Mycroft haddn't expected a birthday present from his brother, he never did, many years of Sherlock explicitly letting him know his views on not only birthdays in general but his birthday in particular had made it quite clear that he was to expect nothing from his younger sibling. So when Sherlock had dramatically swished into his office that February afternoon with a rolled up calender in his leather gloved hand the last thing he had expected was the announcement that Sherlock had got him a present.
It had been a few months after Sherlock had established himself as a consulting detective, something that Mycroft would have gladly taken as a birthday present in and of itself. The work had kept him busy and safe... well, as safe as a Holmes would let themselves be, and at the very least safe from the blasted cocaine. Still, Mycroft had been hoping that his brother would be too busy to come and mock him, at least for a little while.
"As I understand it," Sherlock commented, slapping the slightly gleaming roll of paper against his hand "today is your birthday, and while I don't normally put much stalk in such sentimentality it has recently come to my attention that you have been under stress lately and are in need of such sentiment."
"That's very..." Mycroft searched for the word whilst also for an actual Sherlockian motive for the impromptu visit. "kind of you, Sherlock."
"It has also come to my attention that you have gone on yet another diet and therefore won't be partaking in birthday cake, so as the thoughtful brother I am known to be," Sherlock smirked at the eyebrow now raised on Mycrofts brow. "I brought you some "thin-spiration." Sherlock tossed the glossy calender onto the desk. It skittered gracefully across the wood grain before coming to an artful and seemingly effortless stop in front of Mycroft.
"The Lads of the Yard" a scrawling cursive at the top of the page boasted over a picture of some scantily dressed police men posing near some cautionary tape.
"What is this?" Mycroft asked, barley containing his squeak of indigence.
Sherlock smirked.
"Thin-spiration" and then, with a squish of his black coat, he was gone.
...
Mycroft knew it was a stupid joke and he honestly didn't care. Sherlock was just being childish again, it was to be expected, but for some reason he could not for the life of him fathom Mycroft didn't throw away the calender, he simply stowed it in his desk draw and decided not to think about it for a long while.
A long while later happened to be during his lunch break, as Sherlock had astutely surmised he was not going to be partaking in birthday cake, or birthday anything it seemed except for a scantily dressed salad. Mycroft sighed and pulled out the calender, placing it to the side of the plate he was eating off of. He tried not to think of his motives for looking at the pictures, trying to convince himself that it was purely for amusement but some nagging part of him said that it was something more, something to do with the man in the back with the quiet, confident smile, the man with hair that was on its way to silver.
Mycroft shook his head and forced himself to smirk and laugh at the pictures in the catalog, denying to himself that when it came to August and the man in the back was posed on a motorcycle (clearly his own) he stared a bit longer and tucked the name at the bottom left hand corner away into his long term memory.
Greg Lestrade... interesting.