Chapter Text
Mycroft knows.
It’s in the crumpled skin of John’s face and the slight shake of his hand.
The almost haunted look of a proud man who has had his worst fears confirmed.
It’s in the smug, secret smile on Mummy’s lips. How she coddles Sherlock, asking him if he’d like a touch more tea, a bit of cake.
Sherlock’s oblivious, of course. That’s the reason Sherlock was never quite as good as Mycroft when it came to deducing. Sherlock’s not objective, he lets emotions and feelings cloud his judgement and it’s frustrating really, because some things are really quite obvious, and Mycroft has little patience for self-indulgence.
Some would say Mycroft has no emotions. He politely disagrees, thank you very much, though he probably wouldn’t tell you so. He has very few, admittedly, but he prides himself on being rational despite them. Unlike SOME people he could name, who deny the existence of feelings altogether and then fall prey to their own delusions.
John sends Sherlock’s back a lingering glance, a heart-breaking mix of longing and loyalty and acceptance that is almost indecent in it’s intensity, while the genius laughs, actually laughs at a joke Mummy makes.
Mummy smiles delightedly, her eyes catching John’s purposefully for a second. John bites his lip and Mycroft really wants to shake the both of them, Mummy for her hurtful games and John, who, after all this time, somehow still doesn’t recognize blatant manipulation when it’s staring him in the face.
Mycroft loves and despises his mother in equal measures. They’re the same, her and he, though he likes to believe that he commits no more than necessary evils and that too, only for good causes. He cannot deny though... He feels the love of the game, the pride when someone crumples before a clever bit of manipulation. It would frighten him, if he didn’t have quite so much faith in himself.
Right now, watching Mummy meddling with what is possibly the best thing to ever happen to his brother, it frightens him anyways.
Well. Mycroft’s just going to wait this one out. He’s fairly sure John would never leave Sherlock and Sherlock, though often rather childish, is devoted to his army doctor.
Mycroft takes a sip of his fine Darjeeling, wincing at the lack of sugar, and watches the scene unfold before him.