There's a moment where Mycroft doesn't respond. Where instead, Watson will see him go to retrieve another cigar, cut it and light it, before taking his own seat. With the information that's just been dropped on his head, perhaps it can be forgiven, but it's not until he has the comforting taste of tobacco on his tongue that he speaks again.
"...1873." Nineteen years behind. "I have been encountering so much of the absurd, doctor, that something like this feels almost straightforward. You must be of my future, and I of your past -" no matter how strange that feels to say - "for the brother I just saw was not even twenty."
And yet, relief. Sherlock will not put himself in a place he cannot be freed from. No matter what mess he entangles himself in, no matter who is after them, he'll live to at least thirty eight. And his own situation...two decades more, at least. That's a decent amount of time to do things in.
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"...1873." Nineteen years behind. "I have been encountering so much of the absurd, doctor, that something like this feels almost straightforward. You must be of my future, and I of your past -" no matter how strange that feels to say - "for the brother I just saw was not even twenty."
And yet, relief. Sherlock will not put himself in a place he cannot be freed from. No matter what mess he entangles himself in, no matter who is after them, he'll live to at least thirty eight. And his own situation...two decades more, at least. That's a decent amount of time to do things in.