Some part of his brain has already tucked that implicit admission away for later: he'll put it in context, process the old anger and that strange ringing wistfulness that he'd once driven out with drugs, figure out some subtle way of antagonizing him to even the score. But for now, Sherlock makes no effort to pull away, though he does wrinkle his nose and duck a little when he feels Mycroft ruffling his hair.
"Cluedo," he points out dryly. "Three-legged races. Quiche."
He thinks, rather suddenly and for the first time in quite a while, of Victor--Victor, with his slow smile and enormous laugh, whose kisses were electric but ultimately meaningless. Experience, he's learned, is a nearly infallible teacher.
Most of the time, anyway.
"Besides, you've always been ridiculous, what with your--your pocket squares and the bespoke umbrellas. This is different."
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2012-06-13 01:44 am (UTC)"Cluedo," he points out dryly. "Three-legged races. Quiche."
He thinks, rather suddenly and for the first time in quite a while, of Victor--Victor, with his slow smile and enormous laugh, whose kisses were electric but ultimately meaningless. Experience, he's learned, is a nearly infallible teacher.
Most of the time, anyway.
"Besides, you've always been ridiculous, what with your--your pocket squares and the bespoke umbrellas. This is different."