This is a post-Reichenbach, pre-Empty Hearse prequel to my short story John Watson is Safe, but both can be read separately. It's just that something happened when I was writing this and things slid into place and I must say I'm quite satisfied with the outcome. :)

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, read it and let me know what you thought of it. Even if you think it's completely sh*t I'll appreciate the feedback.

*sorry to those who have already read it, I decided to change the summary, it's still the same story :)

It was two o'clock in the morning when Mycroft's phone suddenly rang.

Now, that wasn't an unusual occurrence. Being the British government came with its perks, yes. But as with every job there were also downsides. And one of these downsides was being woken up at all ungodly hours of the day. So no, Mycroft wasn't surprised.

Annoyed, yes. Feeling more than inclined to pierce the caller with the pointy end of his umbrella, certainly. Surprised, not in the least. That is… until he saw the caller ID.

"What in the…" was all Mycroft managed to get out before his hand shot out from under the blankets almost out of its own volition and made a grab for his phone that was placed immaculately on his nightstand, aligned perfectly with his reading glasses, the lamp and a glass of water.

Because the caller ID said "A Hidden Number" and sure, there were quite a few people of his acquaintance who might prefer not have their number recognised when calling him, however, none of them would deign it appropriate to call him up at 2 AM. There was only one man who would lack the decency and grasp of polite calling hours, and Mycroft knew beyond doubt that this man preferred to text.

"Yes," he barked into the speaker, having accepted the call and trying not to let the worry he suddenly felt seep into his words. All he got in response was the sound of heavy breathing.

Mycroft gulped.

"Sh- … Are you injured?"

More heavy breathing and then:

"Oh, don't be tedious, Mycroft," said a drawling baritone and Mycroft almost let out a sigh in relief. He checked himself immediately, though.

"Why have you called then? Was it simply for the pleasure of suspending my sleep? I was in the middle of my REM cycle."

"Were you? Lovely to know my knowledge of you has not diminished. How very predictable of you to go to sleep at quarter to midnight every day," said the baritone again, giving off the air of someone who's bored beyond the point of endurance.

"How very childish of you," Mycroft returned sharply. He did not for a moment believe that Sherlock called him simply to wake him up. And he knew that Sherlock knew that he knew that. "Was there anything else?"

"Yes, how's your diet?" quipped Sherlock.

"It's fine!" Mycroft said, regretting that he couldn't shout his brother's name exasperatedly, as was his favourite habit for relieving his annoyance at Sherlock. It would be highly imprudent, though, so Mycroft restrained himself.

"Why have you called?" he asked again and the worry that had previously left him returned again when there was no immediate response from the other end of the line.

"What is it…. why…." Then it dawned on him. How daft of him not to have noticed earlier. Then again, he never quite understood this particular facet of Sherlock's personality. "Oh I see! It's because of him, isn't it!"

Sherlock didn't react.

"You're worried about him! How very quaint!"

"Mycroft!" Sherlock barked out suddenly and Mycroft fell silent, contemplating the best way to approach the situation.

"You know, I have told you before. Caring is not an advanta-"

"Shut up! Just shut up, Mycroft!" came a shout that almost resembled a growl, and two thoughts flashed across Mycroft's brilliant mind; That had not been the right thing to say. and Oh my, the exile has certainly made his brother's more animalistic tendencies shine through.

Mycroft stayed silent after that, grudgingly obeying his brother's angry request. He grew tired of the banter (Quite understandably, he had been in the middle of his REM cycle when awoken, after all! ) and simply waited for Sherlock to make up his damn mind as to what he wanted.

"How…" Sherlock said finally. Hesitantly. Very out of character. "How is he?"

Mycroft didn't reply at once, again taking a moment to contemplate the best answer. Because this was the important one. He couldn't risk the operation's success simply to pander to the whims of his little brother. And who knew what would trigger him off in this state?

"Mycroft," said Sherlock again and this time, his tone was a little softer. "How is John?"

Hmmm, interesting reaction. And not one that Mycroft would have expected.

Usually he could predict people's reactions with alarming (well, alarming for them) accuracy. And this was the second time he had failed to do so with his little brother. How very irksome!

Perhaps he had taken too long a time with his response because when Sherlock spoke next, it was in such a way and to sound words Mycroft never would have expected his brother to say.

"Mycroft, please!" Sherlock's voice was so low, Mycroft would have mistaken it for a broken whisper had he not known better. "Please! I want to know. No! I need to know! How is John?"

Mycroft thought back to the transcripts from John's sessions with Ella, the therapist. Of the gasps, the pauses in the conversation and the broken sobs, unmercifully immortalised on the cream paper of the file in italics and sharp brackets.

"Mycroft!" This time, Sherlock's voice gained a decidedly angry edge. If only it had not broken to end of his speech it could have been convincing. "I'm… I'm begging you!"

Mycroft's eyebrows shot up into his receding hairline and his carefully schooled expression of polite disinterest, he had adopted at a young age whenever talking to people, finally gave way to express his utter shock.

Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes was begging?

Mycroft couldn't help but feel a little disgusted by his brother's show of weakness.

However, he was not beyond compassion and having decided upon an answer, was just about to do so, when Sherlock spoke again.

"Please, brother, tell me: how is John Watson?"

Knowing that withholding an answer now would be the worst thing he could do to Sherlock, injuring the proceedings of the operation beyond repair, Mycroft opened his mouth. Then changed his mind. Then opened his mouth again and almost groaned in annoyance.

He abhorred indecisiveness.

When he finally spoke, he was surprised (surprise seemed to be the theme of the night) at the strange softness in his own voice.

"John Watson is fine. No one knows. He's fine, he's safe."

Sherlock was again silent at the other end and then suddenly hung up.

Mycroft sat upright for a while longer, staring at the shining screen of his mobile phone. Wondering if he had really heard Sherlock's choked voice breath out John Watson is safe before the ending tone sounded or if it was simply an echo and his ears were playing tricks on him.