The brothers’ fronts of being inhumanly unemotional are just that: fronts. But they both deviate from their self-perceived ‘detachment’ to themselves and others in very different ways, and it is perhaps that differentiation that contributes to some level of distrust/admiration.
Sherlock is honest. He is not an open book, but he boasts information. He is passionate. His stunted emotions do, however, to some level, rule what comes out of his mouth. He perceives the information, over-analyzes it, and spits out exactly what he thinks or has concluded. He rationalizes his findings just where they are: in the environment, externally. He connects the dots of the five senses and forms conclusions based on that. Because of his tendency towards extraverted intuition, literally what he sees/smells/tastes/hears/touches is what he gets. When he then expresses his findings, it would be done so in what would be a completely straightforward manner. Albeit sometimes awkward, the underline message is clear.
John: I don’t even know your name.
Sherlock: The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street. Afternoon.
Mycroft is dishonest. He is not a liar, but he hides what he thinks is irrelevant. He is detached. His suppressed emotions do, however, to some level, warp what comes out of his mouth. He perceives the information, over-analyzes it, and then internalizes it. He rationalizes his findings in his mind by personalizing them, internally. He relates what he sees to a past experience and forms conclusions based on that. Because of his tendency towards introverted intuition, the information has become warped and is unable to be comprehended by anyone other than himself. When he then expresses his findings, it’s often so looped and inverted and messy that it’s so completely cryptic. The message then becomes misleading, although very simplistic to him.
John: Who are you?
Mycroft: An interested party.
Sherlock comes off as too brutally honest. Mycroft overcompensates and, as a result, sometimes misses the more obvious things his brother says. This leads him to worry about what comes out of his brother’s mouth and its possible implications. It also frustrates him.
Mycroft comes off as too confusingly deceptive. Sherlock, no matter how hard he overcompensates, is unable to fully pick apart the intricate web of personal internalization his brother has built. This leads him to be mistrustful of what his brother’s true intentions are. It also frustrates him.
“I had only one confidant -- my brother Mycroft. I owe you many apologies, my dear Watson, but it was all-important that it should be thought I was dead, and it is quite certain that you would not have written so convincing an account of my unhappy end had you not yourself thought that it was true. Several times during the last three years I have taken up my pen to write to you, but always I feared lest your affectionate regard for me should tempt you to some indiscretion which would betray my secret. For that reason I turned away from you this evening when you upset my books, for I was in danger at the time, and any show of surprise and emotion upon your part might have drawn attention to my identity and led to the most deplorable and irreparable results. As to Mycroft, I had to confide in him in order to obtain the money which I needed. ”—ACD, The Adventure of the Empty House
feeling so sorry for myself, for this twisted little mind that is struggling from some kind of acute identity crisis. it’s exhausting to sit myself down just to be able to understand what i think and what i feel. to have to think before i laugh, not being sure whether something is funny or not. and not sure if i have to cry because everything doesn’t seem too miserable either. and wow look at those things i once loved. i don’t think i find them lovely anymore. and i find myself asking a thousand whys. demanding to know the answers of every questions. but here i am, getting sick of all their whys. why are you like this. why don’t you do that. why won’t you be like her. why do you always pick the difficult path over the easy ones. why are you making things hard on purpose. all of those insulting whys. well i guess it’s simply because they have the right to ask, just like i do.
and here i am sitting on this same old chair leaning on the same old desk drowning in my own pool of sadness, not saying anything yet being upset over the world for not hearing my cry. do i even cry, i guess that’s the real problem. accusing people for not caring but tossing out the helping hands. drawn in fear of losing a friend but ignoring a friend’s sad whine over my repetitive refusal to spend more time together. being the weakest i can be, struggling in my own black hole yearning to be saved but waking up the next morning acting like a powerful hero trying to comfort lonely strangers, dying to be a savior.
i want to to be something new. but new scares me. i don’t want to get old. but being young sicken me. i want to get out of here. but i don’t feel like it. i want to eat. but i’m not hungry. i’m full. i’m sick. i’m sad. i’m very sad. then i text you telling you not to be sad. i wrote you a letter but i threw it away. i want to go away. i wanna go back. i want to go home. i don’t want to go home. i want to go away. but i don’t.
i wanted to curl up in bed. but i took my bag and went away. i stared at those same old houses and same old trees. i love them. i hate them. not really i guess they are just alright. the taxi driver asked me if i was sad. well, sir, maybe you tell me. does it look like i am and does it look like i know?
Sherlock and Mycroft used to compare their heights frequently; it was one of their more ‘well-meaning’ competitions - rather senseless, stemming only from Sherlock’s desire to show off and Mycroft’s resignation to his brother’s odd whims. In the Holmes’ manor, there is a heavily chipped wooden frame, decorated with markers. Red were Mycroft’s measurements, and blue were Sherlock’s. The numerical values were recorded right on the frame.
It’s a mental mind exercise he stubbornly believes involves no sentimentality. Every morning, Mycroft lists off all the measurements verbally to Anthea, in precise order - his, then Sherlock’s, and so forth. There are over twenty-four numbers, and he has never once failed to wrong even one. It’s not that he thinks he’ll forget; his eidetic memory prevents that. To him, it is a an exercise - a reminder. To his shallow admittance, it’s nothing more than a way to keep his mind sharp. But in a more subconscious level, it really is sentimentality; what else can a piece of the past in the present be?
From a perspectives of a writer.
Tumblr has made me a more open person. I know they say to be careful what you post online and all of that, but to be honest, I’ve found a lot of my own ways to be sly with my own words and descriptions of how things end up happening the way they do. I guess I consider myself a writer. I love writing in my own way that sometimes results to only me understanding the real reasons behind my written words. It’s funny and entertaining how some people think my post is about one thing and then it’s actually about another. It’s a secretive, but also public way of writing in an online “diary”. It’s quite a pleasure, lol.