Two people on the stairs. The stairs, he thinks to himself, the thoughts verbal and echoing in his mind. He strains to listen in case it’s John, but it isn’t. He knows his slow, uneven gait anywhere. It’s Mrs. Hudson - she makes the trip up many times daily, he knows her well enough - and Mycroft. He’s just as unmistakable, but not for the number of times he’s visited the flat.

Sherlock spent his childhood honing his senses so he’d known when Mycroft was coming. It wasn’t always sinister, a younger brother afraid of an older brother’s wrath. Sometimes it was a game. Sherlock had so often been wrapped up in some game or another, imagining that Mycroft was the villain in his mind’s play. But sometimes it wasn’t a game, sometimes it was real, though Sherlock often was the root cause, having done something to Mycroft first to earn a scolding. He’d never admitted it aloud, never told Mycroft, but so often when they were young and he crept into his room to steal something of his, most often books or other things that were dear to him, it was because he wanted to be more like him.

Now, he wanted anything but.

“Speaking,” Sherlock answered, his voice a dull hum of sound like he’s answering the phone he’s been ignoring all day, instead of speaking to his brother who’s standing in the same room. He doesn’t even bother looking over at him. Sherlock isn’t attempting to be polite.