Mycroft didn't really mind being sixteen again. Not really. Towards the end he'd become rather fed up of his creaky knees and expanding waistline. But if he were being truthful he'd actually forgotten what a geeky thing he had been at sixteen. He'd been far more physically awkward at that age than Sherlock. Sherlock of course had never succumbed to acne, neither had he gone through that awkward stage where feet and hands and limbs all seemed to be growing at different rates. Not like Mycroft. Nicholas was right. He did look like a Giraffe.

Mycroft had never been vain. Not that anyone would believe that, with the amount of money he used to spend on clothes. But Mycroft had never been particularly pleased with the way he looked. And being forced to spend all eternity as his scrawny sixteen year old self with his spotty shoulders and big feet was rather annoying. Especially as Sherlock got to swan around looking beautiful. Perhaps even in heaven there was some kind of punishment?

Yes definitely punishment. When he opened the door to his wardrobe he found it was filled with casual clothing. There wasn't even so much as a School Bluer in there. He was supposed to be having tea with Mrs. Hudson later. How could he have tea with Mrs Hudson wearing Jeans and a t-shirt?

He felt thoroughly miserable as he sat at the breakfast table, half-heartedly pushing scrambled eggs around his plate. He knew Sherlock was enjoying his misery. He could see him smirking, you could see the smirk right through the back of his head.

"Are you all right Mycroft?" Even John Watson was treating him like a child. Two days ago he was the most feared man in the world. When they buried him they'd probably drive a stake through his heart just to make sure he was dead. And now? John Watson was spreading butter on his toast for him.

"Yes. Thank you Doctor Watson I'm fine." Mycroft's voice had broken when he was twelve, but he still had the occasional squeaky moment. He missed the mellifluous tones of his proper adult voice as well. John poured Mycroft a glass of milk and heaped four slices of toast onto his plate. Mycroft thought about protesting, but then realised he really was that hungry. He just hoped John didn't make a move to ruffle his hair.

And that was another thing. His hair. He never remembered it being quite so, well Ginger really. And he was sure it had never been such an unruly mop of curls. He sighed and began to crunch his way through the toast mountain.

"Morning!" Nick bounced into the kitchen, damp from the shower and wearing nothing but Mycroft's fluffy blue dressing gown. He sat down next to Mycroft and stole a slice of toast. Somehow Nick looked different. Something Mycroft couldn't quite put his finger on.

A further three slices of toast and two bowls of cereal later, Mycroft supposed he should stop eating. Although he was still a bit hungry. He stood up and noticed there seemed to be considerably more sock on show between the bottom of his jeans and the beginning of his trainers. He decided he should go and change.

"Is he getting taller?" John asked no one in general once Mycroft was out of earshot. Nick smiled around a mouthful of toast and nodded.

"Oh this is going to be fun." Sherlock turned around. He had an evil smirk on his face.