a point of view can be a dangerous luxury when substituted for insight and understanding

[an_arch_enemy]

Mycroft Holmes is a man of habit.  He wakes, more or less, at around the same time every day, in bed at one of his two residences, or occasionally in a hotel, if he's been forced to actually leave the country instead of simply taking care of affairs from home.  He wakes in one of his several sets of silk pyjamas, spends ten minutes or so lazing in

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[sociopathology]

There's something to be said for falling asleep on top of a warm body that has a rhythmic heart beating and the rise and fall of steady breathing. It should also be noted that Sherlock, when contorted into odd shapes (as he does when he sleeps), has been known to drool

[an_arch_enemy]

'Get off me.'

While the voice is John Watson's-- and it's disturbing, feeling and hearing that higher, rougher voice being generated by his vocal cords-- the intonation is decidedly not. Those words, coming from John, would have been exasperated, long-suffering; coming from Mycroft, they're as sharp as individually delivered knife wounds to the back of the neck.

He doesn't actually wait for Sherlock to make a move to get off him before he levers him up and off himself. He's unused to his arms, though, shorter and stronger than his own, and as a result, the muscles flex both more quickly and with more power behind them than he's used to, and Sherlock ends up less 'levered' and more 'catapulted.' Mycroft frowns at his-- John's-- hands, bringing them up to flex his fingers before his face in irritation. Being out of his own control on any level is not something he's used to; he will, naturally, master the use of this body in short order, but he dislikes the fact that he's in a position to have to learn to do so

[sociopathology]

He knows that way of speaking, that way of enunciating and the cold, direct way he ends his sentences; it's so unlike John it's hard to miss, and he briefly wanders how he did miss it. He blames the overhanging shadow of sleep, but in those few seconds it dawned upon Sherlock, he's unable to consider it all properly. He's shoved painfully away, but he dismisses it, because there are far more interesting things afoot. He straightens up instantly, barely a moment after his face hits the mattress, and he continues his staring. He sees all of the ways 'John' moves, everything different and setting off silent alarms at the back of his mind. He even moves like him.

But that's impossible. It makes no sense. It's not logically possible, to switch from one body to the next - the thought alone is ridiculous

[an_arch_enemy]

'Don't be facetious,' Mycroft snaps.

Of course Sherlock's enjoying it; he's so amused by Mycroft's predicament that he hasn't even bothered to register disgust at the fact that he's in bed, half-naked, with him. Now that is most unlike him; usually, Sherlock disdains to be so much as in the same room with Mycroft, never mind the same bed, in what's clearly a couple's embrace with another man.

Well, it'll make things easier for everyone involved if Sherlock has decided for once not to be a child, and irritating smirking is preferable to a complete refusal to cooperate.

'If you have an explanation,' he continues, forcibly calming his voice, 'I should be glad to hear it.'

But of course, Sherlock doesn't. If there was one, Mycroft would have seen it; he knows his own mental abilities and he knows that while close, his are on a par above Sherlock's. One must take into consideration that he's received a shock, and objectivity is not always possible from inside the heart of such a problem; it's possible there's some explanation for