Mycroft surveyed his younger brother. The look on Sherlock's face was quite redolent of his early years of childish sulking. A dark bruise was forming on his face and one of his wrists had the punctures indicative of sharp teeth, but at least the wounds were easily dealt with. This time.

"You should have waited. We have people who train to do this." As much as his younger brother annoyed him, Mycroft did worry about his penchant for trouble.

"They're idiots." Sherlock defended, "We can't afford mistakes."

Although left unsaid, Mycroft knew Sherlock was referring to John's safety and not that of the nation.

"You could have been hurt," Mycroft snapped. When Sherlock raised an eyebrow, he amended, "You could have been seriously hurt."

"I would have been absolutely fine if it weren't for that dog. Besides, I had it under control. There was no need for your little henchmen to come running in and spoiling everything."

Mycroft didn't think John would have particularly liked how Sherlock went about that little plan, but he didn't say anything. He felt his energy drain and, for once, he didn't feel the need to scold his brother. Sherlock continued to look insolent.

Mycroft glanced down as his mobile went off. John Watson was calling. Mycroft pursed his lips and glanced at Sherlock, trying to decide whether or not to tell his brother who was on the line.

"John, is it?" Sherlock asked.

Drat. He was quick. Mycroft opened his mouth to reply, but Sherlock ploughed on.

"He's figured it out, then. Seen the phone. He won't have gone through it, yet. He's calling to see if you have any information. Don't answer. I'd say we have at least an hour."

Mycroft smiled in spite of himself and silenced John's call. "And what, may I ask, will happen after an hour?"

"Then John will know the truth." Sherlock looked at Mycroft as if he were stupid. Mycroft rolled his eyes. Defiantly, Sherlock pursed his lips, as though trying not to add to the end of his statement.

"Ah." Mycroft's smile felt odd on his face. "We'd better get you cleaned up, then."

John was annoyed at Mycroft, who seemed to be ignoring him. Maybe he was doing some important government work, but John somewhat viciously thought he was probably sitting around reading the paper and sipping sweetened tea.

Turning back to the little wooden box, John studied the phone again before lifting the mobile almost reverently out of the box. It felt fragile in his hand, although he knew it wasn't.

There was no password protection on the phone; it lit up at John's touch. The battery was nearly fully charged. Whoever had given it to him had thought ahead. But what was he meant to see?

John pulled up the call history. It was blank. Frowning, he took out his own mobile and selected Sherlock's number. After a few seconds, the phone in his other hand buzzed. John pressed the end button on his phone. Checking the call history again, John saw his name.

Right. So the history had been deleted. This wasn't what he was supposed to be looking at.

'Lestrade,' John thought. 'I should talk to Lestrade.'

He felt like he was wading through a haze. His mind was moving too slowly. He didn't particularly want to involve Lestrade, yet. He felt like being alone. It seemed so personal.

John paced back and forth across the flat. It was clear he was meant to look at the texts. Should he look? He had to. There wasn't really an option. But he knew that what he saw would make him want to believe… and he wasn't quite ready for that, because if he started to believe, sooner or later that belief would have to be dispelled.

John knew it wouldn't be difficult to kindle that hope and it would be even more painful to shatter it again.

Steeling himself, John decided to be sceptical. Just because he might find things typed out that could have been written by Sherlock did not mean that they had been written by Sherlock (or, if they had, that they had been written after his death).

Nodding to himself, John selected the text history.

Almost everything from before Sherlock's death had been deleted, which made John irrationally angry. Whoever he had been texting had been doing more than just using the phone. John took a deep breath. The number hadn't been reassigned. Sherlock's actual phone had been used.

The oldest incoming text said:

I'm waiting… JM

John felt an intense hate, but moved on. The second and third incoming texts were the ones John had sent ages ago.

Come back.

I don't know what I'm doing anymore.

John felt shame fill him. Seeing his name along with Jim Moriarty….

Angrily, John moved to the outgoing texts. They started with:

Come and play. Bart's Hospital rooftop. SH

PS. Got something of yours you might want back.

John felt like he'd taken a blow to the stomach. The last text Sherlock had sent. He had dictated the place of meeting, keeping John out of the picture. What had Sherlock known?

Stopping that train of thought before it could hurt him, John moved to the second outgoing text. This one was from after Sherlock's death and, therefore, not from Sherlock himself.

Don't stop. Please.

Scrolling quickly through the rest of the outgoing texts, John saw only things he had seen before. There were no other texts to anyone but himself.

Angrily, John set both mobiles on the table. What was he supposed to be getting from this? He had seen the rest of the messages before he had received Sherlock's phone. Grumpily, he glared at the table.

A/N: Second to last chapter, everyone! Thanks for sticking with me. I'm nearly done with the last chapter, too. Please continue to leave reviews. They mean a lot to me.