Mycroft Holmes

— I just can't believe it! Him sitting in his chair again. Oh, isn't it wonderful, Mr Holmes?
— I can barely contain myself.
— Oh, he really can, you know.

— Keep me informed.
— Of what?
— Absolutely no idea.

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That's all it takes. One lonely, naive man, desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special.

— I didn't know you spoke Serbian.
— I didn't. But the language has a Slavic root. Frequent Turkish and German loan words. Took me a couple of hours.
— Hmm, you're slipping.
— Middle-age, brother mine. Comes to us all.

— Why are you out of breath?
— Filing.
— Either I've caught you in a compromising position or you've been working out again. I favour the latter.

— Is this your laptop?
— Upon which depends the security of the free world, yes, and you've got potatoes on it!

— Appointment in Samarra.
— I'm sorry?
— The merchant who can't outrun Death. You always hated that story as a child. Less keen on predestination back then.
— I'm not sure I like it now.
— You wrote your own version, as I remember. Appointment in Sumatra. The merchant goes to a different city, and is perfectly fine.
— Good night, Mycroft.
— Then he becomes a pirate, for some reason.

— You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you.
— I'd like to see you try.

— What are you doing here?
— As ever, I'm concerned about you.
— Yes, I've been hearing about your "concern".
— Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?
— Oddly enough... No.
— We have more in common than you'd like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer. And you know how it always upset Mummy.
— I upset her? Me? It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft.
— No. No, wait... Mummy? Who's Mummy?
— Mother. Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft.

Our traditions define us.

— The flight of the dead.
— Plane blows up midair, mission accomplished for the terrorists, hundreds of casualties, but nobody dies.
— Neat, don't you think?

— There is, in this facility, a prisoner whose intellectual abilities are of occasional use to the British government.
— What, for, like, really difficult sums, long division, that sort of thing?
— She predicted the exact dates of the last three terrorists attacks on the British mainland after an hour on Twitter. That sort of thing.

Talk about Evrus Holmes

— She died, Mycroft. He's probably still in shock.
— Everybody dies. That's the one thing human beings can be relied upon to do. How can it still come as a surprise to people?

— You don't trust your own secret service?
— Naturally not. They all spy on people for money.

Some members of your little fun club. Do be polite. They're entirely trustworthy and even willing to search through the toxic waste dump that you are pleased to call a flat.

— Look, not so long ago I was on a mission that meant certain death, my death, and now I'm back in a nice, warm office, with my big brother and... Are those ginger nuts?
— Oh God...
— Love ginger nuts!