It was well past midnight when he finally made it back home, and in no mood for all the Christmas nonsense ordinary people appeared to be so sentimental about. On the plus side, he hadn't heard from his Baby Brother so far, and he cautiously dared to hope he wouldn't have to deal with either the presumed death of a clever dominatrix or the cold-blooded murder of an international blackmailer this year.
It took him approximately thirty seconds to realise that his brother was in the house; Sherlock had his own key to the place, of course, though he seldom ever considered using it. Mycroft sighed as he took off his coat and hung it up neatly, then braced himself for whatever was the matter with his impossible sibling this time around.
A log fire crackled in the hearth, and he could make out a figure in the dim light. His little brother had apparently fallen asleep on the sofa, Belstaff coat and everything, one of his arms dangling over the side; but he wasn't alone. An Irish setter was lying on the hearth rug, its head resting beside Sherlock's hand; soulful chocolate-brown eyes stared back at him as he crossed the room and came to a stop leaning against the mantelpiece.
Victim's dog, key witness in one of Sherlock's cases, a quick search through his mind palace confirmed; he remembered reading about it in one of Miss Somers' Baby Brother daily reports from a couple of days before, and he shook his head in something akin to exasperated amusement. His brother had been nagging him to get a goldfish for over a year now, and he supposed he should have seen this coming; even if his PA had failed to mention that the dog was alarmingly similar to the one that had been the faithful companion of Sherlock's childhood.
He for one had been old enough to compartmentalise his feelings when poor old Redbeard had had to go; the same couldn't be said of his little brother, who'd been utterly heartbroken after the dog's untimely demise. And now Sherlock was sleeping on his sofa, and had brought along another dog by way of a Christmas present for his Big Brother.
Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, then bowed to the inevitable and draped a blanket over his brother's recumbent form. The setter was still staring at him, wagging its tail for good measure; he leaned forward and gently patted its head.
"Yes, you can stay too," he murmured in a soft voice before retreating to his own rooms.