("Lovely craftsmanship." Rich strokes his lapels without permission, daring, brush of his thumbs warm against Mycroft's chest. "You're a better man than Westwood, aren't you? Paul Smith, I think," he decides--
And Mycroft is charmed.)
He did not see what he did not wish to see. He knows that now.
But there were… warning signs… of a sort. Needling uncertainties. Niggling doubts. As he understands, it's much the same for all who find themselves thus used. Perhaps they find this solidarity comforting.
Mycroft does not.
(Charmed, and worse: flattered. Foolish, to blush at the pretty words of a pretty boy.)
Warnings, yes. Darkness in his laughter. Flares of temper, quickly snuffed, but obvious in one who was not--
(Richard Brook made his life's work comforting children with fairy tales; a nice change after a lifetime of Sherlock.)
Sherlock: another warning. Rich's curiosity about him, slightly too keen. The gleam of a magpie who's spotted gold on the battleground; what matter the means necessary to obtain it?
(Caring is not an advantage.)
He watches the CCTV footage alone as a reprimand to himself. Such disdain, game abandoned, damning words blown to him on zeroes and ones, and with a kiss.
It might have hurt a lesser man; it would have hurt him, had he not prepared for this eventuality, and been certain before the confirmation of his eyes.
(Dear me, Mr. Holmes.)
After all, isn't this how all those who choose that such a path betray? With a kiss?
Fill for http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15638.html?thread=86906134 "Mycroft didn't tell Moriarty a thing about his brother -- he told Rich Brook, his boyfriend".
**
("Lovely craftsmanship." Rich strokes his lapels without permission, daring, brush of his thumbs warm against Mycroft's chest. "You're a better man than Westwood, aren't you? Paul Smith, I think," he decides--
And Mycroft is charmed.)
He did not see what he did not wish to see. He knows that now.
But there were… warning signs… of a sort. Needling uncertainties. Niggling doubts. As he understands, it's much the same for all who find themselves thus used. Perhaps they find this solidarity comforting.
Mycroft does not.
(Charmed, and worse: flattered. Foolish, to blush at the pretty words of a pretty boy.)
Warnings, yes. Darkness in his laughter. Flares of temper, quickly snuffed, but obvious in one who was not--
(Richard Brook made his life's work comforting children with fairy tales; a nice change after a lifetime of Sherlock.)
Sherlock: another warning. Rich's curiosity about him, slightly too keen. The gleam of a magpie who's spotted gold on the battleground; what matter the means necessary to obtain it?
(Caring is not an advantage.)
He watches the CCTV footage alone as a reprimand to himself. Such disdain, game abandoned, damning words blown to him on zeroes and ones, and with a kiss.
It might have hurt a lesser man; it would have hurt him, had he not prepared for this eventuality, and been certain before the confirmation of his eyes.
(Dear me, Mr. Holmes.)
After all, isn't this how all those who choose that such a path betray? With a kiss?
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