[Mycroft sat back a moment, trying to calm his reeling mind. Sherlock often spoke of his mind racing out of control. He himself has always been better at keeping his considerable mental prowess under order. But on occasions such as these, he suffered from a rebelling thought process. He rubbed his forehead.]

They were considerably larger in nature, Doctor Watson, somewhat akin to the shape of a chicken's egg, were it buried deep underneath the skin. I realize what this must sound like--

[Mycroft wasn't prone to wild theories nor flights of fancy. He was just as baffled as could be. Perhaps he had been dreaming, but it seemed so unabashedly real...]