Eight - BelinasEgg
Sherlock didn't bother moving when John left. He just sat. What was so wrong about leaving Mycroft alone? It would hypocritical to the extreme if he tracked his brother's every move, just as Mycroft did to him.
And on the subject of hypocrites, John didn't have a leg to stand. His relationship with Harry was dangerously unstable, and he hadn't heard from her in weeks. Weeks. Mycroft had been gone for a few hours!
With a huff, Sherlock easily scrolled through his texts, letting a smug smirk twitch his pale lips.
John woke late. For once the flat was silent. And for once, he hadn't been woken by a screaming violin, a gunshot, an explosion, or a shout. Maybe Sherlock was still trying to make up to him. John didn't quite understand the strange young man's motives.
After all, he supposed it was Sherlock's choice. But whenever Sherlock pronounced he didn't care, the side of him John didn't like reared. The sad, lonely, hostile side. The side that didn't have friends, and was not that much different from Moriarty. That was probably his main reason for being annoyed.
He trundled downstairs, leg a little better than the night before. It was rare for it to flare up these days. A very brief glance round the room told him Sherlock hadn't moved. But once he'd come back, and sat down, he found that the files he had been supposed to deliver to Mycroft were gone.
"Sherlock?"
"Mmh?"
"Those files for Mycroft, where did they go?" John asked.
It would be typical of Sherlock to burn them or something equally stupid and spiteful.
"His assistant took them." Sherlock droned.
"Anthea?"
"I couldn't tell."
John bit back the huff in his throat, along with the question of whether Anthea was worried about Mycroft. Instead he finished his tea, and grabbed his laptop.