The first time Sherlock didn't return for the holidays, Mycroft decided to pay him a surprise visit. Though he frequently worked alongside of some of the most brilliant minds in the nation, none of them could hold a candle to his younger brother. He knew of the difficulty, the impossibility, of forming true friendships, but what he and Sherlock had was a deeper understanding. He missed that easy camaraderie far more than any physical contact, and he was far past such youthful indiscretion, in any case. There were more appropriate outlets available to him, and he used them as needed.
Under the pretence of searching for a seat, Mycroft took the opportunity to covertly survey the tiny studio flat, although Sherlock was well aware of this and found his attempt at duplicity amusing. No events on the calendar, save academic deadlines. The bed, pushed against the wall, making it impossible to get out from the other side. Clearly, he had never given the slightest thought to sharing it. No new CDs, his taste not having been broadened by a significant other. The telly was facing Sherlock's modern designer chair rather than the sofa. A room thoroughly designed for one. The flat was not compulsively neat, nor was it the chaotic mess of someone unable to cope with life's demands. He chose the sofa.
"Does my living arrangement meet with your expectations?" Sherlock grinned.
"No one?"
"I have no interest. Though you really do need to check the lavatory before making such a definitive proclamation."
"Hardly necessary."
"Perhaps I simply prefer to spend my time at her larger, more comfortable place?"
Mycroft responded with a raised eyebrow.
"Or his," Sherlock added.
"I certainly did not come here to judge any aspect of your relationship. If you had actually had one. Of course, if you are looking to, fulfil your needs, there are many ways to do so outside of one." Mycroft had spoken far too quickly; he hadn't time to assess how that would have sounded. It wasn't meant to be suggestive. Although Sherlock paused for mere seconds before forming a response, Mycroft was all too aware of Sherlock's careful analysis of what he had just said. Why? Did it sound like he was offering something considerably more inappropriate than a vague allusion to escorts and one-night-stands? He didn't think he wanted... that... any longer, not as an adult, but perhaps on some level... and Sherlock was clearly reading him deeply. He focused on looking unaffected, nonchalant. It would not do to look as if he was reconsidering his own words as a possible thinly-veiled sexual invitation. Why should they have been interpreted as such? Merely a snarky joke between brothers.
"I would see to it they were, fulfilled," Sherlock responded, his voice deep, but strangely quiet, "if I had any such 'needs'."
This was unexpected. Mycroft felt a wave of sympathy.
"Sherlock, sometimes we want things that are seemingly incompatible with what others expect of us, and we convince ourselves that we shouldn't feel..."
"For God's sake, Mycroft, do you really think I'd give a damn what society thinks? The general consensus of a world filled with idiots? I'm not homophobic. Sex, any type of sex, does not alarm me. I am just not interested in it."
Re: FILL 7a/?Plausible Deniability (TW: underage, child abuse, incest, dark!mycroft)
Under the pretence of searching for a seat, Mycroft took the opportunity to covertly survey the tiny studio flat, although Sherlock was well aware of this and found his attempt at duplicity amusing. No events on the calendar, save academic deadlines. The bed, pushed against the wall, making it impossible to get out from the other side. Clearly, he had never given the slightest thought to sharing it. No new CDs, his taste not having been broadened by a significant other. The telly was facing Sherlock's modern designer chair rather than the sofa. A room thoroughly designed for one. The flat was not compulsively neat, nor was it the chaotic mess of someone unable to cope with life's demands. He chose the sofa.
"Does my living arrangement meet with your expectations?" Sherlock grinned.
"No one?"
"I have no interest. Though you really do need to check the lavatory before making such a definitive proclamation."
"Hardly necessary."
"Perhaps I simply prefer to spend my time at her larger, more comfortable place?"
Mycroft responded with a raised eyebrow.
"Or his," Sherlock added.
"I certainly did not come here to judge any aspect of your relationship. If you had actually had one. Of course, if you are looking to, fulfil your needs, there are many ways to do so outside of one." Mycroft had spoken far too quickly; he hadn't time to assess how that would have sounded. It wasn't meant to be suggestive. Although Sherlock paused for mere seconds before forming a response, Mycroft was all too aware of Sherlock's careful analysis of what he had just said. Why? Did it sound like he was offering something considerably more inappropriate than a vague allusion to escorts and one-night-stands? He didn't think he wanted... that... any longer, not as an adult, but perhaps on some level... and Sherlock was clearly reading him deeply. He focused on looking unaffected, nonchalant. It would not do to look as if he was reconsidering his own words as a possible thinly-veiled sexual invitation. Why should they have been interpreted as such? Merely a snarky joke between brothers.
"I would see to it they were, fulfilled," Sherlock responded, his voice deep, but strangely quiet, "if I had any such 'needs'."
This was unexpected. Mycroft felt a wave of sympathy.
"Sherlock, sometimes we want things that are seemingly incompatible with what others expect of us, and we convince ourselves that we shouldn't feel..."
"For God's sake, Mycroft, do you really think I'd give a damn what society thinks? The general consensus of a world filled with idiots? I'm not homophobic. Sex, any type of sex, does not alarm me. I am just not interested in it."