"How are you, Sherlock?" Mycroft raised his wineglass to his lips, waiting in silence for his brother's response. He'd insisted on taking Sherlock to dinner at his club, certain that his brother wouldn't have been eating properly since John had moved out. He looked at Sherlock over his glass, taking in the healthy skin and bright eyes, the perceptive glance around the room, the scowl that settled over his features at Mycroft's question.
"Fine," replied Sherlock curtly. "Why do you ask?" He knew exactly why; he wanted to hear his brother admit to meddling in his affairs yet again. He was a grown man, for heavens' sake, he could look after himself! It had been this way between them since the first day Sherlock had gone away to school, and things had never really changed. Mycroft looked out for his little brother, and said brother resented him for it.
"I worry about you," Mycroft murmured softly. Sherlock glanced up sharply, a brief expression of surprise lightening for a moment his surly expression. It was so unlike Mycroft to be so straightforward about his motives, that Sherlock forgot his biting remark in favour of examining his brother more closely, eyes narrowed in immediate suspicion. Mycroft always had an agenda, always had some scheme up his sleeve; there was no way he was simply being brotherly for its own sake. It just didn't happen.
Donning his poker face several seconds too late, Sherlock smirked at his brother. "I'm honoured," he drawled sarcastically, mind working frantically behind his mask to unravel this particular mystery. Mycroft was always at the source of his most interesting problems, with his superior intellect and webs of influence so broad it could never be fully catalogued by anyone else, even his little brother. "The British Government, worrying about little old me." The comment was predictable, tired even. Sherlock didn't want to play their usual games, he wanted to understand the unfamiliar expression on his brother's face as he looked on indulgently from across the table.
Mycroft followed Sherlock's train of thought with pinpoint accuracy, marking with satisfaction the precise moment at which his brother lost interest in their petty exchange and turned the attention of his formidable mind entirely on the enigma presented by his brother. Part of Mycroft desperately wanted Sherlock to figure it out, after all these years, but uncertainty still gnawed at the corner of his mind. He knew that most people would consider his secret – his most carefully guarded personal secret – horrifying, disgusting, just… wrong. But the Holmes brothers were not 'most people'. Mycroft was agonisingly aware of the moral implications, the potential damage to their reputations, the emotional maelstrom that would inevitably follow his brother's understanding of that one tiny clue. It was simply that he couldn't bear the idea of another day lived in uncertainty.
In the beginning, Mycroft had believed that to have hope would always be better than outright rejection. But he was wrong, he knew that now. As the snakes writhed in his stomach, invisible on his calm exterior to all but the man sitting across from him now, studying him intently, he knew that nothing could be worse than this unholy suspense. It was torturous.
Then suddenly Sherlock's eyes flew wide open, his lips parting in a shocked gasp that startled his older brother from his thoughts. Mycroft swallowed, hard. Sherlock had figured it out.