John started slightly as he heard the downstairs door open, and he glanced at the clock. 9pm. Sherlock was back early then.
The doctor didn't turn around when the living room door opened, but he did when his attention was sought by a clearing throat.
"Please accept my apologies for the intrusion, John."
John turned in his armchair, to see Mycroft standing in the living room doorway, leaning on his trademark umbrella and examining the nails on his other hand.
"Jesus, Mycroft." John got up from his chair and headed, on auto-pilot, towards the kitchen, "I thought you were Sherlock. Tea?"
"Thank you, John. I will." Mycroft's face gave nothing away. John stopped briefly to peer around the man.
"Sherlock didn't come back with you?"
A brief expression of confusion crossed the elder man's face before he reigned it in and restored the blank façade.
"Ah." He stumbled over his reply, instantly raising John's suspicions, "No, he isn't with me."
John froze mid-way to the kettle. Something wasn't right here. Mycroft rarely made visits to 221B, and he especially didn't make them when Sherlock wasn't home. Plus, Sherlock was supposed to be with Mycroft. There was something very wrong with this whole scenario.
He abandoned the tea and re-entered the living room, approaching Mycroft and standing almost toe-to-toe with the man.
"Mycroft." John's voice was firm; unwavering, "Where is Sherlock?"
Mycroft licked his lips and began to chew nervously on his bottom lip for a moment before deliberately stopping himself.
"Doctor Watson," he started, making pointed use of John's title, "I think it would be better if we sat down, don't you?"
"Right, yes. OK then. I'll make the teas." John headed back to the kitchen and flicked on the kettle, returning several anxious minutes later with two mugs of tea.
"So," John wasn't beating about the bush any more. There was something amiss and it clearly involved his flatmate, "Where is Sherlock? I thought he was with you? I watched him get into your car."
Mycroft nodded. Clever of Jim, he supposed, to use a car similar to those that Mycroft himself used. Sherlock had obviously chosen to let John believe that it was one of Mycroft's car picking him up. Mycroft wished that he had known that before he had decided to call round to Baker Street.
Damage limitation, he decided. Mycroft needed to do some of that now.
"I can assure you that my brother is perfectly fine." he lied, knowing his face couldn't be read by someone like John Watson. His brother would have spotted it in an instant, of course. "He is safe, and I am sure he will be back soon." Mycroft nodded, almost as if he was trying to convince himself of his own lie.
John let out a half-laugh before returning to his serious face.
"Now I know there's something wrong." the doctor said, leaning forwards in his chair towards Mycroft who was sitting in Sherlock's. "Do you even know where he is?"
The accusation that he might be ignorant of his brother's location or situation rankled Mycroft, and he made little effort to hide his increased irritation.
"Doctor Watson," he began, all but spitting out his brother's flatmate's name, "I assure you that I am well aware of my brother's situation." He stopped a moment, briefly closing his eyes in an attempt to regain his usual composure, "Beyond that," he continued, his voice only slightly steadier, "I am unable to share any more information with you at this time."
"What the actual fuck, Mycroft?!" John's voice rose, drawing Mycroft's eyebrow along with it. He had rarely seen John lose his temper and, on the occasions when he had, it was usually directed at Sherlock, not Mycroft.
"Sherlock is my friend! If there's something going on that I should know about... if he's in some sort of trouble..." John sighed and slumped back in his chair again, shaking his head. "Mycroft. He's my friend. After all this time and everything we have been through..."
John stopped, his glare fixed on the elder Holmes opposite him. Mycroft looked... affected. John couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he could see Mycroft's exterior beginning to crumble.
"There really is nothing you or I can do to help my brother, John." Mycroft sounded calmer; resigned, perhaps, to his own uselessness in the situation. "The best thing we can do is to just await his return."
John flew out of his chair, startling Mycroft who sat, like a rabbit in the headlights, as the usually shorter frame of John Watson towered above him.
"You're the British fucking government, Mycroft. What do you mean you can't do anything about it?"
Mycroft held up his hands, hoping to placate Sherlock's irate flatmate. No, his friend, he corrected himself mentally.
"John." Mycroft stood, raising himself to full height with his hands still held out in a gesture of peace, "Please, sit." As John moved to do so, Mycroft lowered himself back down onto the chair again, making no effort whatsoever to disguise the myriad of emotions that were displayed all over his face and in his body language.
"John. What, if anything, has my brother ever told you about our father?"