An Explanation

"John!" Sherlock's voice pierced the air around John. He'd taken the food from Bryce only moments ago and had taken a minute to simply stand on the steps with the door open trying to remember how to breathe. His heart had only just started to return to a normal rate.

A large part of his brain was telling him that he should really be used to this kind of thing. He'd been in several different war zones after all. Things exploding around him wasn't anything new to his psyche. Even when they'd been children Sherlock had often caused explosions, usually without any kind of warning at all. Granted none of them had quite been on the scale of damaged buildings or the bombings in the Middle East. Though Sherlock had destroyed a room or two in the manor.

And Sherlock had never been near the bombings or the war zones. He glanced across the street at the blown out building and fought off a shudder or fear and repulsion. He wondered what had caused the explosion and told his brain to shut up about the bombings. This couldn't have been a bomb. There was no strategic advantage to blowing up that particular building. Though he had a sneaking suspicion that this wasn't any ordinary gas explosion. This was something deliberate though he wasn't sure what the bomber had been trying to accomplish.

Unless they were trying to scare Sherlock off of something…which was as absurd as it would be useless. Sherlock didn't give in to scare tactics. Ever. This couldn't have anything to do with his husband. John shook his head at himself and let out a rude sound. What had Sherlock managed to get them into this time?

"John! What's taking you so long?" Sherlock's voice demanded his attention even as the thought of someone trying to kill his husband sent a shaft of white hot rage through John. No one was going to get near Sherlock. Not while he was breathing.

John took one more deep breath, ignoring the smoke that invaded the air, in an effort to bank the sudden fires of fury. Fury without a target would burn him out before he had the chance to enact his revenge. "Coming!" He yelled back in an almost normal tone. Sherlock and Mycroft might be able to detect the rage still simmering but he doubted anyone else would.

He tightened his grip on the bags of food and stepped back into 221 Baker St. He pushed his fury to simmer in the background of his mind. If this had been deliberate on the part of one of Sherlock's enemies then they would soon learn the wrath of a quiet man. He wouldn't stand for anyone injuring or attempting to injure what was his.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

John could feel the tension between the brothers as he entered the flat. Sherlock was still in a mood and he was not going to be at all cooperative. Dammit. He ignored them both and set the food on the table in the kitchen beside Sherlock's beakers and test tubes. Normally not a safe place but he'd cleaned them out only the day before while Sherlock had been gone. "Bryce is going for tea," he announced.

"Splendid," Mycroft said in an overly cheerful voice. He had appropriated John's chair and was staring doggedly at Sherlock.

John sighed to himself. Sherlock was being irritating again. As always. John felt a bit of his irritation at his husband resurface. Sometimes the man could be an utter brat.

"Obvious," Sherlock sneered and cradled his violin close to his chest. "Tea doesn't solve everything, John. It's not going to fix the windows for instance." He glared at his husband and then turned his attention to his violin. At least John had put the precious instrument away while he'd been gone. He knew there was a reason he'd kept John around all these years and it wasn't just the sex either.

John shook his head and dished up some of the curry Mycroft had brought them. Sherlock could bloody well fend for himself. He was angry with Sherlock and besides Sherlock was a grown man. He didn't need John to wait on him hand and foot. "I had no idea," he snarked back to his husband.

Sherlock blinked at him vacantly as he lowered himself onto a chair at the kitchen table with a plate of steaming curry and rice. Then Sherlock's face hardened in a cross between anger and envy. He was well aware of John's little games and he wasn't giving in this time. Though that curry smelled divine. Still…John was being stubborn and irritating.

"Sherlock," Mycroft diverted his attention with a knowing smirk and a stern tone. He did so enjoy these little spats between his younger brothers. They were always amusing. The best part was that he knew as well as nearly every one of their acquaintance that John would win. He nearly always did even if Sherlock thought it was always his idea.

"I can't," Sherlock said firmly and plucked at his violin absently. It needed a good tuning after the explosion. Thankfully it had been in its case and not lying about as he was prone to leave it sometimes when he'd been bored. Maybe he was being too hard on John after all.

"Can't?" Mycroft asked with an interested look. He knew very well that Sherlock was bored. He hadn't even needed John to tell him. Simply seeing John striding down the street with his shoulders hunched against the cold wind had alerted him to his brother's antics.

Sherlock shrugged and plucked at the strings again. Still not quite right. "The stuff I've got on is just too big," he outright lied. "I can't spare the time."

John rolled his eyes and addressed himself to the curry so that if Sherlock glanced at him he wouldn't be able to tell how amusing John found their little dance. He figured Sherlock and Mycroft both knew anyway but he wasn't about to be blatant about it. They'd never stop teasing him if he was.

"This is of national importance," Mycroft dangled the carrot for his brother. Sherlock liked interesting cases and this one was sure to be challenging. He watched the flash of interest in Sherlock's gray eyes and mentally smiled smugly. He'd been right. Not that he'd expected anything less.

"How's Molly?" Sherlock asked, changing the subject so that he could buy a little time and think about this case of Mycroft's. They all knew he was going to take it in the end but he wasn't going to make it easy for his brother. Besides, Mycroft was hiding something. "Big as a house, I expect. Due to pop soon isn't she?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and aborted the automatic reach for his wallet and the ultrasound pictures it contained. Sherlock and John had already seen them. Molly always e-mailed them copies as soon as they returned home from her appointments. "She's fine, Sherlock. Thank you for asking."

"Have the two of you decided on a name yet?" John asked interested. Mycroft and Molly had been going back and forth for months over their daughter's name. Neither of them could agree on anything. "You've been discussing it for months now."

Mycroft smiled happily at him. "We have," he answered relieved that that was one battle over the baby that was finally over and done with, even if he wasn't enthused with the name. "She will be Beatrice Alva Holmes."

Sherlock let out a snort of laughter at the choice. "Poor, poor child," he laughed and picked up his bow after setting his violin safely in his lap. "Forever known as Bah. You should really think that name through a bit more, Myc." He scooped up the rosin and checked the hairs on the bow for damage.

Mycroft sighed and shook his head at his brother. "Molly chose it and I'm not going to try and convince her otherwise, Sherlock. You try it and see what happens." He stabbed his ever present brolly at his brother's leg with a teasing smile. Everyone knew Molly's moods were unpredictable. She was just as likely to fly into a rage and throw things at Sherlock as she was to cry uncontrollably or simply nod and pick a new name.

Sherlock shuddered in an exaggerated way. He'd already been the recipient of Molly's temper more than once and had no wish to be so again. "No, thank you." He plucked at the strings again and nodded in satisfaction. The violin was perfectly tuned now. He should probably compose a lullaby for his niece of the dreadful name. Why did all Holmes' born seem to have the most appalling names?

"Will you take the case?" Mycroft asked in a civil tone bringing the conversation back around to the reason he'd trekked all the way across London to see his brothers.

"No," Sherlock denied him again in a curt tone. He'd promised himself he wouldn't make this easy for his brother.

"Yes," John answered at the same time, tired of the game and wanting only to get his dinner finished and go to bed.

Sherlock scowled at him. "I'm too busy, John." He noted the lines of fatigue around John's eyes and mouth and cursed himself, John and his brother. John was always so tetchy when he was exhausted. Damn Mycroft's stupid clinic anyway. And damn John's sense of independence. And damn his own spoiled childishness.

Mycroft shook his head and stood from the armchair he'd appropriated. He'd seen Sherlock's glance towards John and the following flash of irritation and self-loathing in Sherlock's eyes. It was time to get home to his wife and leave his brothers to sort things out. "Missing plans on a memory stick for a missile defense," he told John and crossed to stand at the archway between parlor and kitchen. "One of our agents, a man name West…Westie to his few friends, was found dead on the train tracks with his head bashed in this morning. It's all in the file." He held the file out to John.

John accepted the thin file and flipped through it. "Suicide?" He asked already knowing Mycroft suspected otherwise. He wouldn't be so worried if it was a simple suicide.

"So it would appear," Mycroft answered vaguely and tapped the brolly on the floor with a click, click sound that would have others frowning in annoyance.

"Murdered for the plans," John muttered and nodded to himself. That would irk Mycroft especially as the plans were top secret. "Only copy?" He asked and nodded again at Mycroft's shake of the head. "Top secret? Never mind. Of course they are. Otherwise you wouldn't be here asking for our help. And you need this kept quiet."

Mycroft's lips creased in a smile. It was always so refreshing when John let his intelligence show. "Quite," he agreed. "Thank you gentlemen," he tapped his brolly one more time on the floor in what John knew was a kind of nervous gesture and headed for the door.

"Give Mols our best," John called after him intending to go see his friend in a day or two. Mycroft was far more nervous than a normal expectant father. There was something more going on and he would find out what it was.

"You'll go tomorrow," Sherlock instructed in a firm tone. His eyes were fixed on the door that Mycroft had disappeared through but John wasn't surprised that his husband had seemed to read his mind. Sherlock was good at that.

John nodded in affirmation and then glared at his husband with fire in his hazel eyes. "Go get your food and stop lying to your brother," he ordered. "Lestrade and Ian will be here soon and you know it."

Sherlock sighed, stood, snatched the file from John's hand and headed for the kitchen. "Fine."