"You think this was me?" He digs his nails into the comforter at first, tugging back just out of spite. "Please. I have sixty-two better things I could be doing with my time. Shall I list them for you?"

He lets go of the blankets, tossing them unceremoniously off himself and (hopefully) over Mycroft's head, and swings himself out of the bed. He makes a beeline for the door; if the castle wants a game, he refuses to play it.