Incompatibility

Living in a Glass box

Because he was a man who saw everything, and she was a woman who saw nothing they were not meant to be. Obvious meet oblivious. Shake and play nicely now.

Such were his thoughts when he saw them meet. Molly and Sherlock. It had all the marks of trash telly, and that thought almost summoned a smile. It was Little Brother's first contact in the bigger world. A cleaner, kinder world that could only exist once taint had been excised and temptations scrubbed away. Of course, he wasn't there to see the event. Despite the fact it could have been heartwarming with all the right nudges.

He wasn't welcomed, after intervention, and was becoming more than used to the idea he never would be again.

A meeting ending at gun point had affirmed what all the acidic deductions in the world would not.

They were over, it was done.

So, he'd gotten out, moved along, but he hadn't moved on. It wasn't his way. Legwork and all that. Despite all of his sibling's pretensions of "being clean" and all his protests that he "cease his infernal surveillance"…. Well he might hire devil like men, but not the devil himself.

His agreement, fickle and quickly given, hadn't cost him a thing. He'd never been suspected, despite all claims to brilliance and the like by his Archenemy of the hour. Still he'd withdrawn the devils and deranged and took up other opportunities as they came along.

The rate this was going he might, just might, be respectable by the end of it all…

So, with wine glass in hand, he watched the dance, with eyes that aren't his. They have many names, those portholes into the exclusive caged and glassed expanse that is his brother's world. Agents and the Bought, and Borderline Despicable were ringed round. (He'd minded the rules, though they were quite the hindrance, Mummy would be proud…) Their eyes were his, it was in their contracts and all.

No one ever read the "excise if necessary" clause but then no one had acted… badly… enough to warrant an encounter with that clause in force before.

A sip, bitter, sweet, intoxicating, noted, swallowed, forgotten, but not buzz.

An inferior brand then.

Introductions were tendered, one Ms. Molly Hooper, and -was that a fluttered eyelash?- oh dear, how trite… How obvious

And missed, obviously missed. Hence oblivious.

Hence the greetings, at situations start.

Gathered around the corpse, they spoke of cause and clause –never knowing the clause that allowed him to supervise all unseen-. He listened to her, half bored, more reaching for patience than kindness (and they both knew why, or perhaps he should say… they three knew why Sherlock reached. Molly by reputation, Sherlock by repetition, and him… by expectation) as she plied her meager experience and book taught learning's to the whole.

One word, an objection, cutting and cruel, mocking, all at once.

Little Brother was ever curt, and prone to multi tasking all at once, it made him more than socially unacceptable.

"Wrong."

"Ex… excuse me?"

Another sip, he set the clock at his side to two hundred. Three minutes and twenty seconds deduced by stiffness and startlement alone. There were other factors, tone and infliction, budding (and withering) interest to add to the mix. Hence the twenty extra seconds. But the time would elapse and she'd be calling security. Anything to get him removed, to sooth Little Brother's abrasiveness.

His security would override the hospitals, and the expelling would be tender.

He was paying overtime for such unreciprocated kindnesses after all, so as she asked (unexpected that, her asking, it only prolonged the contact and she had to know that, she wouldn't of graduated from Uni had she been that much of a fool) something so outré.. so unreasonable… he nearly hopped in shock.

Surely the stuff in his glass shivered at his shudder.

"Wrong… Wrong how?"

"Do try to keep up. It's painfully obvious, certainly you can see…"

And Sherlock lifted his eyes, seeing that familiar blindness that arrested the world's intellect, familiar, mocking, irritating. His lips curled into a sneer at that sight. So redundant it encapsulated and fueled his boredom all at once.

And she didn't recoil, only waited with placid patience that he was startling. Face twisting into a softer glower, Sherlock tipped his head, wondering. Noting. Deducting.

Such was their curse, after all.

Crowding close, never mind his mix mash of orders (he'd always ignored Little Brother, it was the Older's prerogative after all) and obligations (his phone hummed, never mind he was "off" he was never "off" and he knew that as did "they") he all but pressed his nose to the computer's screen. Breath baited, wondering, worrying.

As he ever did, but never had it been this close. Never had he felt the need to be this close, not since before the Intervention, not since from times before when he was Welcome.

"Sh… Show me then." Little Bother's eyes thinned into a glare, at her words, at her stutter, at it all. "Show me that I'm wrong."

A challenge, from so meek a thing surely a scowl would break her. She hadn't broken, might be breaking, but wasn't broken, yet.

Give it time, cynical experience warned via the detached observer who wasn't as detached as he might wish. He mouthed the words, wondering at their shape but daring not to breathe them to life. To speak, truly speak them would form one attachment too many.

Little Brother might note, among other things.

Fascinating, little brother was indulging this specimen from the masses, if his gesturing and posture were anything to go by. Tension eased, he leaned back, smirking because any other expression save indulgence might alarm his newest assistant and cause her to cease clicking away at her blackberry.

Then the world would surly end, he might cause it himself, there were five ways to guarantee it after all, no leg work required.

Hum became chirp, he could not put off this duty, to country, any long.

But he'd not forget family and the actions his attachment to entailed.