"Happy Birthday, Sherlock."
Mycroft entered his brother's flat with an almost-convincingly warm smile, eliciting an eye-roll and a groan from Sherlock himself.
"Really, Mycroft?" he complained as his brother handed him an eloquently-written envelope and an immaculately-wrapped box (clearly Anthea's doing, Sherlock noted).
"You know we don't do 'birthdays' any more."
The air-quotes hung in the air, mocking Mycroft's kind gesture, and he had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from saying how that made him feel.
"I felt that you earned this." Mycroft replied, his face forced into a calm smile. He nodded towards the package that Sherlock had placed on top of a pile of papers on his desk.
"Go on. Open it."
Sherlock tutted loudly and reached across to pull the box back from the table and onto his lap.
Deliberately slowly, he pulled the ends of the bow and let the ribbon drop to the floor. He glanced momentarily at Mycroft who, confusingly, lookedrather anxious with anticipation. It made Sherlock hesitate a while before he started to pick at the silver tape that held the paper firm.
As the paper slid off Sherlock's lap, he shot another glance at Mycroft, finding that his brother actually had his eyes closed, almost in prayer.
Sherlock looked down at the box and gasped.
It was the (very expensive - he'd checked!) microscope that he had been looking at on the Internet not three days previously.
"For me?" he said timidly, letting go the fact that Mycroft had clearly had access to his browsing history, as he tried, with shaky fingers, to open the box and examine the contents.
"You deserve it, Sherlock."