Notes:

Story first published on (AO3) 1 December 2017.

Acknowledgement: Written as a thank you to the authors of the many wonderful fanfics I have read on FFN (and elsewhere) over the years, and for their having the courage to publish and subject their work to public scrutiny!

Disclaimer: I own nothing but this plot and story. All rights in the characters and works referred to in this fanfiction reside with their owners. No copyright infringement intended.

References to: 'A Study in Pink' (BBC Sherlock)', 'The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes'; 'The Seven Per Cent Solution' (my favourite SH film); 'Treehouse of Horror IX' (The Simpsons); comparethemeerkat (BISL Limited).

Mycroft gazed forlornly at his reflection in the dresser mirror. He had combed and re-combed his hair, switching from a left parting to a right parting then back again, but his traitorous, thinning hair refused to co-operate, to look more than the sum of its parts. Oh, he wasn't a vain man but what wouldn't he give for a luxurious head of hair like Sherlock's? It was an injustice – he was the big brother, he was the smarter one, he was the British Government for god's sake! The good hair genes should rightfully have belonged to him, not his wastrel younger brother! He had tried a multitude of hair growth potions and lotions over the years with no success. He had considered wearing a hairpiece but Sherlock would have tormented him interminably, and the anticipation of that torment surpassed even his discomfort at losing his hair. He had considered a hair transplant but viewing a video of the procedure had quickly dissuaded him and, again, Sherlock would have tormented him interminably. He had even considered shaving his head but some hair was better than no hair! So, he suffered in silence as he always did. Mycroft Holmes was not a whinger!

But now a new factor had been introduced into the equation and he was desperate to find a solution – Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. How could he expect Gregory with his perfect looks, his perfect smile and his perfect hair, to even spare him a glance? He didn't stand a chance the way he looked now – his dieting and exercise were all for naught. He didn't need Sherlock to remind him, time and time again, that he was overweight, or more accurately 'fat' – he could see it for himself every time he looked in a mirror. But maybe, just maybe, there was the sliver of hope if he could do something about his hair, together with more dieting and more exercise.

He donned his jacket, and with a sigh inspected his appearance in the full-length mirror as he heard his car pull up outside the front door to transport him to the office. Ready for battle, clad in his three-piece suit of armour, and armed with his trusty umbrella, he opened the door and stepped outside, muttering to himself as he did so, "Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more". In an instant, he suppressed the negative emotion that filled him, and assumed the professional persona that he wore so well. The chauffeur opened the rear door of the Jaguar and held it for him, "Thank you, James. Lovely day, isn't it?" He slid gracefully into his seat and turned to his PA who occupied her usual seat behind the driver, "And good morning, Anthea. How are you today?" the customary exchange of pleasantries taking his mind temporarily off his hair. For most of the journey, both sat tapping away on their phones, catching up with their messages and the latest news. Then, the silence between them was broken by a small intake of breath from Anthea and a quiet. "Ohh".

"Something interesting?" asked Mycroft.

"Depends on what you consider interesting," she replied. "Just received a news update from Reuters – the headline says 'The Hoff is dead!'."

"Oh, does it say how?"

"No, nothing other than the headline," she shook her head. "That is so sad! I used to love that show, still do – I've been watching all the re-runs. All those suntanned, hard bodied, fit young men, running around in their red shorts…"

"Yes, indeed, I …" Mycroft caught himself, "I mean I watched it too - occasionally." He stared down at his own phone fighting back the blush that coloured his face and ears.

Anthea smiled knowingly, "Your secret is safe with me. Oh, more news coming in – says there are no suspicious circumstances … lots of tributes pouring in … would you believe that Her Majesty was a closet fan! … apparently that WAS his OWN hair AND his REAL hair colour … and at his age too? I always thought it was a toupee … blah blah blah … OMG, he's hardly been gone 10 minutes and already someone is auctioning off quote 'a handful of hair from the sex god' on eBay!"

"Disgusting! Does it say how they managed to obtain it?"

"Just that it was during a backstage party following one of his concerts in Germany." Anthea glanced up at Mycroft who stared back in disbelief, "Oh yes, he has a big following over there as a singer and stage performer."

Mycroft put his phone away, closed his eyes and relaxed back in his seat, the beginnings of a plan formulating in his great mind.