John spent the night at Simon's.

He'd thought about getting a hotel room for the night, but that was too hard on his dwindling bank accounts, and then he thought of calling up Lestrade, but figured his family situation probably didn't allow for John; he was probably still sleeping at the Met tonight, poor bloke.

So, Simon's it was. Luckily, Simon was more than sympathetic to the 'I need to get away from Sherlock for a bit' excuse, and opened up his sofa for the night without question.

'Course, John wished he'd opened up his bed, but he wasn't about to complain. A place to sleep was a place to sleep, and if he didn't actually get much rest, well, that was his own fault, wasn't it?

Wincing as he worked the crick out of his neck, he smiled at Simon as he walked in the room, then winced again as the turn of his head made his neck twinge, putting a hand up to it and rubbing the sore muscle.

"See? Told you, you should have tried the Li-Lo," Simon teased, sitting on the side of the couch and grabbing the remote to turn on the telly across from John.

"Ah, no, it's fine, it was all... fine," John assured him, watching the lady on the telly prattle on about some painting and how it was supposed to be from some old master.

"Maybe next time I'll let you, I dunno, kip at the end of my bed or something," Simon said, grinning at him.

"And the time after that?" John grinned back.

"D'you want some breakfast?" Simon asked him, and John nodded, at which the man smirked and hopped off the couch. "Well, you'd better go make it, because I'm gonna have a shower."

John chuckled as Simon walked away, looking back at the telly in order to get his neck into an easier position.

"... The explosion was supposedly caused by a gas leak," the lady was saying. "A block of dorms near Bart's morgue..."

John leapt up. "Simon!" he called quickly, the picture of the flats burning still in his mind. They'd been right across from his own building, if Sherlock had been home... "Simon! I'm going out, I've got to go, sorry!" he shouted, and didn't wait for an answer before running out the door.


John caught a taxi. There were times to care about his bank account, but they did not include when his flatmate might be dead. So he took a cab.

When he got out there was a crowd of people surrounding his block, and he had to shove his way through, saying 'excuse me' the whole way and elbowing a few people in the ribs before nearly getting stopped by an officer. Luckily he was let through after insisting that he lived there, and he darted upstairs without a second thought. "Sherlock? Sherlock are you all right?" He grabbed the doorframe and surveyed the wreckage.

The skylights were blown through, and Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, plucking at her cello and just generally looking stroppy, while Mycroft sat across from her genially in John's chair, hands folded on his umbrella. Both were ignoring the glass around them, though they were both (luckily, as Sherlock often didn't bother) wearing shoes.

"Hm?" Sherlock said, shaking herself out of whatever thought process she'd been in the middle of. "I'm fine. Gas leak, apparently."

"Hello, then. Ah, hello, Mycroft, um. Tea?" John offered, heading for the kitchen.

"Ah, no thank you, John, it seems I'll be leaving. Maybe you'll have better luck than I'm having. I'm afraid my sister can be very intransigent," Mycroft replied, getting up with a diplomatic sigh.

"Right. What's going on?" John asked, looking from one of them to the other.

"Go away, Mycroft," Sherlock said quickly, but Mycroft turned to John.

"I'm trying to get her to take on a small case."

John raised an eyebrow. "Don't you have your own people for that?"

Mycroft shook his head. "I'm afraid this is of utmost importance."

"Do it yourself," Sherlock suggested, and Mycroft glared at her.

"It's perfectly suitable for you. I can't get away from the office, with the Korean elections so... anyway, a case like this, it requires..." he shifted his feet, "legwork." He made a grimace.

"How was the Li-Lo, John?" Sherlock asked him in a transparent attempt to change the subject.

"Sofa, Sherlock, it was the sofa," Mycroft murmured, and Sherlock looked up quickly, taking in John with a sweep of her eyes.

"Oh, yes. Of course," she agreed.

"How...?" John shook his head. "I probably don't want to know."

"It's nothing like that, John," Mycroft assured him. "Sherlock's business seems to be doing well, especially since you and she became... friends. What's she like to live with? Horrid, I'd imagine."

John shrugged. "I'm never bored," he said, realizing that he didn't much like Mycroft when he was around his sister. It seemed they brought out the worst in each other.

"Good! That's... good, isn't it?" And his smile grew more condescending, but also just a bit unsure, and John nodded firmly as Sherlock gave him a glare.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said finally, stepping forward and holding out a file. Sherlock blocked it with her cello bow, and Mycroft sighed, turning to hand the folder to John, who took it, a bit surprised.

"Andrew West, a civil servant. He was known as Westie to his friends. He was found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station with his head smashed in, this morning," Mycroft expounded. John just listened, trying to figure out why Mycroft was telling this to him instead of Sherlock.

"He jumped in front of a train?" he asked, and Mycroft smiled.

"It does seem the logical assumption," he said, and John raised his eyebrows.

"But?" he asked, and saw Sherlock smile out of the corner of his eye.

"But?" Mycroft repeated, and he shrugged.

"You wouldn't come if it were just an accident," he explained, and yes, Sherlock was definitely smirking now.

Mycroft sighed, shifting so he could lean slightly on his umbrella. "The M.O.D. is currently working on a new missile defence system - the Bruce Partington Programme, as it's called. The plans for it were on a memory stick."

John looked up from the folder, which he had started to sift through. "That wasn't very clever."

Sherlock choked and Mycroft gave her a swift glare, then turned back to John. "It wasn't the only copy," he informed John, who nodded seriously. "But it is secret. And missing."

"Top Secret?" John asked, starting to wonder if Mycroft took drama classes while in school.

"Very," Mycroft agreed, in utter seriousness. "We thing West might have taken it. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands." He turned back to Sherlock. "I need you to find those plans, Sherlock."

"Busy," she said quickly. "Got far too much on, now, can't possibly fit it in."

"Make time," Mycroft said, but she didn't blink an eye.

"Impossible, not happening."

"Don't make me order you," Mycroft said, turning to lean over her in frustration, but she just blinked up innocently at him.

"I'd like to see you try," she said firmly, and Mycroft straightened.

"Think it over," he said, before turning to the door. "Have a good day, John."

"Ah, you too, I think," John replied awkwardly.

"See you very soon," Mycroft replied cryptically, and John shifted, suddenly nervous, but Sherlock decided at that moment to spur her brother on by playing the most off-tune, horrible sequence of notes one could possibly play on a cello, until her brother closed the door behind him. Even as her bow left the strings her feet bounced against the floor, her temper obviously riled. John waited until he figured Mycroft was a fair distance away before he spoke up.

"You lied. Why?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, and he tossed the file on the coffee table.

"You've got nothing on. Not a single case. That's why my wall has holes in it. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Why shouldn't I?"

"Oh!" John blinked at her. "I see. Sibling rivalry, now we're getting somewhere."

Sherlock opened her mouth, presumably to tell him he was being an idiot, but her phone started to buzz. She tossed her bow on the coffee table on top of the file, still annoyed, and pulled out her phone. "Sherlock Holmes." Her eyes brightened.

"Of course. How could I refuse?" she said quickly, then bounced out of the chair, and John noticed that she'd bothered to change into a nice blouse and trousers in the time he was gone. "Lestrade. I've been summoned. You coming?"

John let his shoulders drop. "If you want me to," he said, remembering their fight from the night before.

"Of course," Sherlock said, pulling on her coat. "I'd be lost without my blogger."

His mood rising, John followed her out the door.