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Summary
“Just so.” Sherlock bent and fingered one of the taut chains like it was a string on his beloved violin. “You’re always reaching for the sky, Mycroft. Half the time you think you’re God, don’t you?”
“Sometimes I appear to be.” Mycroft thought of the thousands -millions- of Britons who were walking the streets now because he’d averted catastrophe. He found power intoxicating, but like all intoxicants, it overcame him sometimes.
Like now.
“And now look at you. You’re in chains. A slave.”