bringing up echoes of early childhood memories before this all started to go down hill, the kiss brings him back to reality. He's grabbed again, fingers sliding into cropped short hair and gripping the back of his neck, and whenever he kisses Sherlock this time it's almost sweet. The anger in his movements, the furious way he had torn out strands of hair before melts away into his fingers sliding over Sherlock's shoulders, as though guiding him on what to do. He slides his hands down, shows Sherlock what to do with his hands, slides one around to the small of his back and the other a bit up, and he kisses him gently.
He doesn't say anything, as per his brother's (if not bratty) request, and he's allowing the kiss to say it for him. He's never been a man of words, never been one to tell someone just how special they are, least of all Sherlock. But there's something to be said for the gentle way he cradles him, for the way he just barely plays at his lips with his tongue, everything in slow motion as though he's trying to remember the way this feels.
He knows he can't win, he knows he's already lost, and when Sherlock is concerned, he always is. No other man or woman on Earth can get to him the way Sherlock can. Moriarty knew that. So did Magnussen, and every other enemy the two of them had ever faced off against one other worth their salt. Even Irene Adler knew that big brother would come running to save Sherlock if he was in any danger whatsoever. And now, he's completely in such a state. Entirely enraptured by the beautiful detective, such a smart and brilliant mind, so smart that even he would know.
If anyone would have been able to see past that protective big brother gaze into his heart, it would have been Sherlock.
He parts their lips for a moment, looking at him, watching him as though trying to understand. It doesn't make sense that Sherlock would return the sentiments. Sentiment is not an advantage, hadn't he told his brother that years ago? Caring was a weakness, and by allowing him to express his only true weakness, he felt exposed. Desperate to have an answer. He kisses him again, this time of his own volition, this time completely with himself in control, and he exhales as he parts again.
"You do want this." He repeats, because there's no way. There can't be.