Mycroft Holmes glances up from his highly-confidential paperwork as a man enters his office. He unconsciously tenses, remembering their last encounter, but this time his visitor does not even bother with the chair.
"He's alive."
Mycroft's eyes widen and he rocks back slightly in his ornately carved chair, knowing who 'he' is.
"I don't know how, I don't know why, but I know he's alive. You knew about it, didn't you?" The elder Holmes opens his mouth to stammer out an excuse, searching desperately for a proper alibi, but is cut off once again. "No, don't." The visitor holds up a hand, a weary look on his face, then takes the hand up to run along his temples, obviously thinking before he continues aloud, "You won't convince me. I know he's alive, you too judging by the expression on your face. It's enough."
John Watson turns to leave, all military precision and with shoulders that are slightly less bent than at his initial entry. The door swings open under his steady left hand and John departs, closing the door quietly behind him.
Mycroft leans heavily on his desk, deep in his own troubled thoughts as the papers fall, unnoticed, to the floor.