I sent my younger brother a pointed warning as I saw him mutter something to Watson behind his glass, sending them both sniggering like a couple of immature schoolboys.

Sherlock glared back at me, cocking an eyebrow as if to say I didn't want to be here in the first place and daring me to make him behave. I sighed; he really hadn't changed in these years. I still remembered the numerous times I had kicked him under the table for making abrasive comments at social gatherings when we were children.

How I wished that invitation from the potentate had not included him. He was bad enough alone, but in the company of the only man closer to him than I, he was doubly horrid. Honestly, they were a couple of children.

And while I was forever in the Doctor's debt for bringing Sherlock out of his morbid shell, I definitely wished they both would stop that snickering. I watched wearily as my brother rudely pointed at an enormous woman in a feather boa, muttering something that made the Doctor smirk.

I did not even want to know.

And as Watson whispered something back that made my brother's pale face turn a bright cherry, it took no great deduction to perceive they were not a good combination when they were bored.