Sherlock heard the text alert and allowed a quick smile to cross his face as he turned down the volume on his mobile. He knew exactly who it was, and he would be wanting to read it very much in four to six minutes from now. Mycroft often liked to talk slower than was strictly necessary, so there could only be an approximation.
"Why this room? Why not the Strangers Room?"
"The other rooms have surveillance equipment, Sherlock. This one is different. It is unmonitored. It is private. It is entirely soundproof. If you want to have a discussion, or, I suppose, murder someone without witnesses, then this would be the place to do it."
"And you think I have a need to murder someone without witnesses?"
"Perhaps."
Mycroft crossed to a flask of brandy and poured himself a glass. He raised an empty one and tilted it in his brother's direction. Sherlock shook his head. "We're different, you and I," Mycroft began.
"Yes. I know."
Mycroft frowned. Sherlock grinned.
"I know that's not what you meant, but please, do go on... Brother Mine."
"The, rules, that apply to normal people, they don't have to apply to us. We are not normal people Sherlock." He gestured with his glass, but didn't drink from it. "The Latin root means unchaste. Impure. Such archaic terms. Chastity. Purity."
"Ever the linguist. Good with your tongue, then? Can't say I recall. Not exactly a finger, is it?"
Mycroft leaned against a large mahogany desk. "I prefer 'consanguineous relationship'. Better etymology... of the same blood. Ancient Egypt. The Incan Empire. To preserve greatness."
"Small islands and mountainous tribes. Primitive cultures. A survival mechanism when faced with extreme isolation. There is no need for such isolation in today's world. But it's not the fact that you're my brother that concerns me. That is irrelevant... a boundary entirely created by culture. Of course, that was all about children. It has always been about children, in one way or another, but that is hardly the issue here."
"True. An estimated 50,000 active genes in humans, no need to concern ourselves with deleterious recessive alleles."
"And, might I say, preserving royal lineage, that's a very lofty justification for what essentially amounts to the selfish behavior of a horny teenager. The issue, Mycroft, is consent."
Mycroft swirled the drink he held and held it to his nose. "You've likely heard of the rooting reflex. If you stroke a newborn’s cheek, he will open his mouth and turn his head toward the side that was stroked. A newborn will suck anything, you know. Instinctual." He placed the glass down.
"Up to about four months of age. I somehow doubt this diversion interested you at age seven."
"Might have. For the depraved, there are no restrictions based on age. I suppose this is a suitable role for me. Your archenemy."
Sherlock crossed to the brandy and poured himself a glass. "I know how this game goes. You manage to portray yourself as evil incarnate. I see that you couldn't possibly have been that man...having looked after my well-being for years, from a far enough distance for me to almost not have noticed. Then part of me, the stupid part, rushes to your defense. That couldn't possibly be the same person...it doesn't... fit. I decide I must have gotten it wrong." Sherlock paused to sip his drink.
"Didn't see all the parts clearly, assumed they weren't there," Mycroft said under his breath, turning towards the window, eyeing his own reflection in the one-way-glass.
"Or, alternatively, I forgive you. Figure you must have dealt with something far worse. Or, perhaps, I try to understand you. No tragic motivation, just an escalating lack of concern for someone else's right to their own body's autonomy. A gradual process. Put myself in your shoes, so to speak."
Mycroft faced Sherlock again, watching quietly as he continued. "I don't care to do that. I don't care to do any of those things. And I don't choose to absolve you. However far you went, it was far enough. We both know that. We each live with the consequences." He placed the glass back on the table. "Thank you for the conversation. It has been enlightening."
Re: FILL: END Plausible Deniability (TW: underage, child abuse, incest, dark!mycroft)
"Why this room? Why not the Strangers Room?"
"The other rooms have surveillance equipment, Sherlock. This one is different. It is unmonitored. It is private. It is entirely soundproof. If you want to have a discussion, or, I suppose, murder someone without witnesses, then this would be the place to do it."
"And you think I have a need to murder someone without witnesses?"
"Perhaps."
Mycroft crossed to a flask of brandy and poured himself a glass. He raised an empty one and tilted it in his brother's direction. Sherlock shook his head. "We're different, you and I," Mycroft began.
"Yes. I know."
Mycroft frowned. Sherlock grinned.
"I know that's not what you meant, but please, do go on... Brother Mine."
"The, rules, that apply to normal people, they don't have to apply to us. We are not normal people Sherlock." He gestured with his glass, but didn't drink from it. "The Latin root means unchaste. Impure. Such archaic terms. Chastity. Purity."
"Ever the linguist. Good with your tongue, then? Can't say I recall. Not exactly a finger, is it?"
Mycroft leaned against a large mahogany desk. "I prefer 'consanguineous relationship'. Better etymology... of the same blood. Ancient Egypt. The Incan Empire. To preserve greatness."
"Small islands and mountainous tribes. Primitive cultures. A survival mechanism when faced with extreme isolation. There is no need for such isolation in today's world. But it's not the fact that you're my brother that concerns me. That is irrelevant... a boundary entirely created by culture. Of course, that was all about children. It has always been about children, in one way or another, but that is hardly the issue here."
"True. An estimated 50,000 active genes in humans, no need to concern ourselves with deleterious recessive alleles."
"And, might I say, preserving royal lineage, that's a very lofty justification for what essentially amounts to the selfish behavior of a horny teenager. The issue, Mycroft, is consent."
Mycroft swirled the drink he held and held it to his nose. "You've likely heard of the rooting reflex. If you stroke a newborn’s cheek, he will open his mouth and turn his head toward the side that was stroked. A newborn will suck anything, you know. Instinctual." He placed the glass down.
"Up to about four months of age. I somehow doubt this diversion interested you at age seven."
"Might have. For the depraved, there are no restrictions based on age. I suppose this is a suitable role for me. Your archenemy."
Sherlock crossed to the brandy and poured himself a glass. "I know how this game goes. You manage to portray yourself as evil incarnate. I see that you couldn't possibly have been that man...having looked after my well-being for years, from a far enough distance for me to almost not have noticed. Then part of me, the stupid part, rushes to your defense. That couldn't possibly be the same person...it doesn't... fit. I decide I must have gotten it wrong." Sherlock paused to sip his drink.
"Didn't see all the parts clearly, assumed they weren't there," Mycroft said under his breath, turning towards the window, eyeing his own reflection in the one-way-glass.
"Or, alternatively, I forgive you. Figure you must have dealt with something far worse. Or, perhaps, I try to understand you. No tragic motivation, just an escalating lack of concern for someone else's right to their own body's autonomy. A gradual process. Put myself in your shoes, so to speak."
Mycroft faced Sherlock again, watching quietly as he continued. "I don't care to do that. I don't care to do any of those things. And I don't choose to absolve you. However far you went, it was far enough. We both know that. We each live with the consequences." He placed the glass back on the table. "Thank you for the conversation. It has been enlightening."
"You're welcome. It was the least I could do."