Sherlock knew that Mycroft wasn't wrong when he compared the masses to mindless goldfish. The first time he had made the comparison hadn't been upon Sherlock's return, but was when they were both young. Sherlock had before him an assortment of the edible crackers and Mycroft had snatched a handful, rendering the younger boy's experiment obsolete.

Obviously Mycroft had forgotten, otherwise he would not have felt the urge to repeat himself. It would be too much effort. But then there was the possibility that he had assumed it was Sherlock who had forgotten, in which case he continued to underestimate him. The detective could scoff; he was already three years old during the exchange. Of course he would remember.

Mycroft may be smart but he had the blistering insecurity of an adolescent girl… always had. He had never actually been fat by any standard, although Sherlock had managed to convince the world that at some point, he must have been. Having been the dull, the dim, the daresay, dumb of the two brothers, Sherlock had scraped around for any insult he could throw back because that's what siblings did.

Imagine his surprise one day when Mycroft cleared his dinner plate early, at that age when all boys ate like they were starving, and Sherlock had said so casually, "Fat." Mycroft's final forkful levitated at the brim of his mouth and he stared with wide eyes at his younger brother with the most ghastly expression. How was Sherlock supposed to know that his offense would result in Mycroft's lifelong self-image crisis? He couldn't have, which is what he told himself regularly when he thought he might be feeling guilty.

He was never really sure if that's what the feeling was, not until he met John. Good old John with his jumpers and desperate need for a battlefield… but Sherlock had gone on enough about John. Currently, Mycroft became more of a focus. He really should have noticed it earlier, likely had, but his brother's insistence that John (good old John) and Mary would be happier without his company, implied that there was more to it. There always was with a Holmes boy.

He filed it away at the time because John (good old – forget it) had a wedding he had to entirely overvalue and Sherlock was the man that made sure it lived up to his unrealistic and fantastical expectation. Whatever it took.

The murder (attempted) had stirred the lot up, and although Sherlock was always deducing in his head when around others, he paid a special sort of attention to each wedding guest as he scoured for the mayfly. It hadn't been at the front of his mind because, well, murder, but he learned a lot in his little sweep, information that would surface whenever it deemed necessary.

Four affairs, three lost jobs, two incestuous flings (unrelated, ironically), and one- well, he wasn't sure what to call it. A game changer, perhaps. A fact that had been traipsing around him in pirouettes for years in a style he hadn't bothered to acknowledge because it hadn't been relevant. It seemed even the more astute aspects of Sherlock went out of their way to ignore Mycroft. He couldn't just imply that he in any way cared for the man.

Which he did, for the record, but no one would be let in on that little secret (except for John, obviously).

When one Mycroft Holmes met detective inspector Gregory Lestrade, it was over mobile and consisted entirely of damage control. Sherlock had somehow managed to blow up a… street. There had been yelling, during the call and later when big brother paid him a special visit. The entire situation seemed so trivial that he simply forgot about it.

Sometimes Lestrade would make a comment about Mycroft and what it must be like to have two Sherlocks in one household, to which Sherlock told him that Mycroft was far craftier, arrogant, and fatter than he. He always assumed that Mycroft's existence lingered in the back of Lestrade's mind in the way one is aware of John's sister, Harry, or a neighbor.

It didn't occur to Sherlock that his brother had kept in touch with the detective until John moved in and acted as a sort of filter in the relationship between himself and Lestrade. It was neither difficult nor important to deduce that Mycroft kept tabs on him through the man, although surprising as that would require a sort of human contact.

Sometimes it showed more than others, like when Lestrade had followed them to Baskervilles after an extended vacation, a blatantly obvious white stripe on his ring finger where the token had been removed. It seemed that he had finally gotten the divorce that hung over his head since the day Sherlock met him.

Mycroft had sent Lestrade to scurry after him, and although it had been annoying, it had also been useful. Sherlock stored that bit of information under 'irrelevant' and moved on.

Sherlock died (not actually)and returned and his brother hadn't changed a lick although everyone else had. At the time, Sherlock thought that some things just didn't change.

And he'd prodded; oh did he prod.

All the talk of isolation and goldfish and each blatantly aggressive whisper of 'Not that you've ever spoken to a woman with short hair, or, you know, a woman' was just banter.

He hadn't meant anything by it.

Sherlock tried to make an example of the hat, and yet Mycroft still did not attend John's wedding. No, he spent the day no doubt trying to fill the hole in his self esteem with exercise. He had wanted to tell him that exercise wouldn't solve his crooked nose or receding hairline, but Sherlock knew that he had already done enough damage.

Mycroft must have wanted company, he could see it in his tight jaw and tilted chin when he asked him, 'Why would anyone mind?' and it all seemed to mean nothing when floating around in the air until something tied it all together.

A tie, to be exact.

Sherlock would take the opportunity to relish in the pun if it didn't grieve him to do so, and perhaps in his mind palace the pieces had already strung themselves together. Mycroft, in all his self-appointed glory, donned a pinstripe suit that cost more than the catering service and a burgundy tie no doubt made from the finest material. A tie Sherlock had seen before on occasion during Mycroft's visits and, most recently, nestled around Gregory Lestrade's neck during the reception. He might not have noticed it had the man not been wearing an ill-fitted rental that barely fractioned the cost of said tie.

Sherlock had forgotten all about it until he was standing in the kitchen and staring at a pot of maggots for forty-two minutes without fail. Now that he remembered such a detail, he also could not forget his brother's reminder of 'what do we say about coincidence?'

It took one quick call to confirm his suspicions.

"The tie, at the wedding. Where did you get it?"

Sherlock could hear voices prattling on the other end of the line. Lestrade was on a case.

"Oh, that? Your brother gave it to me. Really saved my skin, too. I forgot to pick a new one up and all of mine had permanent coffee stains. I called in a favor."

"So you just called Mycroft and he… what?"

"He had it sent over. Expedited. He must know he owes me for looking after you all these years. What's this about?"

Sherlock considered telling Lestrade that the tie now in his possession had been a part of Mycroft's collection for years, but thought better of it.

The implications alone might send Greg into a state of shutdown.

"Thank you, George."

"It's Gre-"

Sherlock hung up and started a text. And really, it was as plain as the nose on his face.

Oh, brother dear, how long have you been pining? – SH

After shooting off the text, he quickly jumped online and ordered twelve and a half pounds of goldfish crackers, to be sent to the home of one DI Gregory Lestrade.

Sherlock calculated he only had about fourteen days to enjoy this before Mycroft spoiled his fun.

In the message box under the 'gift' option, he typed 'MH'.