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Verbal abuse was nothing short of common within the rather perplexing context of their relationship (established by genetic obligation and maintained by years of worry, enforced cooperation and the occasional streak of rivalry), and the obscenities exchanged between them were many - and frequent. It didn’t mean that this one did not drive its point home with a piercing clarity that rather reminded Mycroft that he did — against all snippets of hearsay information he had come across over the course of the years — have a heart. “ Self-abuse, I take it, considering the abysmal state your life inevitably reverts to whenever it happens to lack my influence. ” His tone, as ever, was dripping with idle complacence, paternal condescension offering an impervious disguise for the genuine hurt his sibling’s remark had caused. { I often find myself wishing for the very same, brother dear.} “ Do tell me, has it ever occurred to you that you ought to value your health and safety even despite your crippling hatred for everything that is Sherlock? ”

The smarmy, false tone of his brother’s words never failed to infuriate him beyond what was reasonable, and the fact that he was right only served to fan the flames. A part of him could see that lashing out was far too obvious, but that part was not in control. Not now.

“ Oh please, for one second could you just sʜᴜᴛ ᴜᴘ! ”

Of course Mycroft could see straight through his childish outburst to the true source. He always had, and he always will. Everyone seemed to look down on the eldest Holmes for his lack of outward emotion, but he had always looked ᴜᴘ. He also hated him for it (or rather, he hated himself because he didn’t have that control). Sherlock was sick of having to deal with the aftermath every time he felt too strongly.

“ You don’t care about what I do -- what I feel -- otherwise you would actually lift a finger and do something about it! ”

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