The email doesn't deter him, of course. John had told Mycroft to give them twelve hours of peace, so John's phone rings after exactly twelve hours. John looks over at his sleeping flatmate, slips out of bed, and answers the call in his own bedroom upstairs.
"You couldn't at least wait until I called you?"
Mycroft's glower is practically audible over the phone. "I do care, despite Sherlock's best efforts to prevent it."
"Yeah, well fuck your good intentions." The expletive slips out more easily than John expected. "He's going to need some time - a lot of time - to heal. Physically and mentally. So take whatever case you're anxious to have him consult on and shove it up where it belongs."
"I'd assumed he'd want to be involved in finding his own kidnapper."
"He would, if he were up to it." John sighs. "Just, please - trust me on this one. Whatever state you imagine he's in, I guarantee you it's worse."
The silence on the other end of the line is deafening.
And John feels a tiny bit of remorse - it must be hard to not be able to do anything, to not have the option of just being there, feeling needed. Not that Mycroft's needs should trump Sherlock's, but any means, but it's not fair to ignore them entirely.
John clears his throat and tries again. "Um. I guess . . . if you can give me an overview - a very brief sketch - of what you learn, I will promise to pass on the information as soon as he's ready to hear it."
A pause, then a sigh. "Very well," Mycroft says. "I'll get you clearance and call back in about half an hour-"
"Clearance?" John interrupts. And suddenly pieces of the puzzle, pieces he knew before but never bothered to ponder, start to come together. John doesn't like what he sees. "This is about you," he says softly.
". . . Yes."
"This whole thing - Sherlock being kidnapped in the first place, the torture, the kidnapper's lack of demands-" John breaks off. "But there were. Demands. You just didn't tell me. Us."
"They weren't anything you needed to know."
"Bullshit." John stalks over to his door and closes it, praying the extra barrier will keep his shouting from waking Sherlock. "YOU KNEW." He pauses, takes a deep breath, tries to consciously lower his voice. "You knew," he spits out. "Your little brother was being fucking tortured and you had the means to stop it and you did nothing."
"Untrue," Mycroft counters. "I did everything in my power to track down his location and help bring him back."
"Everything except actually share the kidnapper's demands with the Yard. With me."
"They weren't in my power to grant," Mycroft says softly.
And suddenly John is done. "You can just fuck off, Mycroft Holmes," he enunciates clearly into his phone. "If you call me again I will block your number from both my and Sherlock's phones, and if you call again after that I will personally shoot out every security camera within ten blocks of Baker Street."
"Unwise," Mycroft mutters.
"I don't fucking care. Sherlock will call you if and when he fucking well wants to, and I can guarantee that won't be anytime soon. I would encourage you to keep your distance - I can't guarantee what I'd do if I saw you right now while I was armed."
"Most would consider it an act of stupidity to threaten me," Mycroft says softly.
John lets out a long breath. "Not stupidity. Loyalty. Goodbye, Mycroft."
He turns his phone off, leaves it on his bedside table, and goes back downstairs to check on Sherlock.