"Enjoyed Les Mis?" his baby brother throws at him in between voluptuous puffs of smoke.
"Mummy certainly did," he replies smoothly, staring at the smouldering cigarette between his fingers. "How's John?"
"He's going to be fine. Mary will see to that."
Nobody but Mycroft would detect the faint trace of resentment beneath Sherlock's careless tone. "You knew he would get there eventually. That's what people do."
Little Brother takes a long drag on his cigarette. "Romantic love," he scoffs. "What's friendship if compared to – that?"
Or brotherly love, Mycroft thinks but doesn't say. Smoke swirls up, and slowly fades away.