Mycroft returned to work two weeks after Sherlock and John had found him in the Churchyard. It seemed two weeks was the maximum amount of time the country could run without him. No one knew what had happened. Mycroft had been checked into the Hospital under the name Charles Gray. As far as anyone was concerned Mycroft Holmes had come down with a bad case of the flu and had been in bed for two weeks. His slightly gaunt appearance on his first day back helped with the deception. No one guessed the truth. No one would dare. Mycroft's wrist was covered by his expensive tailored shirt sleeves and a piece of prosthetic skin.

If anything when he came back to work he was colder. More razor sharp. More focussed. Everyone was so relieved that he was back. Relieved but not pleased. Pleased was not an emotion you let Mycroft Holmes see. Not if you wanted to live at any rate. Not if you didn't want to be swatted like a fly. Shot down in flames when he brought his guns to bear on you. Because from the Prime Minister downwards everyone was terrified of him.

It was three AM when he got home. Back to the empty house. He dumped his jacket on the table in the hallway and made his way to the kitchen. But before he had gone three paces he knew something was odd. Sherlock always maintained that his brother's powers of observation were greater than his own. And he was quite correct. Just because Mycroft didn't go around Grandstanding, didn't mean that he couldn't. The runner in the hallway had the faintest traces of stone dust. The kitchen door at the far end of the hall was slightly ajar. Mycroft doubled back to the front door and picked up his Umbrella, unsheathing the three foot long sabre concealed within the cane handle.

The kitchen was empty. The house was empty. Mycroft shook his head wondering how he had come to hoping there was an assassin hiding in his fridge just so that he wouldn't be on his own at three in the morning. He considered calling security. Getting them to check the house. And then he turned round.

Wordsworth the Giraffe was sat on the white marble worktop. Looking slightly affronted at all the noise and excitement. Next to him was a plate. Some ghastly floral patterned monstrosity which was covered in Clingfilm. Attached to which was a note.

Heat for five minutes in the microwave. The microwave is the small square thing next to the refrigerator. The refrigerator is the tall white thing you keep the Champagne in. Mrs Hudson wants her plate back. God knows why as it is quite frankly hideous. There is also cheesecake in the refrigerator. I know you will enjoy this as you have never met a cake you didn't like yet.

Sherlock.

Mycroft smiled. It seemed something good had come out of the wreckage of the past few weeks. Somehow Mycroft didn't feel quite so alone any more. He heated up his Shepherd's pie and sent his brother a message.

SMS: Sherlock stop breaking in to my house you little turd. M

SMS: Mycroft don't eat the whole cheesecake at once you fat bastard. Save some for breakfast. S

SMS: Thank you. M

SMS: Welcome. S.