Sighing and stretching his shoulder, John left the clinic the next day with a groan of relief. It had been a long day, not least because he'd spent most of the night finishing James Bond with Sherlock, who then proceeded to stay up for the rest of the night watching all the old Bonds ("for comparison, John. You keep mentioning 'Sean Connery did this' or 'Brosnan was better at the spy bit but not with the action pieces'. It's like there's a ton of people named Bond but not really Bond." "Just wait until I make you watch Doctor Who, Sherlock. You'll go crazy").

John had fallen asleep eventually, curled up on the end of the sofa with popcorn still stuck in his teeth. Incredibly unhealthy. He should know, he was a doctor. And while he'd woken up with his duvet wrapped round him magically again - Sherlock had still been sitting next to him, eyes glued to the screen as Sean Connery dodged bullets - he'd also woken up with a throbbing headache from crying the night before, and a crick in his back from sleeping all tucked up with his knees next to his chin.

"I tried waking you, but I gave up after you almost elbowed me in the sternum," Sherlock had said without looking away from his computer, and he'd groaned in response and gotten ready for work.

Luckily, over the course of the day and a fair amount of rehydration, the headache had left. Unfortunately, the sore back had persisted. The walk to the tube station was stiff and uncomfortable, and John's mood took a nosedive, the cold and damp making him huddle into his coat, which made his back hurt, but if he straightened, his neck prickled with chill, which was equally uncomfortable.

"I need to get a bigger sofa," he muttered to himself angrily before a suit blocked his view, and he looked up to see 'Anthony' looking at him with a smile and a small leather kit, the sort women used for make-up.

"This is for you," he said, and when John took the package he walked away without another word. Right, then.

John looked at his watch, decided he'd take the next train, and walked into the nearest cafe he could find, unzipping the kit as he straightened in the warmth.

Inside he found a small bottle of paracetamol, a bottle of water, a folded letter and a package of rather expensive-looking biscuits. He groaned and then chuckled, because only Mycroft would spend money on a leather bag for a headache relief kit. However, he pulled out the paracetamol and popped a few in his mouth, gulping them down with the water and giving the nearest security camera a thumbs-up. It nodded at him, and he stopped himself from flipping the bird at it. Was anything private?

Hell, being friends with Mycroft - if that's what he called himself - was like being stalked by a crazy Santa. This was his life. James Bond may have actually existed at some point, and he was about to open a letter from the British Government.

When had things gotten so out of control?

All the same, he opened his biscuits, praying they weren't contaminated with some sort of experimental biological weapon Mycroft wanted to test, and unfolded the letter. Expensive cream paper with a formal letterhead greeted him, and he noted the letterhead didn't say much of use; just Mycroft Holmes, Traffic, which John already knew was a lie. He bit into a biscuit - god that was good - and began to read, realizing it was rather short.

John,

My apologies for the upsetting news last night; I'm afraid I was rather tactless. Please accept the contents of this package as an apology.

Also I wish to inform you that there is no need to worry about Timothy and his sister; they have been taken in by a well-adjusted Aunt who seems quite enthusiastic about caring for them, and I hope you will believe me when I say that I shall make every effort to ensure their continued safety and happiness.

Mycroft Holmes

John snorted at the 'apology' bit, but his back did feel a bit better as the paracetamol kicked in, so he supposed it was gratefully accepted, although he still felt a bit foolish for breaking down in front of Mycroft. It was a bit like having a nervous breakdown in front of the queen, he thought, and folded the letter back into the kit, noting that the edges were gilded. Like old Bibles.

The news about Timothy was reassuring, and he smiled at the part where Mycroft assured him of their happiness, knowing this meant he probably would have monthly reports sent to his office to keep His Nibs informed of their well-being. Or, John realized, Mycroft would send the reports to John.

He hoped not.

Stopping in the doorway, John frowned, then hung up his coat and put his keys on the coffee table carefully before walking over to Sherlock's bedroom door and knocking.

"Sherlock?" he called, and the door opened after a bit, a sleepy-eyed detective glaring at him with curls in her face, still in her pajamas.

"What?" she snapped, and John gestured at the room.

"Don't suppose you could have told me we were remodelling?" he asked pointedly, and Sherlock poked her head round the door-frame to look around.

"Mycroft," she announced after a moment. "He probably thinks it's a way of paying Mrs. Hudson a favour, instead of fixing the hole I made in the wall. Not to mention it gives us a bit more room, and I can keep an eye on my experiments easier this way. Though ventilation will be a bit difficult." She frowned.

John looked round him, a bit flabbergasted at the amount of change that had happened while he was gone. The wall in-between the flats had disappeared, with their sitting rooms merging into one. His kitchen continued to be a separate room, as well as his and Sherlock's bedrooms with their adjoining bathrooms, but Sherlock's kitchen wall had also been demolished so her 'lab' was now open to the main room - 'their' sitting room, John realized.

The bookshelves Sherlock had moved to his side were now against one wall, and the furniture had been put in the centre of the large room, where the wall would previously have been. John had to agree about it adding space, but still; someone had remodelled his flat without asking.

"You'd think Mycroft could at least have put a note about this in his letter," John muttered, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow, then made a grab for the leather case John was still holding, opening it and pulling out the contents.

"Mycroft," she said, annoyed, but there was no real spite in her face, and she popped a biscuit in her mouth before scanning the letter. "Sentiment," she said before tossing it over her shoulder. "I suppose you were glad for the news, though. Did the paracetamol help with your back?"

"Yes. Did I really nearly hit you last night?" John asked, realizing he'd never apologized.

Sherlock shrugged, mouth full of biscuit as she spoke. "Don't bother apologizing, I can tell you're about to, but it wasn't like you connected. Connery was the only Bond I felt could match up to Craig. I deleted the others."

"You deleted -?" John began to ask, but Sherlock ducked back into her room before coming out with a dressing gown on, whirling into his kitchen as she asked, "How do you feel about waffles?"