Mycroft was sitting silently in the Diogenes Club, his face blank and his eyes unfocussed. He sat hunched in his chair, one hand gently covering his face, as if deep in thought, when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Tiredly, he pulled the phone out of his pocket. He blinked confusedly as he read the words he saw.

What have you done? –S

Mycroft felt a strange sinking in his stomach.

What? –M

What did you do to John? –S

Mycroft stared at his phone, his mind feeling empty.

Sherlock?

Obviously. What did you say to John? –S

[How are you-] You're alive? –M

Yes. Obviously. What. Did. You. Say. To. John.—S

[I-] Nothing. Where are you?—M

Mycroft looked anxiously around him, as though his brother might be hiding behind the tea trolley.

Upstairs. Come at once. –S

Mycroft all but ran to the room he knew Sherlock meant. He burst into the room, expecting to see his little brother reclining in Mycroft's chair, an arrogant look on his face. He wasn't there. Looking around the room, Mycroft hesitantly asked, "Sherlock?"

The door shut loudly behind him. Turning around, Mycroft saw his brother with one hand on the door. He looked angry and a bit disheveled, not dressed in his normally immaculate attire. Mycroft had the absurd urge to wrap Sherlock in a hug and squeeze until he was forced to hug back. In the time it took to consider this, Sherlock had moved forwards and grasped Mycroft by the shoulders, his eyes nearly level with Mycroft's. The question was written plainly on Sherlock's face.

Mycroft raised his hands in surrender. "I haven't done anything to him."

Sherlock's face held suspicion.

"I merely told him I was sorry. Nothing more."

Sherlock looked thoughtful. Releasing Mycroft, he spun on his heel and began pacing.

"Why do you ask, brother?"

Pausing for a moment, Sherlock held out his phone. Confused, Mycroft took the proffered mobile.

"Last two texts," Sherlock said by way of explanation. He resumed his pacing.

Mycroft is a git.

I never really understood your relationship with your brother.

"Does he know?" Mycroft asked. He didn't feel slighted by John's insult. He did deserve it.

"No."

"And yet he has been messaging you."

Sherlock gave Mycroft a contemptuous look.

"You're worried about him," Mycroft pointed out. Sherlock froze. The room was silent. It was almost as if the world had stopped.

Finally, Sherlock snarled, "Make yourself useful and make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."

Suddenly, Sherlock was gone and Mycroft was alone.

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