Mycroft closed his eyes in silent frustration as there was another rap on his office door, once again interrupting the few minutes he devoted to his tea each day. His assistant's small, dark head peered around the heavy door and he waved her in.
"Sir, I was going to wait until tomorrow, but you did make it clear that this was to be handled quickly and without issue should any problem arise," she said, by way of an apology. Nudging a thick file towards him, she stated: "He's trying to reach you, sir".
John lowered himself into his favorite armchair and sat down to wait, a small moment of stillness in what had otherwise been a tempestuous week. He adjusted the pillow behind him, gently sipped at his tea, and watched his mobile as it sat innocently on the coffee table in front of him, waiting patiently for the show that Mycroft would inevitably provide.
John's fit of rage the previous week had, in fact, been put to some use—like a fire that burns all the old growth so that new life may take root, his anger gave way to a new idea, a new end to work for throughout his dreary days. He was going to find Sherlock. The more thought he put to it, the more discrepancies he found in his memories of the days just after Sherlock's jump—little things here and there that let him, finally, entertain the hopes he had previously kept shut in the dark.
As the clock ticked steadily behind him, almost as if it was counting down, John smirked into his tea. He could feel the answers he had been so painfully awaiting nearly within his reach now. After spending the whole week keeping a very high profile—starting with plastering 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes', and ending in getting arrested for spray-painting 'Sherlock Lives' on a major London bridge, must to Lestrade's dismay—John could almost feel Mycroft's irritation from miles away.
John's smirk bloomed into a wide grin and his phone began to vibrate on the coffee table.