"Where?" Mycroft, sitting up in bed, rubs his eyes and reaches for the pen and paper he keeps on his bedside table. It's protocol that every incident that could be a terrorist attack is reported to him immediately. All the same, he's sorely tempted to chew out the lackey from Intelligence on the other end of the line. Half-past midnight is an intolerable hour to call a man who wakes at five.

"192 Baker Street, sir."

He drops the pen.

"… Sir?"

"Yes." Mycroft scrabbles among his blankets for the pen, swallowing heavily. "Casualties?"

"Five, sir. Four injuries requiring hospital treatment, and an old woman out walking her dog took the brunt of the blast and died at the scene."

Old woman? Mycroft considers this for a second, then exhales. Mrs Hudson doesn't have a dog. On the balance of probabilities, she was not walking someone else's after dark.

"The anti-terrorism unit are already on the scene, and so far they've indicated that the likely cause is a gas leak, not a bomb," the agent continues. "Still…"

"Yes," Mycroft says again, swiping the ball of his hand across his forehead. "Thank you. I'll follow it up in the morning."

"Sir."

For a few seconds after hanging up, Mycroft stares at the phone in his hand. Then he thumbs in Sherlock's number, taking advantage of the purring line to exhale again. That's twice in two minutes that he's had to remind himself of a basic physiological impulse. Rather worrying.

"Oh, for God's sake, Mycroft, I'm fine." Sherlock sounds slightly more irritated than usual, but otherwise himself. No indication that he was sleeping before the call came in, but none that he's shaken or otherwise in distress. No mention of John Watson's welfare— John's not home, then. Mycroft can hear sirens in the background of the call.

"Such a pleasant way of answering the phone," he makes himself say. No trouble breathing now. Getting up, he takes the phone into his study, turning the light on and blinking in the sudden glare as he makes his way over to the desk and pulls a drawer out. "I'm calling on a matter of national importance, if you really must know."

Surely I've got something to ask him to investigate…

"What?"

"You'll see when I get there in the morning." Mycroft slams the drawer closed. A few hours will give him time to find a case for Sherlock to solve. "I expect you to be home. And do try to be adequately dressed."