“I want it, too.”
“You’re too young.” Mycroft brings another cigarette to his lips. His hands shake as he lights it.
Sherlock huffs a laugh, bitter. “You used to be the one person who never told me that.”
“This is different.”
“You’re avoiding me. You don’t even hug me anymore, not since–”
“Sherlock,” Mycroft cuts him off, warningly.
Sherlock falls quiet. He leans against the wall next to his brother, watches from the corner of his eye as he throws away the rest of his cigarette and then lights yet another one. The silence is tense between them until Sherlock breaks it.
“That’s all there is to it then,” he says dryly. “My age.”
Mycroft sighs, weary. “Hardly.”
Sherlock turns his head to look at him. Mycroft’s eyes are closed as he takes another drag. He looks pained. Withdrawn. Guilty. “You clearly don’t care that I’m your brother. Were I older, you’d be all over me right now.”
Mycroft looks down at him. “In a heartbeat.”