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Mycroft watched Sherlock whirl across the crime scene, reckless and blunt. His only subtleties were reserved for an ongoing exchange of exclusive, meaningful glances with John Watson.
At his side, Lestrade raised his eyebrows at Mycroft's glower.
"Apparently, my dear brother and his partner have forsaken the English language entirely in favour of some proprietary code consisting only of eye contact." It was meant to sound droll, but envy hollowed his words.
Lestrade's gaze slid to Mycroft's mouth and lingered.
Mycroft's eyes widened.
The corner of Lestrade's mouth curled up. "It's not hard to learn," he said with a wink.
Sherlock used words, often a great many, for deductions, orders, and insults, but it had always been Mycroft who understood the artistry of speech. Mycroft knew how to spin language into a delicate web or wield it like a hammer. Sherlock had never particularly envied that aptitude until now. He might mock the concept of poetry, but there were occasions that merited sublime language. There were people who merited it.
Sherlock's hand closed tightly around the small, red box.
Just this once, he longed for his brother's eloquence.
"John." Sherlock took a deep breath and went down on one knee.