The fire crackles in the grate, casting shadows across Mycroft's face as he peruses the newspaper. I watch him from where I've made myself comfortable on his sofa, the silence between us charged with the electricity of unspoken words. It's always been this way between us—so much left unsaid yet perfectly understood.

"You're staring, Sherlock," he says without looking up, turning the page with a rustle that seems too loud in the quiet room.

"I'm observing," I correct him, shifting to get a better view of his profile. The firelight catches in his hair, turning the dark strands to bronze at the temples. "There's a difference."

"Is there?" He finally looks up, his eyes meeting mine across the small space. The temperature in the room seems to rise several degrees.

I stand slowly, smoothing my dressing gown as I move toward him. He doesn't retreat as I approach, doesn't so much as blink when I perch on the arm of his chair, close enough that our thighs almost touch. His scent surrounds me—expensive cologne, pipe tobacco, and the subtle underlying warmth of his skin.

"What are you reading?" I ask, though I couldn't care less about the news. My finger brushes his sleeve, just a featherlight touch that makes him inhale sharply.

"Reports," he says, his voice slightly lower than before. "Nothing that would interest you."

"Try me," I murmur, leaning closer. His eyes flick down to my mouth and back up, a momentary lapse in his composure that I store away like a valuable clue.

The newspaper hits the floor with a soft thud as his hand finds my jaw, his thumb brushing my lower lip. The touch is almost chaste, but the look in his eyes betrays him—dark with a hunger he can't hide, not from me.

"Sherlock," he warns, but it sounds more like a plea than a rebuke.

"Mycroft," I echo, my hand covering his where it rests on my face. "Stop pretending."

The air between us crackles with the tension of years of denied desire, and in this moment, I know—tonight, the pretense ends.