It's dawn when Sherlock wakes. Jim is still sleeping (a thing that will never cease to surprise). There's light filtering in through the curtains they hadn't bothered to open yesterday and the sheets are warm with the criminal between them. Sherlock thinks that maybe he could get them some tea and when Jim wakes up, they could just sit in bed and ...he doesn't exactly know and it's not quite them but it's a nice image and he thinks it could be fun, maybe. He's not too sure why, but all the same he slips out of their tangle of limbs, neglecting his robe for once. (He was just making tea, after all.)

The detective comes out of the bedroom, going for the little kitchenette and the kettle, but someone else is already in the living room. There, sitting on the expensive but dilapidated hotel sofa, was Mycroft.

Great. He was in such a good mood too.

Sherlock frankly did not care if he happened to look into their bedroom. If the elder Holmes had seen him and Jim sharing the same bed. There was nothing to say he hadn't. There was no telling how long Mycroft had been sitting out there. (Why he had decided to call so early in the morning; Sherlock had numerous theories, but most likely was the elder Holmes was to attend the meeting at Mar Hall.) Either way, it wasn't his brother's place to pass judgment on him (it was obnoxious and something the detective abhorred having to sit through). Sherlock already said everything he needed to with the hickey.

Hoping that his brother would leave sooner rather than later, Sherlock deigns to ask the elder Holmes how he got in, cutting straight to the point, as always.

"What do you want?" the detective demanded as he moved to make tea for himself and Jim (but not Mycroft).

"To talk to you," Mycroft was as cool and smooth as ever, so not earth-shattering news/case/whatever. "What else?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. He could think of plenty else.

"You came all the way up here just to talk to me? Should I be honored?"

"It's only a four hour train ride. Don't flatter yourself, Sherlock. It's unbecoming," Mycroft reprimanded, glancing around at the hotel's decor, expression that of a scolding parent; his eyes scanning the walls before finally coming back to the detective, explaining: "I had business in Glasgow anyway."

To which, Sherlock sniggers. Right, Mycroft thinks. The meeting he's headed for will be more trouble than it's worth if these two have interfered. Which they plainly had, if his brother's smirk spoke volumes. (It did.)

"So, not important then?" Sherlock feigns injury, putting the kettle on.

"I made the trip here, didn't I?" The detective sits opposite his brother.

"Couldn't it have waited?" Sherlock was keen on that tea in bed and Jim was still sleeping, maybe if Mycroft said what he he'd came to, he'd leave.

"Heard you'd be leaving the country any day now."

Sherlock is not surprised that Mycroft knows of their travel plans. Jim could have let that information slip out with purpose. Even if he didn't, it's nothing to worry about; Mycroft having spies in Jim's organization. After all, Jim has spies in Mycroft's offices. In the roust with his little birds, as Mycroft liked to call them.

"Right. What did you want to talk about? I have things to do."

Mycroft brushed Sherlock's impatience away:

"I assume he told you."

Sherlock's face morphed, darkening.

"Of course," And there's derision. A sardonic note: What do you think we are? And bitterness. Betrayal. Good, the elder Holmes thinks.

"Right. You know I don't make threats idly," Mycroft was ice. "I suggest you drop your crusade. I would hate to have to order your death."

"But you still would," Sherlock sneered.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed, lips twisting down.

"You could always come back-"

But Sherlock cut him off with:

"I'm not coming back. From the moment you told John about all that I've been up to, you ruined whatever chances there might have been for me to 'come back.' You do realize that?"

Of course, Sherlock had never really intended to come back, but Mycroft doesn't need to know that. The elder Holmes, if he really wanted his brother to return, had made a mistake. He didn't know John as well as Sherlock and in his clumsy attempts to coax the detective back to Baker Street had burned Sherlock's friendship with the doctor. So, if Mycroft was going to break into their hotel room and ruin his otherwise brilliant morning, Sherlock was going to point out his folly. Viciously.

Mycroft doesn't say anything, won't say anything, but that doesn't make it any less true.

It's this moment, Jim chose to come in. He'd wearing a blue silk robe over rumpled underclothes; a robe that looks like it could be something of Sherlock's. He sits by the former detective, hair at odds with gravity and Mycroft might have scoffed had it not been for his brother's biting comments.

The criminal is quiet for once, black eyes on the elder Holmes, but not always. As this was a private conversation, Jim should not be here, but Mycroft doesn't really care (not that he has a choice). The information would be shared regardless if every party was present. Jim would just know.

Anyway, he's not done quite yet. If Sherlock insists on this path, Mycroft will to make it as painful as possible.

"John has moved out of Baker street."

Sherlock's surprised. Jim though, the elder Holmes notes, is unmoved. Which could be because he doesn't care, but Mycroft knows the criminal enough to say that was not the case. Jim had kept his surveillance on John when they went to California; he still got reports on Baker Street. He knew John had moved on, but Sherlock did not. And his brother would have suspected the criminal had spy reports on the doctor sent to him but he still had not asked for them. Mycroft sighs internally. The fact that Sherlock never asked after John, albeit most likely some form of coping strategy, was not a good sign.

"Mrs. Hudson is anxious to rent the flat out again. She wants to know what's to be done with all your belongings." Sherlock frowned as Mycroft continued: "Well, I told her I'd hang on to them."

"Where'd he move to?"

"Moved in with his fiancé, actually. They are quite happy or so I'm told."

The detective nods, processing. It's not even a minute before:

"Was there anything else? I need to get on with my day."

"Of course," Mycroft stood, fiddling with his umbrella. "No, that was all. I would not hate to impose on your war-mongering."

He keeps any defeat out of his walk down the short hallway to the door but just before he closes the door, the elder Holmes hears the rustle of fabric and his brother's name in subdued lilt.

Mycroft shuts the door with a snap