Mycroft was a naturally early riser. It was not that he was a vigorous young man. He was anything but. It simply seemed that Mycroft's body liked to put itself to bed as early as possible, and then to wake likewise.
"Good morning, Mycroft," said his father.
"Good morning, sir."
"Good morning, Sherlock."
"Mmmwhat?" Sherlock ran one thin hand through his mussed hair. "Oh. Good morning, sir, I'm sure." The sleeve of his dressing gown trailed in the butter dish.
Mr. Holmes tightened his grip on the tablecloth. Mycroft's mother whimpered. Mycroft ducked his head down and attacked his eggs.