Mycroft sits down on the chair that's there and holds on to his cup with both hands, still carefully taking in a little brother that's suddenly older than he ever thought he'd become- but those are dark thoughts that he really should learn to ignore, because he's there and he's made it this far and that's amazing, really. But above all, there's pride. And yes, he's proud of his little brother and all of his achievements - including a certain husband. And that's even more than amazing, because it's Sherlock. He never quite thought him capable of forming an attachment like that one-
Mycroft doesn't hide two certain things - an eyeroll, the kind only siblings are capable of - and a smile. He has no idea why Sherlock would ever miss him- he's often around more than he can even begin to tolerate. But it's nice, very nice to hear it. "Don't start- I saw you just before you moved to London," he tells him. Even though he knows it isn't quite what Sherlock meant - there must be a few years - four?- in between them. "I helped you move, as a matter of fact-"