"You didn't," Mycroft frowned. "You didn't shay it."

"Cause I wasn't drunken then," Sherlock replied.

"But you're drunken now!"

"But you alwayz shay that shenti-sheminent izh not, um, advanshing, or shomething."

"It izh, if you're drunken," Mycroft said firmly. "Cause, then it'sh an advantage, cause then you feel lonely, sho..." he trailed off, perplexed. "Yesh, if no one thinksh you're really shen-timent-ally, ah, dish-ad-van-taged, cause they know you're drunken, then you, uh, ma-ni-pea-you-late them, to think you don't mean it, sho, sho then you can shay it!" he beamed.

Sherlock looked confused. "Sho, I can shay it?"

"Uh huh. Ol-ny if you mean it. Cause you can't ma-nip-you-late me, I'm the shmart one."

Sherlock didn't seem convinced. "But I can't shay it, cause it'sh a shecret!"

"Sho shay it in shecret."

Sherlock shifted over, and leaned his face to the side of Mycroft's. His whisper was audible to the others. "I love you, too, even if you're a rubbish big bother."

"Brother," Mycroft corrected primly, in the same loud whisper.

"Bother," Sherlock repeated defiantly. "But you can't tell anyone I shaid it, 'kay? John will laugh 'til he'sh bawling."