Sherlock sighed as his phone buzzed for the fifth time. He had glanced at it first time and, seeing it was his brother, ignored it.
On the fifth time of ringing however, he decided to answer: clearly the only way to get the annoying buzzing to stop.
"What?" he barked impatiently. "I was thinking."
Silence greeted him. An uncomfortable, unusual silence.
It was... disturbing.
"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked quietly.
"It's Father." Mycroft began, chewing his lip anxiously as he ran over again, in head his head, the words he had been preparing.
"He passed away this morning. Mummy was with him. The doctors had made him as comfortable as they could."
The silence returned. This time deeper; stronger; thicker; heavier than before.
"Sherlock?"
Mycroft's real question was un-voiced, but the concern was evident.
After the Christmas they had spent at home, it had become obvious that their Father was dying.
He heard Sherlock clear his throat before answering.
"When do we leave?"