Satanic Nightjar
reach for the stars and don't settle for the moon
"No offense, brother, but I don't think you know what I want nearly as well as I do. It's my mind palace at work, after all," Sherlock expertly masked his emotions, focusing on projecting an indifferent expression onto his sharp features. Mycroft's discomfort was obvious, although the reason for it was not entirely clear. The whole situation was disturbingly similar to memories of being sent to the principal's office as a child. There was never any clear punishment for it, as each and every time he got in trouble it was for something stunningly unique. Needless to say, his teachers weren't incredibly fond of him, particularly after he began going through their rooms after school and correcting various minor mistakes, reorganizing, and throwing away books he deemed unnecessary.
"Actually, Mycroft, I'd prefer you not," he said in response to the question, refusing to offer up anything that resembled a reasonable answer. Deflecting the accusing stare that followed, he sipped his tea and averted his eyes, studying the wall behind Mycroft's chair.
"Actually, Mycroft, I'd prefer you not," he said in response to the question, refusing to offer up anything that resembled a reasonable answer. Deflecting the accusing stare that followed, he sipped his tea and averted his eyes, studying the wall behind Mycroft's chair.