His eyebrows rise almost imperceptibly as he reads the text. He's just helped his brother fake his own suicide, the last thing he's expecting is anyone to figure out.
How's Junior? the text says, and he walks along the corridors of his mind palace to find a memory he's stored in a closet somewhere there.
(His mind palace is broader than his brother's, and far more scary a place too.)
The Woman, of course; it was the Woman who addressed Sherlock as Junior on that plane. Except that the Woman is dead – or is she?
'When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth'. That's what his little brother uses to say, and he lets out an inaudible sigh as he types a neutral reply.
Jumped off a rooftop. Not something I'd recommend.
His phone buzzes again a moment later. Neither do I recommend Karachi.
What do you want? he texts in annoyance. He has a feeling he knows exactly who's behind her miraculous rescue, and he hates to admit that Sherlock put him one over him this time around.
Give him my love, will you?
That's when he stops replying. He has far more pressing matters that need his full attention, none of them include a bored dominatrix that is supposed to be dead.
xxx
He's about to board the plane that will bring him to Serbia when he receives another text. It's been two years since he last heard from her, and he was starting to hope he never would again.
Be careful. Wouldn't want to lose my favourite boys.
A grimace of distaste flickers across his features, and he promptly turns off his phone.
xxx
It's only when his brother successfully foils the imminent terrorist attack that he finally allows himself to relax. He's nursing a glass of 2001 Saint-Émilion when something comes to disturb his newfound quiet.
How's John?
A wry smile finds its way to his lips. Had no idea you fancied him as well.
I don't, but we both know that Sherlock does.
For the briefest of moments he's tempted to tell her off, but he knows it's no use when it comes to a woman like Irene Adler. If anything, it would make her even bolder.
Enjoy Les Mis, she adds a moment later, and he all but groans.
xxx
A wedding reception. His little brother has the most ridiculous ideas sometimes.
He's just rung off when one more text arrives. I could kill to hear him deliver a best man's speech.
Suit yourself, he types out of boredom. Most people would rather kill him instead.
The bride would be a safe bet, if it ever comes to that.
He frowns as an uneasy feeling creeps over him. Better safe than sorry, he reasons as he calls one of his men and orders him to dig up any available information on Mary Watson's past.
xxx
His arm still hurts, but as of right now that's the least of his problems. Sherlock has relapsed into drugs, and he knows better than to fall for his pathetic excuses.
Except that Magnussen is a far more pressing issue now; he can't afford to have his little brother going against one of the most powerful men in the country, nor can the British government itself.
He almost curses when he receives another text, then settles for glaring at his phone instead.
Need some help with Junior? I told you, I should have him on a leash.
The Woman seems to have an uncanny talent for getting on his nerves at the most unwelcome moments, but he's not going to play the game this time.
Moments later he's informed of the incident at Magnussen's office, and the phone clatters against the floor as it falls from his hands.
xxx
He supposes he should be grateful that sentiment got the better of Mary Watson, otherwise his little brother would be dead now. Still he hates Christmas, hates what Sherlock is about to do – no matter how necessary it might be.
Family reunion? Irene texts him, and he's almost grateful for the distraction she provides.
You wouldn't understand the pain of it.
She seems to pause for longer than she usually does. Caring is not an advantage. Your brother is definitely in danger.
Mycroft drinks his punch to the dregs, praying that his brother is going to prove her wrong just for this once.
xxx
She starts texting him more and more often after Magnussen's death.
(As if the mess he has to deal with isn't more than enough.)
I can't believe you're going to leave your baby brother to his fate.
His lips are pressed together in a vain attempt to stave off the dangerous feelings that are lurking around the edges of his mind.
My hands are tied, he replies in bitterness.
I would love to see that.
He rolls his eyes at her poor attempt at a witty remark. What exactly is the point of you?
Your hands may be tied, but mine are not.
Her words are dancing before his eyes as he watches the plane take off, robbing him of his brother one last time. That's when he slips his hand into his pocket and presses the 'send' button.
Some help now would be marvellous.
Four minutes later his phone rings, and he feigns surprise at the unlikely report of Moriarty's return.