"It's a dog."
"A dog? What the Hell kind of dogs have you been looking at? It's a racoon."
"A very sick racoon, by the looks of it. Can racoons develop anorexia?"
Mycroft's shoulders sagged in exasperation at this. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, he pointed---with less restraint than usual---to the top of the drawing where two lumps were protruding from his sketch's back.
Mycroft is one of 221B's most frequent guests, and also Sherlock's older, much more serious brother. He is a tall, serious man who wears dark, serious suits, and an (almost-constant) serious expression. Sometimes---on rare occasions---he smiles, but it doesn't help. His smile looks forced, like someone dressed a spider up like a waiter and threatened to fire him if he didn't start being more hospitable.
It is customary for Mycroft to pop by on a slow afternoon for tea and board games; although God knows why, for several reasons.
The first:
Neither Sherlock or Mycroft seem to like board games. 'They're called 'board' games for a reason,' Sherlock would quip whenever one is suggested. 'This is utterly trivial,' Mycroft would complain as he sets up all the pieces. 'That's very immature of you,' they'd both throw back and forth with almost every roll of the dice. They say these things, their mouths pressed into unmoving, unamused lines, yet the very next week Mycroft will be back again, usually with some kind of box under one arm.
The second: Sherlock and Mycroft are very different people, thus, it seems strange that their lives should even continue to cross at all. Sherlock is, clearly, some kind of adrenaline-obsessed lunatic that should really be working as a parachute-tester, deep-sea-diver, or fighter-plane pilot rather than an urban detective. This is a harsh contrast to the mannerisms Mycroft calls his personality; the man is the king of all pencil-pushers. He seems to live life as though he could die at any given moment; not in a live-your-life-to-the-fullest kind of way, but as if he's sad that he hadn't.
The third (and most prominent) reason why the Holmes brothers board game sessions bemuse all that happen to come across them is:
They don't really get along very well.
It is possible for two unlikely people to form and maintain a friendship, yes, but these two don't seem to have gotten past the 'forming' part let alone have a crack at 'maintaining' any sort of relationship.
They fight over who gets to be 'the top hat', then they fight over who'll be in charge of the little bits of paper money, then they'll fight over the rule book, then they'll fight over who won and who actually won because the other had---allegedly---been cheating. Or, if they'd been playing a game with no pieces, like Kerplunk (or heaven forbid, Operation) they'd fight over who gets to go first, whether the other had nudged the table, and so on and so forth until one of them storms out of the flat. This will usually be Mycroft, but it isn't unheard of for Sherlock to storm out of his own flat. Y/N had watched her flatmate do this a few times; stomp out the front door, slam it behind him, then stop on the pavement outside, confused as to why he'd left, while his brother remains in the building Sherlock pays for, eating the biscuits Sherlock owns, warming himself by the fire Sherlock had made in the hearth.
It's all rather childish and utterly pathetic and very amusing.
Y/N joins them when she can. Since becoming Sherlock's flatmate and best friend however-long-ago-that-was, she'd quickly been absorbed into the Holmes' little group of weekly sessions of whatever juvenile game one of them can find lodged at the back of their respected cupboards.
This week it's Pictionary. They'd never played Pictionary before---not together, anyway, partly because none of them owned it, and partially because whenever it was suggested that they render that fact and buy a copy, Sherlock would change the subject or distract everyone with food, a new topic of conversation, or a minor emergency.
They were only playing it now because Mycroft had ordered it online without telling anyone. He'd placed the box on the table before Sherlock had time to burn it or distract everyone while he discreetly tries to throw it out the window.
Of course, Sherlock's reason for wanting to yeet and/or burn any Pictionary boards he comes across is down to the fact that playing would mean uncovering one of his secrets, which could easily lead to exposing the other two.
Obviously, it's too late for Mycroft; since day one, he has been both aware of---and the chief tormentor of---Sherlock's hidden affinity for art. However, it's not too late for Y/N, she still remains in ignorance, and Sherlock isn't about to let a board game be the thing that finally clues her in.
Sherlock's face may have fallen into a moody frown when his brother presented his latest purchase to the small group, but Y/N was glad for this new addition to their hoard of games at their disposal. She'd sat through far more Ludo than she'd care to think about, her dreams seem to be infested with both snakes and ladders, and she's started seeing the world in Scrabble chips.
TESCO: seven points.
SHAMPOO: fourteen points.
TAXI: eleven points.
Because of this, her tone is light as she hurls various words at Mycroft from across the table, trying to guess what was written on his card. Presently, he's drawing angry circles around and around the doodle he'd done, hoping that will help his teammates understand what it's supposed to be.
"A dingo!" Y/N offered excitedly, sure she'd finally got it.
They'd given up on the timer several rounds ago; it didn't give them nearly long enough. All the little grains of sand would have fallen into the lower chamber three times by now.
"You guessed that already."
"No, I guessed a dog."
"Maybe so, but they're the same thing."
Mycroft's bony hand ceased its incessant circling of the wonky, slightly sick-looking creature, clearly aggravated by Y/N and Sherlock's ignorance. Although to be fair, he wasn't exactly giving them much to work with. He'd drawn a deformed, miserable representation of a four-legged animal, standing on a line. 'Drawn' isn't even the right word; there is no word for what Mycroft has done. His sketch looked as though a shaky string of ink had wobbled from the pen and is currently writhing in agony on the paper.
Resorting to an older tactic, he added a sketchy, desperate arrow pointing to the animal's back. Clearly, that particular, lumpy line is important. Mycroft kept drawing more arrows, his lips pressed firmly together---probably so he didn't let slip any clues (or expletives).
"You keep pointing to those but we don't know what they are!" Y/N protested as another arrow was added to the collecting cloud above the creature.
Sherlock squinted at it and asked in a puzzled tone: "Are they breasts?"
This time Y/N squinted at him rather than the picture. "Have you ever seen a breast?"
Electing not to answer that: "Is it a llama?"
"I still think it's some kind of dog."
"It's not a dog!" Mycroft all but yelled, getting a shushing from Sherlock.
"You're not supposed to give us clues."
"Now, hold on," Y/N soothed, noting Mycroft's despairing expression and the fact that the minute-hand of his watch was nowhere near where it had been when they'd started guessing. "I think we need a clue."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, falling back into his chair with his arms firmly crossed over his stomach. "Screw the clues, we're never going to get it. Mycroft always failed art at school."
"Because art isn't important. You got a D in maths," Mycroft shot back. "Several times."
Nettled: "I have photo-realistic Aspergers, Mycroft, you know full well that means I---"
"Is it a tiger on a tightrope?" Y/N asked, tilting her head to the side. She hoped approaching from another angle would offer up a new perspective, but all it really did was perplex her further. Righting herself, sighing. "Or perhaps a lion?"
"If it was a tiger I would have added stripes. And it's not a lion, do you see a mane?"
"The females don't have manes. Is it a jaguar in a circus?"
"Just move away from cats. And tightropes."
"You're really not supposed to be talking," Sherlock plucked another Custard Cream from the plate to his left and tried to separate the two slices of biscuit with his hands. Inevitably, it shattered, sending little crumbs all over the tabletop.
Mycroft made a sort of growling noise and dusted at his (now biscuit-freckled) suit with the hand not holding the pen angrily. "Are you still doing that?"
Scraping the cream out with the smooth edge of his front teeth: "Doing what?"
"Playing with your food."
Y/N gave Sherlock's forearm a little shake, sending more crumbs scattering about the place (and Sherlock's heart to do a weird little fluttery thing). "I think I know what it is!"
Mycroft visibly relaxed. "Oh, thank God."
"It's a horse," she declared triumphantly.
Sherlock nodded in understanding as if that totally made sense to him. Yes, there's the long face, and the narrow columns---he guessed---to represent legs. And that would explain the pointed ears and long neck. But what it doesn't explain is those weird little toe things on the end of the legs, or those cancerous lumps on its midsection.
Maybe they'd have more luck guessing what it was Mycroft had been trying to draw if he scribbled out his first attempt and had another go somewhere else on the page.
Or if he tries to spell out the sound of the word rather than drawing what it actually says on the card.
Or maybe Mycroft is just bad at drawing (as Sherlock had so astutely pointed out using his heightened, eminent detective skills). He's always been bad at it, even as a child---before he'd wrung the creativity out of himself like water from a sponge---not that there was much to wring out to begin with. Art requires not only hand-eye coordination but that certain vision, that way of seeing the world that Mycroft just...does not seem to have. He takes things very literally, skimming the surface of reality rather than bothering to dig down and sift through the layers.
Sherlock has always been the polar opposite, since before he can remember; eagerly hunting through everything he sees for hidden details, clues, or snippets of beauty like nuggets of gold submerged in the heaps of mass that is reality:
The crisp, crackling noise autumn leaves make as you stand on them, their delicate forms crushed against the concrete.
The swirl of a snail's shell.
A cup of water refracting light, stretching it, tearing it apart until every colour of the rainbow spills out and stains the table below.
Sherlock finds all of these things---although simple and vastly common---to be beautiful. He'd happily spend hours listening to rain pattering against the awning of Speedy's Cafe from the living room window. Or submerging his hands in a bag of flour, letting the unbelievable softness slip through the gaps between his fingers. And staring at things through his microscope, noting every little minute detail like the rocky edges of a sugar crystal, or the taught stretch of a delicate membrane.
These small, mundane little things are what make his life worth living.
Mycroft, however, doesn't seem to be able to comprehend these joys; or even recognise that there is joy to comprehend. He doesn't know he's even missing out on anything. He just sees...leaves. A snail. A cup of water. Rain. Flour. Microscope slides.
Mycroft shook his head, looking pained. "No, it's not a horse, for Christ's sake!" Then immediately cleared his throat, his cheeks heating slightly at the fact that he'd allowed himself to lose his temper---and over something so trivial. He straightened his already one-hundred-per-cent-straight tie and smoothed away a few imaginary wrinkles in his jacket. Somehow, his tie matches the colour of the wallpaper. "But you're closer than you were with the cats."
This continued for the amount of time it took Sherlock to consume another two biscuits (at which point Mycroft confiscated the plate). The amorphous animal sketch gained more arrows squarely indicating to his back, Y/N's brow gained more creases of confusion, and Sherlock had stopped paying attention a long time ago (he was now pushing Custard Cream crumbs into a little pile with the pad of his forefinger). Mycroft's spine had sagged several inches with every passing second, as if the ground was trying to reclaim him.
When he was nearly eye-level with the table, he finally announced (much to the relief of everyone in the room):
"It's a camel!"
This was met with silence. They saw but they did not believe.
"See?" Mycroft pushed himself back up, like a zombie rising from the grave, and indicated with one long finger to the wobbly line that constituted the creature's back. "There are its humps. They're a very defining feature. How could you not get that?"
Y/N cleared her throat and tried to pull her lips into an understanding smile. "Oh, yeah." Her head was nodding but everything she was saying was a lie. A nice lie, a little tiny white one---to spare Mycroft's feelings. "I see it now."
"You do?" Sherlock wasn't being so amiable; he's still shamelessly peering between the drawing and his brother as if nothing the man had handed him a toaster and told him it was a time machine. "That looks nothing like a camel!"
Affronted: "Yes it does. Granted, it's not a very life-like representation---it is a little on the cartoonish side---but it has all the key elements."
"Don't try to fob that off as a cartoon, that's just offensive." Some kind of smirk was curling at the side of Sherlock's mouth, and it made Mycroft's lips knit tightly together.
He'd seen that look several times over his lifetime and he'd hated every single one.
It's the look Sherlock had smeared all over his face when he passed his driving test---while Mycroft still didn't even have his provisional license.
It's the same smirk he wears whenever mother dishes seconds onto Sherlock's plate---while telling Mycroft not to be so greedy.
It's the look he has when he beats him at a word game, Deductions, or any of their other silly little competitions.
Smug, that's what that look is. It's the signature expression worn by younger siblings when they best their older brethren in any way. It's the face of disrespect; it means Mycroft has lost some of his pride, had it snatched from him by his little brother because his skills have fallen short. If they were a pack of wolves, Sherlock would currently be challenging Mycroft's role as alpha.
Mycroft also has a sneaking fear that this is the kind of thing Sherlock won't forget about for a long time. It is the job of the younger sibling to humiliate the older in any way possible, and this---Mycroft's sad little attempt at a camel---is an opportunity too good to miss.
He looked down at the scrawny doodle staring up at him from the table with its wonky eyes; little raisins of ink pressed into its misshapen head. Sherlock will probably make it into a T-shirt, or get it printed onto a mug (which he'll hide in the breakroom of Mycroft's place of work, labelled, so his co-workers could all have a good laugh).
"Sherlock," Y/N gave his ribs a nudge with her elbow. She'd probably figured the same thing. Her flatmate rarely manages to best his big brother, but, on the few times he does, the gloating is prolonged and powerful.
"What?" He asked, liking her touching him even if it was to give him a warning jab in the side with a spiky bone in her arm. "I'm just saying, how were we supposed to get that? It's pitiful. What's that line? Was he on a tightrope?"
Mycroft narrowed his eyes at his brother as if he couldn't quite tell if he was messing with him. "No, that's the ground. I couldn't make it grass, or have trees, or whatever, because deserts are famously barren."
"The horizon goes behind the subject, Mycroft." Sherlock cocked one eyebrow, folding one leg over the other under the table.
Mycroft felt himself suddenly wishing they were children again---everything was so simple back then. Seven years younger than his brother, Sherlock was a scrawny little thing---essentially an assortment of spindly sticks---that could easily be pushed over. Back then, their age gap actually meant something, and worked in Mycroft's favour.
Not anymore.
"Even two-year-olds have figured that out," Sherlock continued his attack, clearly finding his brother's lack of prowess in something very amusing. This got him a very gentlemanly snarl (if there is such a thing), and Y/N suddenly grabbed the paper from across the table and dragged it over, along with a pen from the pencil case by Mycroft's hand.
Sherlock watched the white rectangle advance and then stop before him, feeling like he'd swallowed a stone.
Then, the words he'd been dreading:
"You have a go, if you think you're so great."
...
Sherlock blinked at Y/N's determined expression, her eyes boring into his, challenging him. Under any other circumstances, he'd probably find this incredibly arousing and retort with something smooth and cocky and a little provocative. Like 'make me.' Well, he'd say that in his head, whilst his body actually turns into a gooey puddle on the floor, his cheeks the colour of jam and his voice cracking like a flustered schoolboy.
Now, though, the look Y/N was giving him, and the tone of her voice, was more anxiety-inducing than amusing. He feels as though he's clutching his secrets to his chest and she's trying to pry the grip away from some of his fingers.
"No, thanks, you two can have another go." Sherlock pushed the piece of A4 back across the table, Custard Cream crumbs making a gritty scraping noise as they ground below the paper. Everyone was looking at him and he didn't like it, so with one hand (just to give it something to do) he reached for the plate of biscuits. His fingers bumped into the table and he remembered Mycroft had commandeered the plate. Stupid Mycroft.
Said man's eyebrows were pulled together in the centre of his forehead. Taken aback: "You don't want a go at drawing?"
Sherlock shook his head with a 'Nah' sound, taking one end of the pen and sending it spiralling across the table. It came to a stop at Mycroft's pale wrist, just poking out from the perfectly-tailored shirt sleeve. Pushing a pen away felt strange. Usually, the sight of one fills him with a strong urge to take it in one hand and see what it can do. Like a car you'd like to give a test drive, or an outfit you think might suit you.
Sherlock knew that his brother was confused about his lack of willingness to take a turn, of course he did. If Y/N knew of Sherlock's secret abilities, she'd be puzzled too.
He would dominate at Pictionary. His attempts wouldn't be mere doodles, they'd be works of art. He'd leave everyone else's scores in the dust, he'd humiliate his older brother, and impress the woman he's had a crush on for---well, since he'd met her. Why on earth is he turning that down?
A smirk twitched at the corner of Y/N's lips.
Sherlock loved and hated it at the same time.
"You don't want a go? Well, I'm no detective, but that must mean that you're a worse drawer than Mycroft. No offence, Mycroft." She added hastily before he could shoot her a warning look.
That could work. Sherlock took the life raft Y/N had inadvertently tossed his way and drawled: "Exactly, there's no point in me having a go, you'd never guess it. We'd be here all night."
"That just makes me even more curious." Y/N was smiling, her grin burning into the side of Sherlock's face. "Come on, it'll be funny. We won't make fun of you. Much."
"No thanks." He'd tensed up in his chair, his posture slouched and indifferent but his muscles alert as if he's preparing to bolt from the room at any second. Maybe he would, if given the chance.
Mycroft was still staring at Sherlock as if he had grown an extra head. "Sherlock, what are you---?"
"Shut up, Mycroft."
Y/N blinked, the slight snarl in Sherlock's tone making her jump as if there'd just been a power cut or sudden bolt of lightning. She moistened her lips, recovering, but her smile was gone. Now she looked a little miffed, and it made Sherlock's insides try to fold in on themselves. "Okay, fine, you don't have to have a go. Mycroft, do you want another turn?"
"I think we've had enough Pictionary for one day," he sighed, the whole affair something he'd rather forget. His eyes were still slightly narrowed, regarding his younger brother with scientific interest.
Sherlock squirmed under his gaze.
Y/N either hadn't noticed, or she had, but decided not to interfere (as she so often---wisely---did when it came to the Holmes brother's squabbles). "Shall we play something else? I think Mrs Hudson has Trivial Pursuit. Shall I go and ask her if we can borrow it?"
"That's a good idea," Mycroft said with a nonchalant wave of one hand as Y/N rose from her seat. "Thank you."
Sherlock knew why he'd let Y/N search for the next game rather than do the gentlemanly thing and offer to fetch it himself. Sherlock knew what was coming, and sure enough, as soon as Y/N's footsteps could be heard descending the stairs to the ground floor, Mycroft asked:
"What was all that about?"
"All what?" The inquisitive tilt of Sherlock's head and the puzzled edge to his voice didn't fool his brother for a second.
"You know what. The lying."
"What lying? I didn't want to have a go, so what?" A little-too-indifferent incline of his shoulders. A tightening of his arms where they were knotted over his torso like a seatbelt. A twitch in his jaw where a muscle feathered.
Mycroft's steely eyes flicked from one tell-tale sign of anxiety to the next, little lines of text (probably) appearing in his peripheral---like Terminator Vision. "You implied you're a terrible artist, which we both know to be absolute rubbish. And Y/N didn't dispute you, which means she has never---in all the time she's lived with you---seen one of your drawings."
Sherlock's cheekbones had sprinkled pink at the word 'artist', his heart feeling warm and fuzzy; like a balloon filled with static electricity. Mycroft has never called him that before. A halfwit, an ignoramus, a lollygagger, yes, but never an artist. Never anything that recognises his skills, let alone compliments them.
"You would have won, by miles. And made Y/N go all swoony over you. Isn't that what you've wanted for God knows how long?"
The pleased and rather flattered blush suffusing Sherlock's face deepened to a sort of tomatoey shade of red. "What? No." Before Mycroft could dispute this obvious fib: "I didn't want a go because you're right. Y/N doesn't know I can draw, and I'd like to keep it that way."
Instantly: "That's ridiculous. Why?"
"Because...drawing is a pointless waste of time." Sherlock's blush drained away as if a plug had been pulled. He'd started the sentence tentatively, as if he hoped Mycroft would step in and correct him. When he---predictably---didn't, Sherlock continued, his tone sharpening as a slight flame of self-hatred sparked up at his own words: "I don't want Y/N seeing me as someone that wastes his time doing things that are pointless."
Mycroft's features were still assembled in a look of complete bafflement. He knows so much, but now he's faced with something that his adroit mind can't figure out, and the effects are strange. It doesn't suit him, all the raised eyebrows and blankness behind his eyes where the swirl of carefully-calculated thoughts should be. "You're absolutely right, it is useless and pointless and a waste of time. But that's just what I think. Sherlock, surely your desire to impress Y/N would be better achieved by showing her your talent and skill?"
"I don't want to impress her," Sherlock tried weakly, with a piteously low amount of conviction. He's lying to Mycroft and himself, and he's not doing a very good job of it.
"You do," Mycroft tossed that fact down between them as easily as though it was a set of cards he knew would win him a round of poker. "I can't believe you haven't brandished your excellence in her face already; people love that sort of thing; all that romantic artsy nonsense."
"You don't. You think it's stupid."
Suddenly, Mycroft got the feeling that his wish had come true; that they had indeed been teleported back in time to when they were children. Sherlock has that dejected, self-conscious look he was always trailing around in as a youth; eyes on his hands which fiddled with each other as he hides behind his floppy fringe. He'd pulled himself out of his laid-back slouch and was now bent slightly over the table like a plant in the rain. It made Mycroft shift uncomfortably in his chair. The two have their differences, but Sherlock is still his little brother, after all.
Mycroft just wished he knew how to be a big brother. He should comfort Sherlock, that much was clear. Say something nice, call him clever and then apologise for all those years he'd snapped bitter things out of jealousy.
But he didn't.
Instead, because he seems to be allergic to decent human behaviour, Mycroft stated: "And it is."
Sherlock's shoulders wilted a little more.
"But, again, that's just what I think. And who cares about that?" Mycroft added, trying to sound like he hadn't just experienced a bout of personal growth that any psychologist would be proud of. "Y/N wouldn't think it's stupid. She'll probably shower you with praise and do more of that thing she does where she touches your arm while staring up at you with big moony eyes. Don't you want that?" He sounded close to retching at the thought, but it had the opposite effect on Sherlock.
"No!" But he'd gone pink again, picturing it. Picturing Y/N looking at him with the same level of awe she'd had whilst gazing at that drawing he'd done in the police station all those weeks ago. Picturing her eyes going all wide, her jaw falling open, lips parted in a pretty little 'O' shape as she takes in the curves of graphite, arches of ink, brushes of charcoal.
He visibly wavered.
Running a hand through his hair and sitting up a little straighter: "...Maybe." There was a pause where his mouth opened and closed several times without making any noise. "...Yes. But if I tell her I can draw she might ask what I draw."
"Then show her your sketches," Mycroft stated as if that was a simple thing to do. "You must have thousands by now."
Too quickly: "I can't."
Mycroft narrowed his eyes---with suspicion rather than confusion, this time. As if he was afraid of the answer: "...Why not?"
This got him a glare and a kick from Sherlock's sock-covered foot under the table. It didn't hurt, if anything, Mycroft was more concerned about lint travelling from the old material of Sherlock's sock to his nice clean trouser leg.
"Nothing like that!"
"I didn't say anything!"
"You were thinking it." He's hiding again. Tucking himself closer to his centre like he wants to fold into himself again and again and again until he collapses into a singularity, safe from his brother's judgmental gaze. "It's just that...sometimes---usually, recently---I draw...her." Desperately: "Nothing weird! Honestly. Just her smile. Or expressions I liked. Or the way her hair was falling on that particular day." He used hand gestures as he spoke, miming the curves of Y/N's lips, the sweep of her hair, his eyes going soft with fondness.
Mycroft thought it was...pitiful? Pathetic? He feels like he's visiting his brother in A and E, looking down at him dying slowly on a hospital bed of a hideous disease. It mystifies him, more than anything else; why would anyone, ever, choose to fall in love? Look what it does to you, what it makes you do. "...You draw her without her knowing?"
"Well obviously without her knowing, or we wouldn't be having this conversation!" Sherlock snapped. He kept glancing at the door, either willing Y/N to hurry up and return so this conversation could be cut short, or because he's scared she'd returned a long time ago and heard everything he'd just confessed.
There was a silence while Mycroft mulled the information he'd gained over, and tried to form some kind of next step. Nothing he'd learnt today surprised him; Sherlock has always been a hopeless romantic, it was only a matter of time before someone caught his attention (and his heart). He likes that sort of thing---touching, messing about, having someone dote one him---despite Mycroft's efforts to wean him off it. Sherlock eats up any affection he's offered eagerly; first, it was Mother's and Father's, then friends and acquaintances; of course he's drawn to Y/N. He's probably dreamt of gaining the affections of an intelligent, pretty young woman since he'd turned thirteen.
Despite whatever beef Mycroft has with his sibling, he won't tell Y/N Sherlock's secret. He's not sure why. Maybe because he feels sorry for him, the poor love-sick bastard. Maybe it's a genetic thing, some deep-rooted instinct about family members sticking together. Or maybe it's because of a third reason that surprised even himself:
"I think you should tell her."
Alarmed: "What?! No!" Sherlock's spine had snapped straight and taught as a bowstring. "She'd think me a creep."
Mycroft shrugged. "The drawings sound complimentary. Maybe she'd be flattered."
"You're just telling me to show her because you want a good laugh," Sherlock muttered, his handsome mouth turned down into a frown. "I'll be humiliated and my best friend will leave me, and you'll be able to gloat about how right you were."
"About what?"
Frown deepening into a glower: "About relationships being a waste of time."
"Lots of things are a waste of time, that doesn't mean they should be actively avoided." This resulted in a sort of stunned silence. What Mycroft had just said was entirely contradictory to his previous beliefs and way of life, and Sherlock knew that. That's why he's just blinking at him from across the table. Sighing: "We just spent an embarrassing amount of time squabbling over a drawing of a camel; is that the best use of our limited time on Earth? No, but it was fun, so it doesn't really matter."
"...You think I should tell Y/N my secret because it would be fun?"
"No, I'm saying you should tell her you're interested in pursuing a relationship because---if she is too---that would be fun. For you. Just because I think they're inane that doesn't mean they inherently are. I mean, look what friendship is doing for you." Mycroft's uncharacteristically soft tone was met with warranted suspicion:
"What do you mean?"
Disgusted: "Well it's obviously doing you good. You're all...happy."
Sherlock went red at this, folding back in on himself again like one does when an older relative points out something embarrassing about you in public. Mumbled from somewhere under his fringe: "I wish Y/N would come back."
One of Mycroft's eyebrows raised an inch up his forehead, the corner of his lip tugging into a smirk: "So you can flaunt your artistic prowess?"
"No, so we can stop discussing my love life."
"Or lack thereof."
This got Mycroft another hefty kick from under the table.
...
At last, Y/N did return. She was holding a box that looked older than time.
"Found it. We had to search through three cupboards, and one of those foot-stools that opens up like a chest," she explained, dropping the box down on the table. A dust cloud billowed into the air like a mini nuclear bomb, and everyone waved their hands in front of their face, mentally praying they won't catch tuberculosis.
Trivial Pursuit lasted two hours. Sherlock spent most of that watching Y/N's face light up like rays of sun through a waterfall whenever she got a question right, then blushing when she caught him staring. He had quickly decided that the game pieces were the best part of Trivial Pursuit. He liked how they fitted neatly into their own little slots to form a segmented cake-like shape. Screw the game, he'd rather organise all the colours into their own, satisfying wheels again and again, like a tiny jigsaw puzzle. They're one of those small, mundane, beautiful things; like leaves, a snail, a cup of water, rain, microscope slides, and the texture of flour.
As well as admiring Y/N while she wasn't looking, Sherlock also couldn't stop turning Mycroft's advice over in his mind, inspecting all its sides and angles as if it was a machine he didn't quite know how to work. Was his older brother correct? Would Y/N really be flattered that he's dedicated hours of his life to secretly outlining the shape of her nose, or the sweep of her figure? Mycroft has never been wrong before...not that Sherlock knows of, anyway. However, there's always a first time for everything.
'Of course she'd be freaked out,' Sherlock scolded himself as he rolled one of the little pie-shaped plastic wedges between finger and thumb.'What does Mycroft know about relationships?'
...
Y/N won Pictionary, seeing as one player had forfeited and the other was indisputably terrible at drawing.
Sherlock decided not to tell Y/N about his secrets. He's scared of her not liking him anymore. He didn't win any games either, but Mycroft had called him an 'artist' earlier, which was a win in his mind.
Mycroft won Trivial Pursuit, because of course he did. The others didn't stand a chance.