A/N - Endless thanks to ThessalyMc, sevenpercent, and Jolie Black for sticking with me through my tweak marathon. You're always right. There. It's official. ;-) -Ghyllwyne

Preliminary reports of an explosion in the building opposite 221 Baker Street have started Mycroft's morning off with an unpleasant rush of adrenaline. He is staring at his phone, impatiently waiting for the surveillance team to update Sherlock's status when Sherlock's number appears on the caller ID. The flush of relief is strong enough to make him sit down rather abruptly on the nearest chair, which irritates him so much that he needs to pause and gather himself to ensure none of this shows in his voice.

"What now, Sherlock? Have you begun experimenting on the neighbors' gas lines?" The first reports are that there has been a natural gas explosion, although Mycroft knows this information to be incomplete, at best.

"Where's John?"

Mycroft hears tension beneath that curt demand. "What makes you think I am keeping tabs on your-"

"Because you're a controlling twat, Mycroft. Where is he?"

"Since you asked so nicely, Doctor Watson is at the flat of his lady friend, a Miss Sarah Sawyer."

"She's a doctor, but I'm sure you already knew that. How do you know he's still there?"

He hears the reduced stress in Sherlock's lower pitch. "Yes. I'm sure. Doctor Sawyer was overheard inviting him to make his own breakfast a just a few minutes ago."

"So you're eavesdropping as well as following him? John will be so pleased."

The relief is clear in his voice now, and Mycroft wonders if his brother just found himself in need of a chair. "I imagine he's discovered by now that you're in the middle of a war zone. He hasn't called?"

There is a pregnant pause. "His phone is turned off."

"I see."

Silence.

"You sound undamaged."

Sherlock snorts in his ear. "Your concern is touching."

"I'm sure it's not. What do you want, Sherlock?"

"I want you to send John back to Baker Street. We need to investigate before the police bungle the evidence."

"I was on my way to do just that when you interrupted me. I will be there shortly. Do not leave the flat." Mycroft ends the call before Sherlock can offer the usual protests. He doesn't expect his order to carry much weight, but the prospect of Mycroft arriving with John in tow may keep Sherlock in place. One can only hope.

Ten minutes later, he is in his car reviewing the latest report sent to his tablet by the demolitions expert he dispatched to the scene. He notes that the blast pattern strongly suggests the bomber's intent was to direct the force of the explosion outward from the front wall and send as much debris as possible toward the building opposite. The damage to the block of flats where the bomb was placed is confined to the ground and first floor rooms facing the street, and it has left the rear portion of both floors intact. Not even the Met will be able to miss the indications that this was deliberately directed at 221 Baker Street, if not at Sherlock himself. Mycroft has a small handful of suspects in mind, each of whom has already been placed under intense scrutiny. If this is the overture it appears to be, he wants the plan thwarted before it goes any further.

A text arrives from his PA confirming that John is already in a taxi, making his way home. He has probably discovered that he can't reach Sherlock by phone. Standard anti-terrorism protocol will now be in place, disabling all mobile service to prevent it being used to detonate any remaining explosives. If John's anxiety is comparable to what he just heard in Sherlock's voice, their reunion could prove to be illuminating.

John Watson, and more specifically his relationship with Sherlock, remain a bit more of a mystery than Mycroft is comfortable with at this stage. He's had no opportunity to see them together since that brief encounter after the cabbie's murder, and the data Mycroft has gathered from surveillance reports since that time have proved woefully inadequate for purposes of reading sentiment and intent. This morning's meeting will be a repeat performance of the first, but with Mycroft much better prepared to assess the nuances.

He'd had Watson thoroughly vetted before their first meeting, and the picture had not been particularly favorable. In fact, his purpose for bringing him to the warehouse had been to dismiss him from Sherlock's life. The diagnosis of PTSD coupled with a review of the therapist's notes had described a self-destructive tendency that might make him susceptible to the very drugs Mycroft was trying desperately to keep out of Sherlock's reach. There was no outright evidence that the doctor used drugs himself, but Mycroft was all too familiar with his brother's ability to manipulate an opportunity.

Watson in person presented an entirely different picture. The man was damaged, yes, but not for the reasons his therapist believed. He didn't seem at all concerned by the circumstances. What Mycroft saw in the doctor's demeanor was interest and a bit of amusement. That was until he discovered the extent to which Mycroft had invaded his privacy. Then the outrage took over, along with an impressive degree of protectiveness toward Sherlock. A man he barely knew.

This morning will be only the second time he has seen them together, and he intends to make the most of it.

Sherlock is seated in his usual chair, plucking at the strings of his violin, when Mycroft enters the disaster area that is now the living room. It was organized chaos before the blast. It is now thoroughly disorganized, rearranged, covered with dust and broken glass. All except the chair Sherlock is sitting in, and the one across from it that he suspects has become John's. Sherlock's nonchalant expression shows a flash of alarm when he sees that Mycroft is alone.

"Where is he?" Sherlock's question is a demand, as usual.

Mycroft crosses to John's chair and sits down uninvited. "Good morning to you, too, Sherlock. John is on his way by taxi." He leaves the implication that this is in some way a service Mycroft has performed. "Did you order him out of the flat last night, or did he leave on his own?"

This earns him an icy glare. "What does it matter?"

"It matters because you can't afford to live here without a flatmate, and if there's trouble in paradise I would appreciate a bit of advance notice."

"It was nothing."

Everything Mycroft has seen and heard in the past few moments says otherwise. "That's good to know."

"Why are you here, Mycroft?"

"To make sure that you weren't injured by the blast, of course." At Sherlock's indelicate snort, he continues, "I had intended to stop by later this morning for purposes other than reporting on the romantic dalliances of your flatmate. The excitement across the street simply sped up my timeline."

"If that file you brought with you is intended for me, I'm too busy to take on another case."

"This is not just 'another case', Sherlock. It's a matter of-"

"National importance, no doubt." The usual sneer accompanies this.

Mycroft lowers the file to his lap and joins his brother in a silent debate. When that ends in the usual impasse a moment later, Mycroft tries another tack. "How have you and John been getting on?"

The bow comes up and the tip describes a figure eight under its owners close scrutiny. "Are you pretending that you don't already know?"

"Are you suggesting that I am monitoring the premises?"

He whips the bow downward. "Don't be coy, Mycroft. It's beneath you."

Mycroft inspects the manicured nails of his left hand. "He has survived three months in close quarters with you, so I am forced to concede his stamina. I'm simply asking how you've managed to tolerate having another human underfoot for this long. He must be exceptionally diverting." The sneer is audible, and calculated to offend.

Sherlock smirks, but his eyes are steel. "You underestimate both of us, Mycroft. You always will."

"On the contrary, brother dear, I-" he begins, just as the front door opens downstairs and footsteps start up the stairs two at a time.

"Sherlock?" John Watson's voice, in a very similar tone to the one Sherlock used on the phone this morning. "Sherlock!"

Mycroft is watching the micro expressions cross Sherlock's face in rapid order from the instant the front door opens. Relief. Irritation. Anxiety again? Finally, nonchalance. Determined nonchalance.

John bounds up the stairs and stops just inside the living room door. His openly anxious gaze goes straight to Sherlock, and his relief is evident.

Pluck. "John."

"I saw it on the telly. You okay?" Hs is breathing a bit more rapidly than a brief jog up the stairs would explain. His gaze begins to take in the destruction, and he frowns.

"Me? What? Yeah, fine." Sherlock brushes off John's concern, denying his own in the process. "Gas leak. Apparently."

John continues to frown at the mess, looking a bit shell shocked.

"I can't." Sherlock picks up the conversation where he dropped it with John's arrival.

"Can't?" Won't, more likely. And not surprisingly.

Sherlock's string plucking increases in frequency and discordance. "The stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time."

"Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance."

Twang. "How's the diet?" Sherlock pats the violin, and fixes him with an undisguised deductive gaze. He is pointedly avoiding John's.

"Fine." Mycroft is watching John scan the room and notes that his focus keeps returning to Sherlock. "Perhaps you can get through to him, John."

John seems to notice him for the first time. "What?" He crosses to the debris-strewn desk and begins to pick up bits and turn them over in his hand.

"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent." And mulishly stubborn for no reason other than the source of the request.

"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?"

"No,no,no no. I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time. Not with the Korean elections so..." As intended, this draws the attention of both John and Sherlock. "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you? Besides, a case like this requires..." He adds a tinge of disgust to the practiced sneer, "legwork."

This inspires a sour note from Sherlock, literally and figuratively. To the right of Mycroft's peripheral vision, he watches John Watson continue to look around the room. When his gaze falls on the blue skull print that unaccountably has remained in place despite the obvious force that the blast must have sent through the windows, his expression shifts to something that Mycroft can't quite read. Surprise, perhaps. The print is not even askew. It's possible that Sherlock thought to straighten it, but it's eerie somehow, hanging undisturbed and pristine. Smiling at the chaos. John begins to pace, but he keeps glancing at the print. Each time he does this, he turns to look at Sherlock. Mycroft considers the possibility that Sherlock has actually told John its history. This would indicate an unprecedented level of closeness- his mind initially supplied the word 'intimacy'- that demands exploration.

"How's Sarah, John? How was the lilo?"

Since he did not tell Sherlock that John spent the night other than in Miss Sawyer's bed, this is clearly him deducing the conditions based on the way John keeps trying to rub the kink out of his neck. "The sofa, Sherlock. It was the sofa."

Sherlock's glance toward John is just a trifle too casual. "Oh, yes. Of course."

"How...? Oh, never mind." John's expression flashes anger, then turns resigned as he sits down on the coffee table.

Mycroft can see their emotional walls coming up as relief washes out the worry that lowered them. He knows how to get Sherlock re-engaged, and perhaps prove a point in the process. "Sherlock's business has been booming since you and he became...pals." He puts a bit of condescension into that last word, and adds a patently false smile. "What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine?"

He watches as John's mouth falls open a bit in surprise and then closes with a pronounced muscle twitch in his jaw. His gaze narrows. "I'm never bored." His tone and the slight head shake are questioning Mycroft's motives. His hands have moved to his knees, and the fingers are digging in. Coiled energy. Ready to spring.

"That's good, isn't it?" He makes his smile as oily as possible and ups the condescension to get a rise from Sherlock. Attack one, inspire the other to respond. Measure the reaction. They seem to have anticipated him, however. The silence stretches.

Mycroft gets to his feet and offers the file to Sherlock who responds by whipping the violin bow forward with an audible swish, then holding it out like a weapon. His glare is filled with an icy defiance that Mycroft knows very well. Its basis, however, is new and has less to do with the offered case file than with the snipe he just took at John. Mycroft returns Sherlock's death stare with a narrow look that Sherlock will recognize.

"Andrew West," he takes his folder and walks toward John. "Known as Westie to his friends. Civil servant." He hands John the file. "Found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head bashed in."

John looks quickly at Sherlock, then accepts the folder. "Jumped in front of a train?"

"That seems the logical assumption." He steps back to a point midway between John and Sherlock with his back to the windows. He can see both of them simultaneously from this spot, one peripherally and the other directly depending on the direction he angles his gaze.

John looks up at him with a faint smile. "But?"

Mycroft responds with a politely arched brow. "But?"

"Well, you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident." His focus keeps shifting to Sherlock, measuring his reaction.

Mycroft notes the soft snort from his right and glances over in time to see the smile on his brother's face. John is smiling, too, and not at Mycroft. Whatever separated these two last night seems to have been nullified by the presence of their common adversary. A part he is perfectly willing to play. "The MOD is working on a new missile defense system. The Bruce Partington program, it's called. The plans for it were on a memory stick."

John is looking through the file, and he looks up, chuckling. "That wasn't very clever."

Mycroft notes that Sherlock is smiling again, seemingly at the bow as he meticulously wipes it with a cloth square. John is clearly pleasing him tremendously. "It's not the only copy. But it is secret. And missing."

John's focus comes back to Mycroft. "Top secret?"

Ah. There's the loyal soldier in those two words. Queen and country inspire John quite predictably. They inspire Sherlock, too, but in a much less noble direction.

"Very," Mycroft tells John. "We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands." He turns to look at Sherlock. "You've got to find those plans, Sherlock."

Sherlock's smile turns instantly to a stony mask of indifference. Mycroft lowers his voice. "Don't make me order you."

Sherlock brings the violin to his shoulder and poises the bow. With a deeply venomous smile, he drops that lush baritone to a stage whisper meant for John's ears as well. "I'd like to see you try."

Undeterred, Mycroft adds, "Think it over." Expecting nothing positive from Sherlock while he's in this state, Mycroft returns to John with a smile similar to the one he just gave Sherlock. Unlike Sherlock, John responds by getting to his feet, ever the soldier, respectful in manner if not in spirit. He offers his hand. "Goodbye, John." Mycroft adds a promise meant for Sherlock to overhear, "See you very soon."

John's focus shifts instantly to the left and down, and his polite smile freezes. As Mycroft turns for the door, he sees that gaze lift to Sherlock, and the smile unfreezes.

He hears John's voice just as reaches the front door. He's asking Sherlock why he lied, obviously unaware of the Holmes brothers' exceptionally acute hearing. Mycroft smiles. If any force on earth, or anywhere else, has a chance of persuading Sherlock to help, it's John.

Not even Mycroft's sedan is permitted inside the tape cordon, so it requires a stroll down the block to reach it. Once safely ensconced in the quiet solitude of its passenger compartment, he leans back against the smooth leather and closes his eyes.

This second opportunity to observe John and Sherlock together has answered some existing questions, and posed new ones. Their relationship has progressed to an extent that he had suspected but still finds surprising. Sherlock taking pride in the accomplishments of another person is unexpected, and he is clearly proud of John. He actually hung back and allowed his friend to banter with his archenemy, and then smiled with personal satisfaction when John acquitted himself well. It could be argued that Sherlock's pride was at least partly at his own role in having brought John to this point, but Mycroft saw very little of that in his brother's reaction. He was pleased on John's behalf, and that is very new.

The emotional walls he had observed did not seem intended to block their sense of each other, but against the intruder in their midst. Sherlock has visibly aligned himself with another human being, and Mycroft fears the danger in that is even greater than the good it may do him. He'd actually said from the start that John could be the making of Sherlock, or make him worse than ever, but he had not foreseen this.

John is not enabling Sherlock to take risks, or to indulge in his dangerous addictions. John IS the risk AND the addiction. This is not a pleasant revelation, but less of a surprise than perhaps it should be. Mycroft glimpsed one indication in the way John reacted to the skull print, and what it might say about his relationship with its owner.

When Sherlock was a child, both he and Mycroft were quite isolated from the world by simple geography. Their home was separated from its neighbors by acres of grounds and woods. The true separation was not about physical distance, but an intellectual gap that widened until it became a chasm. Mycroft's personality made that isolation a comfort. Sherlock's made it a punishment. There had been a time when he so craved the company of other children that he begged their parents for it. When they eventually gave in, and Sherlock learned just how different he was, he withdrew. It was isolation by choice from that point on, and the yearning for company had been turned to fear of it.

Redbeard, Sherlock's Irish Setter, changed all that, but too briefly. The dog was in the last few years of its life when Sherlock found it in the woods. He had loved Redbeard, and Mycroft had tried to talk him out of it. The dog would die soon, he'd told the boy. But his warnings fell on deaf ears. When Redbeard had to be put down, it had shattered Sherlock's heart so completely that Mycroft felt it, too.

The first skull was drawn with a child's shaky hand on the door of an unused storage shed at the edge of the woods that Sherlock had claimed as his own. The skull was a clear, intentional message. Keep out. When Mycroft went away to school, Sherlock saw him off with a new rule. He was no longer welcome in the shed. The skull was for him, too.

Later, the skull was joined by the crossbones of a pirate flag, and later still by the actual human skull that Mummy got for him against her better judgment when he asked for one as a particularly macabre birthday gift.

The print on the wall at Baker Street was a gift Sherlock bought for himself the summer before he started university. That Mycroft understood their meaning would no doubt astonish his brother, but it was a simple progression, really. From the skull drawn on the shed door, to the skull and crossbones, to the physical skull, to the adult version of the shed door: the blue skull print. It protects Baker Street now, and John.

Mycroft has told Sherlock many times that caring is not an advantage, and until quite recently he'd seemed to believe it. If he has in fact allowed himself to care about John Watson as Mycroft believes, there aren't enough skulls on earth to protect him from what that will mean.

End