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Since as far back as he could remember, Mycroft's favourite aspect of his younger brother had been the undulation in his hair. Sherlock's hormones as he grew had done wonders on what had previously been a mop of curls to bring it to the sleek and soft waves it now sat in. Not quite curls, his hair fell more into uniformed finger waves that tumbled and bobbed, still classified as curly - but not quite. Mycroft preferred to say Sherlock had undulating hair; the description was more apt. Undulation meant wave-like, and Sherlock's hair was definitely wave-like. He liked the way it moved, how it sprung into spirals when wet but softened down into those ever-glossy waves as it dried. He liked how it changed daily, always in those perfect formations but a little tighter one day, while a little more fly-away the next.
Everyone liked Sherlock's hair, and it worked to soften his angular face and endear people to him a little more when he came across entirely too blunt. One couldn't be entirely blunt when one's hair was as soft and delicate as Sherlock's. That was Mycroft's opinion, anyway. There were many things his mind had wandered to as Sherlock had grown and he was no longer his little brother. The things he'd like to do to Sherlock would have him locked up should he ever admit it, but it always came back to the C's and S's that curved into Sherlock's mahogany hair.
He was well aware that his thoughts were inappropriate, but told himself that as long as they remained thoughts he would be fine, free from persecution, free from ridicule. As long as his mind wandered during masturbation to those curls, to how they'd look when sweat-soaked in the throes of orgasm, and his body did not seek out a reenactment with the man himself, he would be fine. And, boy, did his mind wander? Yes. It wandered - it wandered deep, dark, and orgasm-intensifying.