(A/N: Apologies for taking so long to update this - I've been working on another fic and it sort of took over my brain for a while. However, these two wouldn't let me give up on this story. Thank you for sticking with me, and I hope you enjoy this installment.)

Mycroft sits in stunned silence after Lestrade has fled the room. For a few moments he thinks his... Lestrade will return for him, let him know what's happening. Heart pounding, he practically wills Geoff to return, to trust him, to include him. It's not often the subject of the will of Mycroft Holmes isn't bent, so when it does happen, it's a particularly intense experience. Minutes pass and still the door remains resolutely closed. Mycroft grits his teeth, lifts his chin, and shuts a different door - the one to the man who just ran out. He texts Anthea and is, as always, grateful she's never far from her phone. Trying not to think about the lives that hang in the balance of this next phone call, he dials a number that legally doesn't exist.

"Mycroft Holmes. I was wondering when you'd call." Mycroft winces at the cheery, Irish-accented voice.

"Mr. Moriarty. I hope you've enjoyed your stay in London. Is there anything that I can say, or possibly give, that will keep you from carrying out this... plan of yours?" Mycroft puts on his very best politician voice, the one he saves for prime ministers, presidents, dictators - the dangerous ones in particular.

"Worried for baby brother are we?" Moriarty taunts - Mycroft can almost see the manic glint in the man's dark eyes and suppresses a shudder.

"Constantly." Mycroft quips.

"I'd worry less about him than his little pet, love." Mycroft's heart drops into his stomach. Though he'd never admit it to anyone, he's grown quite fond of John Watson and is, frankly, amazed that Sherlock has let the man so far into his life and confidence. He swallows nervously, willing the shake out of his voice.

"What, pray tell, does he have to do with your spat with my brother?"

A cold giggle slithers through the phone and sends a shiver down Mycroft's spine.

"Watch and see, lovely." The line goes dead, but the echo of manic laughter lingers in the office. Mycroft gently places the phone on the desk, crosses his legs and steeples his fingers under his chin. His brain feels foggy and slow - sentiment for his brother getting in the way of rational thinking. Moments later, his phone chimes with an incoming email. Anthea, bless her, has sent him a document outlining everything she could find out about Moriarty's plan for the evening. As he reads it, an overwhelming desire to call Geoff - Lestrade... first names provide more intimacy - and let him know everything he's found out floods through his body. A good policeman though he is, Scotland Yard can't compete with Mycroft's contacts. Mycroft clamps down on the thought and banishes it to the furthest reaches of his subconscious. Caring is not an advantage.

As soon as he's done reading the email, he strides out of his office, calling his driver and asking for his car to be pulled around. He texts Sherlock but gets no answer; Mycroft is unsurprised by this, but a ball of fear has taken up residence in the pit of his stomach. When he tries to phone John Watson, it goes straight to voicemail. This worries him more than silence from Sherlock. John is never far from his phone, even when he's at the surgery. The ball blooms and Mycroft feels sick with anxiety. He exits the building just as the car is sliding smoothly up to the curb. The custom-made watch on his wrist tells him he has 13 minutes to get to the warehouse before Moriarty puts his plan into motion.

He also knows he won't make it there in time.

On his way down to the exit, he'd gone over every route from his office to the warehouse he could think of and none of them would take less than 16.74 minutes. If only Geoff had not gone alone, if Mycroft had run after him, if he'd taken less time to worry about other people... none of those things had happened and now Mycroft has to deal with the consequences. He watches London slip by his windows as he counts down the seconds, starts a bit when his driver takes an unexpected turn, but otherwise feels the chill of the phone call with Moriarty creep through his bones.

They are 3 minutes away when the explosion occurs. Mycroft hears the low rumble and closes his eyes in defeat. He hadn't been fast enough. Moriarty had beaten him. His brother is most likely dead, along with John Watson, an innocent man who'd gotten caught up with the wrong people. Still, he needs to be at the scene. Next of kin, and all that.

As soon as he arrives, he knows something has shifted. The plan didn't go quite right. He searches through the sea of policeman to the two faces he needs to see - Sherlock and John. They are sitting on the back of an ambulance, both wrapped in bright orange blankets. As he watches, John stretches up and presses a kiss to Sherlock's temple. Mycroft smiles - not a sardonic politician's smile, but the smile of a man who is truly happy for another human being. It is, unfortunately, short-lived when he sees the silver-haired man standing near the couple. As the car comes to a halt, Mycroft arranges his face into what he hopes is a passive, uninterested expression. This is exactly what Lestrade sees when he looks over, except for the eyes - even Mycroft can't control the expression in those. They're cold, angry, unforgiving.

"Mycroft? What are you doing here? Is everything - " Lestrade breaks off. He searches Mycroft's face for something that Mycroft refuses to concede.

"You knew that my brother was in trouble and yet you left me behind with no information whatsoever. Did you honestly think I wouldn't know what was going on? How could you leave me out of this?" He keeps his voice quiet, attempting to keep any emotion to a minimum, though he knows Geoff can hear his vulnerability, his weakness.

"Mycroft, I didn't... I didn't want you to worry without knowing all the facts - "

"I got them before you even arrived here. I already know more than anyone else here, including my brother." Mycroft interrupts hotly, though his voice is still quiet. If you'd only waited for me we could've done this together.

"Oh yeah I should've just asked you to take care of it, let my team take risks while I stayed in your flat. I'm their boss, Mycroft. I can't - won't - let them do anything I wouldn't do myself." Lestrade hisses back, temper rising.

"Perhaps I should then leave you to your duties, Detective Inspector." Disdainfully, unwilling to show how deeply this has hurt him, Mycroft sweeps Lestrade up and down with an icy glance, then turns on his heel and re-enters his car. It immediately departs and Mycroft does not look back. It doesn't really matter what he does - Geoff knows him well enough that he'll know almost exactly what is going on inside the other man's head, but that doesn't stop Mycroft from acting his part. Geoff knows he has done damage to Mycroft, but who knows how long it will take him to apologize, if he even does. Until then -

With a low growl, Mycroft breaks off his thoughts. Sentiment. How boring.