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“I hate it when you oh-so-kindly visit me, brother dear,” he spits. The bitterness in his tone is fake, but no one apart from him would notice anyway. Well, no one apart from him and his brother.
Mycroft lets it go — makes an offhand remark as a reply, albeit the detective notices the way his mouth twitches in amusement, a nearly imperceptible smirk tugging at his lips. Sherlock wants to kiss it off his face.
Obviously, Mycroft knows he’s lying. He just doesn’t seem to know what exactly he’s lying about. And Sherlock uses that to its fullest.
“I hate your bloody suits,” he snaps. “Really, aren’t you hot in this weather?”
Frankly, he loves Mycroft’s suits — just like everything else he says he hates about him — but it is almost twenty-five degrees outside. He hasn’t seen the man in just his dress shirt in ages — the last time he did was when Mycroft got shot, and admittedly, the shirt was the last of his concerns at the time — the only thing that mattered was to get him to John as soon as possible. He kind of regrets not taking a closer look now.
“I assure you I’m not, brother dear,” Mycroft deflects. The younger stares at his lips as he speaks — just a moment longer than acceptable, just enough to blame it on being distracted. Mycroft wouldn’t buy that for a second. The thought makes Sherlock’s insides tremble.
“Stop talking, your voice is annoying, I hate it,” he all but whines. Mycroft’s back at his flat — this time it’s to pester him about a top-secret case or whatever it was that he said. Sherlock wasn’t really listening, eyes fixed on the elder’s hands. He’s always had such nice hands.
“You’ve got to find those plans, Sherlock,” the man insists. “Don’t make me order you.”
The younger notes the way his mouth twitches at the last couple of words, his eyebrows rising. The look in his eyes is somehow suggestive, and Sherlock thinks he deduced wrong for a second.
He’s never wrong.
Sherlock frowns, clenching his jaw tighter. Mycroft leaves the room too soon for the detective to hear the stifled laugh, but he sees it in his posture as he descends the stairs.
“I hate it that you’re taller than me.”
Just a couple of centimetres, really, not nearly enough for it to be noticeable, not nearly enough for Sherlock to have to look up when talking to him, not nearly enough for him to guide the man’s face towards his in order to kiss him. Their height difference is perfect in that sense, actually: if the younger just raised his head the tiniest bit and leant closer, his lips would brush against Mycroft’s — the mere thought makes his heart stutter for just a second.
He imagines it for a moment, almost involuntarily, and makes an extra effort to stare at the wall and not Mycroft’s lips as the picture draws itself clear as day in his mind.
Mycroft gives him the look — the one with narrowed eyes and amusement in the twitch of his lips — and turns away, bringing his hand up to rub his face — to feign exasperation — but Sherlock sees through it easily.
This game intrigues the detective: both of them notice the things that the other tries to hide — yet they still continue to drop these little hints, continue to show just a little bit too much. If Mycroft really wanted to, he would restrain his emotions, putting on a blank expression like always; if Sherlock really wanted to, he would keep silent instead of voicing out those little lies-confessions; but now that he knows that it’s safe, he’s actually thrilled to get a reaction out of the man every single time — it feels like something new, the sensation reminding him of getting high for the first time. The remarks have become more personal recently: maybe about his hair, or dressing habits, or voice. Or height, like right now.
Sherlock’s not ready yet to comment on the way Mycroft’s eyes glisten in the sun, or say something about his choice of perfume — that would be too much.
For now, at least.
“You always look at me like that. Why do you always look at me like that?”
He speaks quietly, the emotion in his voice dimming down with the volume. He’s tired, really tired, and the exhaustion in his body makes him either very brave or very stupid. Maybe both. Probably both.
“Like what?” the man blinks, shifting in his armchair.
“Like that, Mycroft, you know exactly what I’m talking about,” the detective insists. He leans against the wall and smirks as he continues. “I hate it.”
“Oh, you hate it now, do you?” he teases. “What else do you hate about me, brother dear? Do enlighten me.”
Sherlock notes the way his demeanour changes almost instantly. His usually slightly amused expression turns into a new one — the detective’s not sure he’s ever seen it before. There’s a shameless smile on the man’s face, his eyes dark. He reclines in the armchair, bringing his hands together, fingers intertwining. His head is angled upwards just a bit — and he looks directly at the younger, urging him to continue.
The detective frowns. Everything about the tone and the body language practically screams flirty, but Sherlock somehow doubts, questions his own deduction skills. If that’s really what he thinks it is, then it’s a first. He’s never seen Mycroft flirt with anyone before.
“Your intellect,” he tries. “I can never outsmart you — you’re always just a second ahead.”
It was so annoying when they were children, but with time the detective’s desire to compete turned into admiration. Everybody around him is so painfully stupid sometimes, unable to see the simplest of details — so whenever the elder comes over to discuss whatever matters he deems important, the younger’s veins start bubbling with excitement, his skin prickling with anticipation.
Sherlock lets that implication float in the air unvoiced. He notes the way Mycroft lifts his eyebrows, surprise lacing his features.
He wants to see more of it.
“I hate your eyes too,” he adds then. “Genuinely. There’s too much sentiment in them. Especially when the sun reflects just right, highlighting your freckles. God, I hate your freckles.”
Mycroft’s lips part at that, his smile dimming. There’s a hint of disbelief in his eyes, but it quickly shifts into wariness. It’s only half fake, the detective notes.
“It’s also so easy to read you. You’re so emotional. How do people not see that?” he scoffs, looking away for a moment to compose himself. He wonders if Mycroft notices the nervousness, carefully hidden away in the coldness of his fingers. He dismisses the thought then — the answer is too obvious for him to even consider contemplating it.
“Oh, and I’m sure you know how much I hate your hands. A personal favourite, actually.”
Sherlock blinks. He’s used to replacing love with hate, sure, but other things — not so much. He guesses he got too careless; but oh well, they’re already talking about it, and Mycroft clearly saw through his wordplay months ago, so that’s not exactly a revelation.
He crosses his arms then, defensive, and swallows, ignoring the chuckle Mycroft gives him. His eyes fixate on the elder’s hand, the one he’s hiding his smile with.
Sherlock thinks for a moment.
He can stop this right now. The door’s right next to him — he can walk away, leave the man alone in his own flat, and Mycroft would let him.
He can also finish what he started. This little game of theirs is interesting and all, but having the definitive answer to his unspoken question would feel even better. If it’s the right answer, of course.
He’s not sure what to do.
Sherlock bites his bottom lip, looking to the side, lost in thought. Everything he’s deduced so far is laid out in front of him, and he sees the percentages clear as day before his very eyes.
The uncertainty is chipping away at him, but he knows it’s about to get worse. Or better. Depends.
“I hate you.”
His tone is shaky, voice threatening to break into a whisper. Mycroft doesn’t smile then; instead, his eyebrows twitch into a concerned frown.
Sherlock doesn’t maintain eye contact.
“I’ve always hated you,” he continues. The honesty rips at his skin, and Sherlock is desperately trying not to choke on it. Something’s blocking his airway.
Looking up at Mycroft momentarily, he finds his expression strained. His shoulders are tense, his gaze so strong it burns him. Sherlock can’t process the emotion on the man’s face.
There’s no going back now, he supposes.
“You as a person. Everything about you.”
He tries to focus. It doesn’t work. His thoughts are scrambled, racing through his mind at ridiculous speeds. His vocal cords work on their own, his filter slipping away as the anxiousness envelops him whole. Sherlock’s essentially left at the mercy of his terribly fast mind, overcome with emotion.
A weak attempt to calm down — the reminder that Mycroft’s only been indulging him so far, not shutting him down the instant he realised what was going on.
The reassurance doesn’t really help.
“You overwhelm me.”
So much to say, so many thoughts. Sherlock can’t hear any of them.
His heart is in his ears, and it’s almost deafening. He refuses to look up, in way too deep already.
“You’re just… too much,” the younger breathes. His insides squirm. “It’s too much,” he corrects. “I don’t know how to handle it properly.”
His neck feels hot. His face does too.
“I know you see right through me. Notice every reaction. It drives me insane.”
Mycroft is quiet. Sherlock trails his eyes over the man’s hands and finds them clenched into fists. The veins are more prominent under the pressure.
“I want to,” pausing, he tries to swallow, but his throat refuses to work, “tell you. Everything that you already know, I want to say. But you know I can’t. You know why.”
He’s never been good with words. He’s never been good with honesty either. Any second his heart might give out, and the tension in his ribs isn’t exactly helping.
Mycroft moves to stand up from the armchair. One look at him and Sherlock will know what to expect.
He doesn’t dare tear his eyes off the floor.
The man makes his way towards the younger, and as he steps close — closer than ever before — Sherlock stops breathing. The press of cold fingers on his chin stuns him, and he lets Mycroft tip his head up.
The man’s jaw is tense but the emotion in his eyes is so intense Sherlock doesn’t register it at first. And then he sees it clear as day: the dilated pupils, the flush on his face, the emotion itself — it screams attraction at its core, vulnerability visible in his posture.
Sherlock swallows hard as he flicks his eyes to Mycroft’s lips and back, the admission of his desire hanging in the hot air between them. Mycroft moves his hand to the detective’s neck, and his skin is warm; and Sherlock’s breath catches as the man looks down at his lips. He leans in then, and the younger can’t help but do the same, his heart hammering against his ribs. Sherlock blinks his eyes closed.
Mycroft kisses him — and the touch of his lips is unsure, hesitant. The detective raises his shaking hands to rest on the nape of the man’s neck, pulling him closer; he feels the other’s arm wrap around him, his palm pressing to the small of his back.
Sherlock withdraws a little — and presses back in, his lungs setting on fire. The elder gasps shakily but kisses back, passion mixing with tenderness. Sherlock tugs him closer, resting his shoulders against the wall, and the man goes willingly, pressing his body flush against the other’s.
Their kiss is slow and soft; one of Sherlock’s hands comes up to the elder’s cheek, and he rubs the skin affectionately, reassuringly. His other hand slides down to grasp the man’s shoulder.
He pulls back then, just the tiniest bit, to instead plant a kiss on Mycroft’s cheekbone, getting a sharp inhale out of him, and then moves to his jaw, trailing his lips to his neck. The touch is loving, not sexual, and the collar of Mycroft’s shirt is slightly in the way, but he doesn’t pay too much mind to it, nuzzling his face into his neck.
His mind starts up again as the detective lets himself catch his breath. He hears the elder swallow and then sigh deeply afterwards.
Mycroft moves his hands to hold the younger closer, wrapping both his arms around him tightly. Sherlock isn't sure if the hug's suffocating him or letting him breathe for the first time in years.
He hugs back tentatively, his chest burning with emotion.
“I love you,” he hears Mycroft say, and his heart stutters, “is what you meant to say,” he confirms as he rubs circles into the detective’s back. The remains of Sherlock’s anxiety melt with the motion.
“Yes,” he kisses the man's neck one more time, breathing in the closeness. “Thank you.”