John was no stranger to adrenaline. The feeling of fire coursing through his veins was familiar enough, but it was not generally caused by an argument. He felt like he'd been running from a gun fight, rather than leaving his flat. He didn't stop walking at high speed until he was miles across London. His heart was pounding, his head was spinning, his entire body was shaking. There was a strong possibility he was going to be sick.

It wasn't anger.

He wanted to be angry. He certainly wanted Sherlock to believe he was angry, but in truth, it was shock. Cold, sick horror at the thought of what Sherlock had done. What Mycroft had condoned. An image of Mycroft's blanched face twisting in pain pushed itself to the forefront of his mind and bile rose in his throat.

Maybe it wasn't just shock. Maybe some of it was fear. By this point, surely he should know that Sherlock had no limits. If he got what he needed, be it resolving a case, or stopping a criminal from attacking his brother, there was nothing he wouldn't do. Including attacking his brother himself, apparently.

Staging an attack. He corrected himself with some difficulty. Surely, what Sherlock had done to Mycroft had involved planning from both brothers. It was clear they both believed that telling no one was the best thing to do at least. John had no doubt that if it had come down to a physical match-up between the two brothers, Mycroft wouldn't have had a hope. But surely, surely, even Sherlock wouldn't have gone that far. He wouldn't just have gone to his brother and assaulted him without explanation.

He felt rising nausea at the notion of an explanation being good enough. The threat from Merridew was real, John didn't doubt that for a second. Mycroft was a strange choice of target. Most criminals never worked out they were related and those that knew, like Moriarty, also worked out that threatening Mycroft wasn't the easiest way to get Sherlock's attention.

They were wrong, of course. Sherlock's disdain for his brother was skin deep. But still. John had to wonder why it hadn't been him. That was usually the way the script ran. Not that he was complaining at the change, just... it seemed more than a little bit foolhardy of Merridew to target Mycroft.

What the hell do I do now?

It was the question he didn't want to think about. The question which kept pushing its way through the layers of disgust and horror and shock at Sherlock. Because he'd stormed out of his flat, leaving Sherlock in what amounted to a very dangerous mood, but beyond that, he hadn't really thought of a plan. Where was he going? Did he imagine he could avoid Sherlock for long? Did he want to? He didn't know the answer to any of these questions, he'd just known he had to get away from Sherlock before he punched him in the face. Maybe kicked him in the ribs. Or broke his hand in nine places.

Really? Was that what he felt so aggrieved about? Did he want revenge for Mycroft?

John let out a breathless chuckle as he finally slowed his pace, decelerating to an almost normal walking speed, somewhere near Shepherd's Bush. It was a ridiculous thought. Mycroft wasn't made of marble, that much had been made painfully clear, but if he wasn't angry at Sherlock for his own injuries, it was surely unreasonable that John should be. It wasn't that Sherlock had done it, horrifying as it was. It was that he'd kept it hidden. He'd let Lestrade deliver the news to him and held on to the pretence of not having known. He'd let John worry about him, trying to work out how his brother's attack had affected him. Affected Mycroft.

John grimaced to himself, as he remembered it had been Lestrade who'd found him. No wonder he was so upset. As far as he knew, if he hadn't tracked down Sherlock's phone, Mycroft might not have been found in time. He'd been the one to tell Sherlock, believing he was giving him bad news. He would have been delicate about it. He would have ignored his knowledge that Sherlock wouldn't accept words as comfort and tried to be supportive anyway. From what he'd said to John on the phone, he'd been taking orders from both of the brothers. He was just soft enough to have been letting sympathy influence the extent to which he did as they asked, given he did have his own job to do. To have realised none of it was real, must have hurt.

Maybe that was what he should do. Talk to Lestrade, assure him that he too felt enraged and aggrieved at being lied to and that someone was on his side. It was almost certainly a better plan than wandering around London all night, but John could not quite bring himself to do it. Hands shoved in his pockets, he kept walking. He couldn't avoid Sherlock forever and it would probably be best if he didn't stay away for long. If he was going to go back to the flat tonight, he didn't need to get himself riled up again by talking to Lestrade and sharing in his justifiable anger. He just needed to calm down, clear his head. He kept walking.

. . .

. . .

It was a bad idea. Illogical, unnecessary and potentially inflammatory. In fact, Mycroft wasn't certain why the idea had occurred to him and stuck so rigidly in mind. It was certainly not the most practical way to get what he needed. Still, as he raised his phone and listened to it ring, it seemed he had made up his mind.

The line connected and a deeply unimpressed voice spoke in his ear.

"Mr Holmes, you have an interesting sense of humour."

Mycroft allowed a faint smile, where no one could see it.
"According to my brother, I have no such thing." Mycroft replied smoothly. "Inspector Lestrade, I need your help."

There was a short and somehow audibly annoyed silence.

"Are you absolutely sure about the sense of humour?" Lestrade asked at length.

"You are absolutely free to refuse, as indeed you have been every other time I have asked for your help." Mycroft pointed out. He took it as a positive sign that Lestrade had answered the call, even if it was out of mere curiosity, but he felt the need to be clear, Lestrade's decisions, however regretted, were his own.

"In that case I refuse." Came the blunt response.

Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes, though the inspector could not see him.
"You don't know what you're refusing yet."

"Always a catch isn't there." Lestrade muttered bitterly.

"Inspector, you are angry because you were lied to." Mycroft spoke with careful patience. "I am offering you the full and unedited truth."

"And if I'm not interested?"

"Also your prerogative, but how would you know how much it interested you unless you knew what it was?"

"I'm hanging up now Mycroft." His voice this time was wearied, no longer torn between irritation and intrigue. No longer playing Mycroft's game.

"I need police protection for John Watson." Mycroft spoke, calm as ever, but allowing the urgency of his request to be heard.

"...What?" Lestrade asked after a bewildered pause.

It was all the opening Mycroft needed. The inspector was listening, which meant Mycroft was going to tell him the truth.
"Four days ago, Sherlock asked me to meet him. He used a form of code to let me know it was something serious."

"Myc." Lestrade filled in, in spite of himself.

"Indeed." Mycroft confirmed. "He explained, loosely, that for the safety of all concerned, he needed to make it appear that I had been attacked, as a warning to him. He has since explained that he was approached by a man in the employ of Sam Merridew. That man had been hired to give that exact warning. He was not intending to do it, he gave Sherlock the option of doing nothing, in which case he would refuse the job to Merridew and Merridew would have sent someone else. Or, Sherlock could do it himself and the man would tell Merridew it was done."

"I don't care." Lestrade stated, impatience almost radiating from the phone.
"What does any of this have to do with John?"

Mycroft paused and took a breath.
"I don't know. Myself and Sherlock do not agree." He admitted quietly. "But in my view, Merridew is a drug dealer, not a showman. If he wanted to hamstring Sherlock, he's not going to stop at a few broken bones on a target that anyone with internet access and a liking for dramatic blogs knows is hardly Sherlock's weakness."

"You think he'll go after John." Lestrade surmised. A twinge of concern had edged into his annoyance.

"I don't know. I only know that Sherlock doesn't understand that all minds don't work like his." Mycroft stressed, feeling the need to make Lestrade understand there was real danger yet to be faced. "Moriarty was a one off, a deranged genius. Most criminals are just that. Criminals, with plans and bank accounts and a very boring tendency to quietly dispose of people who get in the way of those bank accounts. They do not, as a rule, play games or create sufficiently interesting puzzles for detectives. I know that nothing I have said has quite penetrated Sherlock's awareness."

It seemed he was finally starting to break through Lestrade's frustration, as his reply turned to the practical.
"Fine, but don't you have John on surveillance?"

"Of course. But that does not negate all danger."

"What are you planning, Mycroft?" Lestrade pressed, a note of danger in his voice that seemed to be warning the elder Holmes of how quickly he would hang up if he felt he was being misled.

"I am planning to put Merridew in prison, but as Sherlock has pointed out, he alone is not the issue. One of his employees would simply take his place and his empire would continue. Merridew has already moved against Sherlock. I have to assume he will do so again, when he notices that Sherlock has not been put off."

On the other end of line, Lestrade was torn. When he'd seen his phone display Mycroft's number, he had been somewhere between amazed and outraged. Why was it that the Holmes brothers thought they could do anything? That there were no boundaries at all, or consequences when they were crossed? Mycroft and Lestrade were not friends. The elder Holmes called him when he needed something. Something related to Sherlock, without exception. The audacity of calling him when he had made it clear he wanted nothing more to do with either of them, was almost impressive.

Lestrade felt a deep stab of frustration at himself for the thought. It was this kind of thinking that had led him to getting mixed up with Sherlock in the first place. Every single other officer found his presumption to do their jobs for them, infuriating. Lestrade was simply impressed by his results. As they spent more time with him, Lestrade's colleagues found Sherlock cold to the point of inhuman. Lestrade had never found that element very convincing. He could have turned his skills to anything, but he chose to solve crime. And if Sherlock was such an unfeeling bastard, how had he built relationships of apparent loyalty with seemingly every homeless person in London? Money could buy paid help. Lestrade had seen the difference.

They were right. He'd chided himself, still staring at his ringing phone. Lestrade had been fooled into thinking he saw something in Sherlock that others didn't. That he wasn't just being used, as Sherlock used everyone and everything. But his fellow officers had been right. Sherlock Holmes didn't have a heart.

If Sherlock didn't, then Mycroft was surely one hundred percent machine, which gave Lestrade absolutely no reason to answer his phone to the man. Yet he had answered, compelled by the same idiocy he'd shown all along. He didn't want to be rude, or cruel. If Mycroft needed his wish to have nothing to do with either of them spelled out more clearly, he would do so. If he didn't, he'd just keep calling and Lestrade knew he didn't have the willpower to keep ignoring him.

But now he'd answered, Mycroft was asking for something that Lestrade was not at all sure he could refuse. Protection for John was absurd, in a sense. Since when did Mycroft Holmes' All Seeing Eye need help from the lowly police? But on the other hand, there was a ringing truth to his explanation. Surveillance did not negate danger. Mycroft could watch John all he wanted, but if he couldn't tell his people what had really happened in the warehouse, he would have no grounds to order more active protection. Lestrade had reported his feeling that Mycroft's attack had been meant as a warning to Sherlock, officially. He did have grounds to order protection.

"What are you going to do?" Lestrade asked at length.

He supposed he had asked the question before, in asking what he was planning, but the question had been nebulous enough for the answer to be entirely evasive. If he was going to do this, Lestrade had to know what came next. There was no question in his mind that Mycroft might arrange police protection the official way and then take no further part in the investigation.

"For now, I'm going to keep an eye on Sherlock and the man who convinced him to attack me."

The bluntness of the response rendered Lestrade momentarily silent. For some reason, the man who had informed Sherlock of Merridew's plans had not occurred to him as particularly important.

"Do you know who it is?" He asked at last. Stupid question. Of course he knew. And why was Lestrade still talking to him anyway?

"I think so." Mycroft replied. "I've been watching some of Merridew's people. There are only a small number of options. Sherlock could of course, confirm this for me."

"Don't tell me you're actually competing over this?"

"No. Well, yes, obviously, but that's not why he hasn't told me. I haven't asked him. We are not currently in agreement as to who or what we should be investigating."

"Alright Mycroft." Lestrade spoke carefully, irritated with himself for asking questions about Mycroft and Sherlock's ridiculous squabbles. "I'll get protection for John, but just so you know, I'm not doing it for you, or Sherlock." He would admit, this statement was probably a little bit childish, but he wanted to be entirely clear.

There was a short pause, before Mycroft replied slowly.
"Thank you, Inspector. It did not occur to me to specify I didn't think you would do it for me."

As the phone line went dead, Lestrade was confused by the feeling with which he was left. He was uncomfortable, distracted, much like he had been while he'd been trying to work out what was wrong with Sherlock's text to Mycroft.

There had been a strange note in Mycroft's voice which prompted discomfort. He'd sounded confused. Confused as to why Lestrade was still mad at him? He was smarter than that, surely. Confused... as to why Lestrade would need to specify he wasn't doing it for him? Good. Then they were on the same page. They weren't friends. They hadn't been even before he had lied to Lestrade without compunction. ...So why was his still burning anger mingled with a sudden, inexplicable sense of regret?

. . .

. . .

Lestrade worked fast, Mycroft gave him that. Mycroft had picked up John's trail as soon as he had returned to his own flat and, judging by his distance from Baker Street, the doctor had left very shortly after him. The conversation with Lestrade had occurred some thirty minutes later, and by the time John Watson had been away from Baker Street for one single hour, he had picked up a police tail.

Mycroft watched the unmarked car trail several blocks behind John for a few minutes, rather confused as to what they were doing. Officers protecting a citizen, did not hide themselves from view. Or at least, they weren't supposed to.

The whole purpose of asking for police protection, was to have John picked up and returned to Baker Street. He could do it himself of course, or send his car, but that was certain to antagonise the doctor at the very least and Mycroft needed him to stay off the radar for a while. The simplest method would have been to order police protection himself, rather than go through Lestrade, but the end result was intended to be the same. Officers would pick John up and take him back to Baker Street, then remain outside the building as a nice, visible message to Merridew that Sherlock had taken his threat very seriously. It would be a stalling tactic at best, but it would buy time.

But these officers did not appear to be intending to let John know he was being protected. Mycroft watched in consternation as they kept a steady six blocks and usually a turn behind him. If he'd wanted John oddly stalked, that was certainly a job he could have done himself.

It was embarrassing, that it took him so long to notice. Eight minutes in fact, which judging by their careful distancing, was eight minutes more than it had taken the two PC's Lestrade had sent to protect John. They were not the only ones following the doctor.

Mycroft had been so preoccupied trying to monitor his other surveillance points and work out why his plan wasn't quite coming to fruition, he hadn't noticed another car, two streets over from the police car, taking a slightly different approach of overtaking John and parking for a few minutes, then letting him pass them by and get a way ahead, before driving past him again.

Mycroft felt his pulse begin to kick up a notch. Merridew would not make a move while the police had John in their sights. There was every chance his men were just gathering information, with no intention to act that night. They couldn't have known that John would storm out of his flat that day, but was it possible that they had been watching Baker Street, planning to act at any point he left? Surely not. In fact, it was only just getting dark. It would have been ridiculous of them to have planned a potential attack in broad daylight. Merridew himself was at home, Mycroft had checked, but not all of the others on whom Mycroft had been keeping were.

He glanced at his monitors and stopped, registering which one of Merridew's henchmen was missing.

John Watson was not gifted in observation in the way Sherlock meant the term, but he was generally as aware of his surroundings as would be expected of a trained soldier. He would notice one or both of his followers at some point and when he did, he might try to lose them. If the one he happened to lose was the police car, he might find himself in difficulty very quickly.

With a rather put-upon sigh, Mycroft pressed the button on his phone that called for his car.

John had become aware he was being followed after he'd been walking for around an hour. He ignored the car at first, because it was almost certainly Mycroft or one of his minions. John could think of no one he wanted to deal with less, that particular evening.

It was the subtlety of his tail that set the faintest niggling doubt into his mind. They stayed a precise distance away from him. They didn't avoid the street cameras, or make their presence conspicuous at intermittent moments. It was all a little bit pedestrian, by Mycroft's standards.

But then, Mycroft had been unusually quiet at the flat. Quiet on both occasions John had seen him that week, in fact. He'd also seemed genuinely offended at John asking him to leave. Apparently, being assaulted by his brother had knocked some of the pomposity out of him. It was possible he was just choosing to tail, without meaning to get a reaction out of John.

After fifteen minutes without change, John would admit he was spooked. Injured or otherwise, it didn't feel like Mycroft.

John glanced ahead, attempting to assess his location without making it too obvious. There was a junction up ahead. The car had overtaken him several times, before dropping back. It should have been behind him at that point by a few blocks at least. It was generally on his left... when he reached the junction he could cut a hard right and run.

As he took the last steps towards the turn, trying to face straight on and not give away his intentions, a car suddenly pulled up hard in front of him. Sleek black, ostentatiously opaque all over. John let out a breath, as the window rolled down and Mycroft spoke without looking at him.

"Lift, Doctor Watson?"

John wanted to ignore him. His heart was thumping in his throat, adrenaline coursing. He could very easily just have stuck to his plan and ran. Despite his relief, it was galling to need Mycroft's help. He thought about the car behind him and the sharp sense of threat it had given him.

"So that wasn't you following me then?" He asked as he closed Mycroft's car door behind him, settling into the seat as far away from it's occupant as could be managed.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the question.
"Well I was following you, fairly obviously, but no. Those are Merridew's men."

He was infinitely more punchable than normal when he was being overly literally and/or trying to be funny. John restrained the urge, only because he had been recently injured and it would not feel like a fair fight. He closed his eyes and counted backwards from ten.

"What are you doing?" John asked when he finally looked across at Mycroft and found him typing rapidly on his phone.

"Sorry?" Mycroft asked, looking up in surprise, as though he'd forgotten John was there.

"Who are you texting?" John clarified.

Mycroft gave him a look that suggested he was asking a stupid question.

John let out an irritated sigh.
"You know, for two people who claim to hate each other, you're better at keeping in touch than most married couples."

Mycroft sent his text and put his phone in his inside pocket, pulling a faintly disgusted face.
"Distasteful comparison." He commented. When John just continued to glare at him, he straightened his jacket, examining his fingernails.

"John, I don't remember ever claiming to hate Sherlock. If he has done, it's never been in front of me. Did you want me not to tell him I got to you before Merridew did?"

"I really don't care what you tell each other." John muttered, irritated that Mycroft was making a reasonable point. He didn't want him to be reasonable. He wanted him to say something callous or inhuman, so that he could yell at him.

In the absence of such from Mycroft, there followed a long and uncomfortable pause, while John glared out of the window.

"...How can you not care?" John asked at last, studying his own reflection in the glass.

"Sorry?" Mycroft asked, once again bewildered by the sudden question.

"Sherlock." John turned towards Mycroft and watched him intently. "He broke your hand and your ribs. How can you just pretend it doesn't mean anything?"

Mycroft returned his steady stare, but from the way he shifted his arm in its sling, John inferred he was uncomfortable.
"That depends very much on what you mean by 'mean anything'." He answered carefully. "It means some very dangerous men were threatening him and he made a decision under pressure."

"That's it. A decision." John echoed, audibly and visibly repulsed.

"He believes he had no choice, John." Mycroft replied with a barely suppressed sigh. "I am choosing to take him at his word. The alternative is to assume that he wanted to do it, in which case, he went a rather roundabout way about it."

John broke his glare at that. He didn't believe Sherlock wanted to hurt Mycroft, but if he did, John was certainly not willing to suggest it was what Mycroft should believe.
"What would you have done?" John asked quietly.

Mycroft smiled.
"No opponent would be so foolish as to imagine I could be blackmailed that way."

"Except Irene Adler." John pointed out, voice and expression letting out just a fraction more smugness than he intended.

Entirely unfazed, Mycroft inclined his head in acknowledgement.
"I didn't say it wasn't possible." He let the unspoken end to his train of thought hang in the air. He knew it to be possible, Sherlock was his one and only weakness. But nobody else thought that. Moriarty hadn't even bothered threatening Mycroft, after all.

"Then why you?" John snapped. "Why would someone threaten you, to get to Sherlock?"

"I could let you out and you could ask Merridew yourself." Mycroft replied dryly.

Mycroft stiffened slightly in his seat as John raised his hands suddenly, slamming them back down on his knees in mounting frustration.

"The two of you, just lie to the people around you." He spat. "You seem to think you should just be allowed to get away with it."

"I can't speak for Sherlock, but I would say again, that depends very much on what you mean by get away with it." Mycroft replied, voice becoming rather sharp. He had been patient with Lestrade, because to some extent, the inspector was right to be angry with he and Sherlock. They had used him. He was struggling to understand why John felt that he was owed full disclosure of Mycroft and Sherlock's personal business. He looked at John straight.
"I don't lie without reason. To the best of my knowledge, Sherlock doesn't either. It strikes me as highly unlikely that Sherlock intended to keep this from you indefinitely and had he told Inspector Lestrade the truth, his plan would not have worked and... I would still be in Merridew's crosshairs."

John glared out of the window, refusing to be backed into a corner. If he insisted that Sherlock should have told the truth, he risked implying that his own sense of injury was more important than Mycroft's life. If he agreed that Sherlock's lie had been a worthwhile exchange, it invalidated John's anger completely.

Mycroft remained silent. When John offered no further comment, he gazed out of his own window, mind drifting to the car disappearing into London traffic somewhere behind them. Having possibly foiled Merridew's plans this time, Mycroft knew he was out of time. He had to move. Sherlock wasn't going to like it, but that couldn't be helped. He was going to close this case, today.

"It's just, sheer arrogance." John's voice brought Mycroft out of his thoughts. John watched Mycroft turn to him, eyebrow raised in question, the calm, unruffled expression serving to underline his insult.
"You don't lie without reason. Your whole defence, 'I have reasons', 'I know better than you do'."

"Not better." Mycroft argued. "Simply more."

"And whose fault is that exactly?" John asked, rolling his eyes.

"That is hardly relevant." Mycroft replied airily. "The point is, that I had a lot more information with which to decide to lie, as did Sherlock, than you do in deciding we were wrong. Yet you have done. Is that not sheer arrogance?"

John's expression twisted in anger at having his accusation thrown back at him, voice lowering to a growl.
"I don't give a toss whether you were right or wrong. I only know I can't trust you. Or Sherlock."

"You would be a fool to trust me. You have no reason to do so." Mycroft paused and lowered his head slightly, feeling an uncomfortable squirm of guilt for Sherlock's damaged standing.
"I would be surprised to know that you thought the same was true of Sherlock."

John looked at him, agitation stalled by the change in Mycroft's voice. Taking in the poorly hidden discomfort on Mycroft's face, he let out a sigh. It was usually so easy to be mad at Mycroft. Somehow when he made it obvious he was worried, like a normal person, it became so much harder.
"He lied to me." John stated simply.

And it really was that simple, Mycroft realised. Sherlock had lied, so he could not be trusted. It would be an admirable principle, were it not patently absurd.

"To protect you and to save my life." Mycroft pointed out, eyebrow raised. "Have you never lied, Doctor? Or are you allowing your ego to make you a hypocrite?"

John went to answer instinctively, but closed his mouth, trying to exercise some self control. What was the point in repeatedly blowing up, if Mycoft's obvious concern for his brother was going to keep taking the wind out of his sails?

Mycroft took his silence as permission to press his point.
"Do you think either of us will ever tell our parents who really broke my hand? We will lie, without compunction. To our family. Do you think we should tell them?"

John grimaced at the mere thought. No parents deserved that.
"That's...different."

"Of course it is." Mycroft let out a huff of air. "It's always different. You're different." He sounded faintly angry. "And you're not wrong. You are an anomaly in Sherlock's life. He would have told you in the end, despite all reason suggesting he should not. In our adult lives, I have never known him to let the opinion of another, influence his decision making, except you. As far as I can tell, the last five days have been considerably more difficult for him, than for you, or Lestrade, or me. I am able to trust that his decisions in this case were well-intentioned. Forgive me, if I struggle to sympathise with you failing to do the same."

John thought it entirely possible that his jaw was hanging open. He was absolutely certain that he was staring.

He felt he should be affronted, somehow. Mycroft was daring to tell him he was being stupid, possibly childish, definitely selfish. But he couldn't feel anything except surprise at the sudden dropping of Mycroft's aloof facade in favour of indignation on Sherlock's behalf. John felt his gaze dropping to Mycroft's left hand, where it rested in its sling against his chest.

Mycroft shifted slightly and John forced his attention back up.

"...When you say 'well-intentioned'..." He started, voice coming out lower than expected. "Does that mean you think he was wrong?"

Mycroft gave him a flat stare.
"There is no question of him being wrong. His plan worked." He stated firmly. "The question I asked him, was 'was it the only option?'. I'm guessing you were of a similar opinion. So added to whatever feelings he has about having done it in the first place, will now be all the doubts our combined powers are able to raise in him, Doctor Watson. Mine of intellectual ability, yours of moral boundaries. What useful distractions to have while he trails one of the most dangerous men in London."

"Alright, alright, you've made your point." John almost groaned. He had to go back to the flat. "This isn't about me, I shouldn't be making it about me. I do keep forgetting that both of you think having feelings is a bad thing."

"Actually I think having feelings is entirely necessary. I simply don't believe in using emotions to manipulate others into behaving as I would like them to, as so many people seem to think acceptable."

"You're joking, now, right? You, Mycroft Holmes, are not actually lecturing me about manipulating others?"

Mycroft smiled and John felt a most unexpected jolt of relief. It was his politician's smile.
"Goodnight, Doctor Watson."

John looked out of the window and found himself greeted by the sight of home. He'd been so busy ogling at Mycroft, he hadn't noticed they had circled around to Baker Street while they'd been talking. His chest tightened at the thought of going inside. He didn't want to talk to Sherlock. He wasn't rightly sure he knew how.

But Mycroft wasn't wrong. As much as he wanted to be angry, he couldn't believe that Sherlock had lied with malice, anymore than he could believe he had attacked his brother with the same. He took a deep, slow breath and found for the first time since he'd exited the flat earlier in the evening, he felt a measure of calm on release.

He was most of the way out of the car and the door half-closed behind him, when he spoke quietly.
"Night, Mycroft."

Inside the car, Mycroft barely heard him. His mind had moved on, focusing on the task ahead of him. This would end, tonight.