Control has never been a concern of Sherlock’s. He only controls himself to the extent necessary to operate at optimal levels. He might argue that’s what it is, anyway. When he’s on a case, he controls his sleeping and eating habits. He controls the people and situations around him like a web so that he can sense a disturbance like the plucking of a single line of silk. An outsider might say he throws himself headlong into things, might call it obsessive, out of control, but for Sherlock it is its own brand of control. It’s the kind of calculation that’s white knuckles tight on the wheel, hurtling a hundred and twenty miles an hour around a break-neck track. And when he can’t find anything to occupy his mind, he dulls it with whatever he can find, quiets the constant motion of thought with drugs so he doesn’t veer off course, because he can feel that alternative is worse than this.

Or maybe he’s just chasing the high.

Sherlock hasn’t wanted this like Mycroft has. Not to the same extent, anyway, and certainly not for as long. He’d begun to suspect this in Mycroft some time ago, a few years back, and then he’d begun to push here and there. He’d gathered information and made deductions and wondered why, but then he’d begun to consider what it might be like. He imagined it would be different than the experiences he’d had before, because Mycroft was different. He was sharper, formidable, a challenge. And he meant more to him, though he’d hardly admit that aloud.

It is different. Even just kissing him is different from what he’s known before. Even though it changes and he misses how it was a few moments ago, that edge of anger and the way fingers gripped tight in his hair, this sets his pulse racing, too. He’s never known Mycroft like this, gentle, sentimental. He’s never imagined him like this, but then, right now, he’s not sure how he had imagined this. In truth, his mind is quickly receding, quieting more than the drugs even had allowed him.

Now, he’s not piecing anything together. He’s just feeling and reacting. Mycroft’s hands move over his shoulders and it’s slow. He’s drawing him in rather than pushing him away, and Sherlock mimics the moves, hardly thinking about the fact that Mycroft is guiding him at all. He wants to touch, and being touched is permission enough. Sherlock’s hand moves down his neck, traces the collar of his shirt, the fabric of his suit and follows the collar down his chest.

He’s slow to follow, wrapped up in this as he is. Mycroft’s tongue is playing against his lips for a few long moments before Sherlock thinks he maybe means to steal inside. His lips part and hardly a moment later, Mycroft is pulling away. Sherlock tries to follow, leans after him, a sound that’s close to a breathed moan escaping his still parted lips.

Sherlock blinks at him as Mycroft stares back. Mycroft is thinking something, and right now he’s not in any frame of mind to try and figure out what that might be. He’s afraid he’s going to push him away again, for real this time, and leave, and then what? But that isn’t what happens. Instead, he kisses him again, and it’s different this time, like he’s coming to it willingly rather than Sherlock taking it from him.

“I want this,” he repeats, breathless and eyes shining, not from drugs, but from desire. He hadn’t imagined that it would be quite like this, that it would feel this good. That hand that hadn’t known what to do is now undoing the top-most button of Mycroft’s jacket, and he’s pressing forward for another kiss, lips parted and inviting him in.