A/N: Yay! Exams are all over! Updates should be faster now (if I remember them...). Anyways, sort of more plot this chapter. But mainly John being awesome, which is like plot, but better.

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.

John had been in the flat for fifteen minutes when Sherlock finally returned. He looked a strange cross between irritated, presumably from the inordinately long taxi ride, and excited, because of the case and – John's stomach swooped as he thought it – Sarah's kidnap. He closed his eyes, shook his head, and then focused on not spilling boiling water all over himself as he finished off his cup of coffee. Usually, he disliked drinking more than one cup a day, as the caffeine made him feel jumpy and on edge, but he figured that today he had an excuse.

Sherlock started talking as soon as he got into the room. "Good, you managed to get back," he said, pulling his coat off and hanging it up, barely glancing around. John kept silent, just quietly handed him a cup of tea. He could feel Sherlock's eyes tracking him as he walked across the room to deliver the second cup of tea (when he'd become some sort of housekeeper, he wasn't sure). He handed it over, and then stepped back, cradling his own mug of coffee and waiting for the explosion.

Sherlock's eyes widened, and then narrowed as they fell on the visitor."You." He spat the word out as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. He whirled around, turning on John. "Why did you let him in?"
John shrugged, glancing at Mycroft, who merely smiled slightly and took a sip of tea. "He was already in here when I arrived." He had the look on his face of a man who has given up asking questions, simply because they don't get answered.

Sherlock threw a dirty look at his brother and pointedly ignored him, putting the case files he held under his arm in a haphazard pile on the mantelpiece, pushing them towards the wall to stop them from falling off. Eventually, he spoke. "Why are you here, Mycroft?"

"That's rather rude." Mycroft's tone was one of carefully constructed offence and sorrow. "I only came here to have a chat with my little brother. Is that such a crime?"
"When it's you? Yes. And I'm not your little anything. Go away."
Mycroft sighed, looking frustrated. Evidently, he'd had this conversation many times before and knew how it was going to end. "Sherlock, please-"
"Go. Away." Sherlock snatched up his violin from the coffee table, settled down on a chair as far away from Mycroft as possible, and began playing as loudly and obnoxiously as possible – determinedly not looking at his brother.

"Sherlock!" The sudden natural, demanding authority that flooded Mycroft's voice made even John look round. "Listen to me!"
Sherlock's playing paused for a second, barely anything, but enough that John was sure the authority had caught him too, controlled him for just a split second before he'd managed to shake it off. He was listening.
"I know what those case files hold. I know the case you're working on. I know all about the attack on you last night-" His eyes roved over the bruises on Sherlock's throat and the dark crimson cut on his forehead, almost covered by his hair.

"Do you know who the attacker was?" Sherlock interrupted, still refusing to look at Mycroft.
"No. Don't interrupt, it's rude."
Sherlock completely ignored the admonishment. "Pity. The one useful bit of information you could possibly have provided, and you don't have it. Evidently your reach isn't as far as you claim it is."

John admired Mycroft's apparent self-control, and the level tone of voice in which he continued speaking. Usually, this far into arguments with Sherlock, he was ready to punch something – preferably Sherlock himself. "I know what's going on, Sherlock, and I'm asking you to leave this case alone."

Now it was John's turn to interrupt. "Oi, wait a minute. My girlfriend's just been kidnapped, and that's something I feel rather strongly about, in case you hadn't bloody well noticed. I've got more faith in Sherlock finding her than the police, so you'd better have a marvellously good explanation as to why you're trying to stop him from helping."

Mycroft smiled at him in a manner uncomfortably similar to that of an indulgent parent towards a child who has just asked a particularly stupid question. "I appreciate your concern, John, and your faith in my brother is gratifying – if possibly rather dangerous. I am doing everything I can to locate Ms. Sarah Parsons – and, more importantly, Moriarty." He held up a hand to forestall John's protests. "I am afraid that, from the point of view of national security, finding Moriarty is rather more of a priority. However, I am doing all I can to make sure she is found unharmed."

John snorted, shaking his head. "Yeah, it's really obvious you're from the government – you talk a load of bullshit, just like them."
Sherlock was smirking in the corner, and had even quietened his torturing of the violin to listen to the argument. "Told," he said quietly to Mycroft, smile growing wider.

Mycroft's smile seemed rather tight around the edges as he addressed John again, frustration beginning to show through the edges as he was meet with hostility by both men. "I'm not from the government, John. I am the government."
"You could be the bloody queen of Sheba for all I care. You're still talking bullshit." His tone was level, measured, but his eyes were blazing with a fierce, protective fury as he stared at Mycroft, the pair locked in a silent battle of wills.

Mycroft was the first to look away. When he did, John relaxed, some of the furious power he'd gathered leaving him. He may not have had the advantage of a suit and tie and the ability to kidnap random people off the streets like Mycroft did, but he still had an alarming amount of authority under his control, carefully honed from his time in the army.

"Well," said Mycroft rather sniffily, carefully placing his undrunk cup of tea on the coffee table and standing up, picking up his umbrella. "I can see the pair of you are determined to ignore my advice and offer of help-"
"Yes, we are." Sherlock waved his violin bow, brandishing it at Mycroft as he made to leave.
"-so I shall leave. But Sherlock? You may have worked the pattern out, but I rather think you fail to see the full implications of it." He paused, face running through a series of expressions in under a second before becoming perfectly unreadable again. "...Be careful, little brother. I rather think you've filled your quota for near-death experiences for this year."

"For this year? Good god, I think I've done mine for about a life time," muttered John, shaking his head, and failing to see Sherlock's eyes dart suddenly sideways to him and then back to Mycroft. As such, he was surprised when Sherlock placed the violin down, oddly gently, and actually walked up to his brother, catching his arm as he went to leave.

"You think I haven't noticed?" murmured Sherlock, almost too low for John to make out – which was probably his intention. "You think I don't realise where this is going? Of course I do."
"Then why-"
"Because..." Again, Sherlock's eyes flicked sideways to John, and then back to Mycroft. "I made a promise," he said finally, voice barely audible.

Mycroft shook his head, not in anger this time but in resignation. "You always were the foolish one."
"And you always worried too much." The grin Sherlock threw him had too many teeth in it to be friendly or, for that matter, entirely human. He retreated to his seat again, and picked up his violin. "Get out."
Scowling, Mycroft left without a word.

Reviews are always appreciated...