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The text was simple and short, but it told him what he needed to know. He was almost ashamed at the amount of relief he felt upon seeing it. But he couldn't help it.
He still had a little brother.
Growing up, Mycroft had always resented his brother's ability to do the impossible and escape the inescapable. Cribs had been no match for the little hellion. Neither had the locks on Mycroft's doors… or windows… or lock boxes… That trait had never changed. The man could still escape anything, be it a pair of handcuffs or a highly secured cell.
Of course he had cheated death.
Well then.
It was time to get to work.
He couldn't reveal that his brother still lived—not yet. But there were hurts he could soothe, bridges he could repair. Because Mycroft new that the work and the sacrifices of his brother would mean nothing if his world fell apart while he was away. The elder Holmes had distanced himself from his brother's acquaintances since the events at St. Bartholomew's. No more.
And if the prodigal son was going to return, it would be best if the world didn't think of him as the worst criminal London had ever seen.
Mycroft had a thing or two to share with the good people at Scotland Yard.