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Yes. For Mycroft.

[It's an odd request. One that isn't issued very often. Or, well, ever. Sherlock accepted only because he got the distinct impression that Mycroft was hoping he wouldn't.

His eyes narrow, and he gives a short sigh.] He asked you first.

Did he? [It hadn't been by text, but then again, Mycroft rarely texted when a simple voluntary kidnapping would suffice. He must have intended for Sherlock to relay the message, playing that little game of chess between them while Sherlock insisted on playing checkers.]

Let me guess, and you thought it would be a good opportunity to go snooping around in his business? [Not that Mycroft probably had anything to be found in his home. The man played the part of his cover life so very well. Even John didn't really know if that wedding ring was entirely for show, or if there was a personal story behind it.]

Not snooping, John. [His mouth quirks up the tiniest bit at the corners.] Investigating.

[He sighs.] He expects it from me.

It is kind of a traditional little brother past time. [Never let it be said that John Watson passed upon an opportunity to mock the family dynamics of the Holmes siblings.]

When are we expected?

[Sherlock looks slightly annoyed and picks up a book on the end table, flipping it over to inspect it. Traditional seems dangerously close to average in this case.]

This evening. There won't be any staff, he's send them all away.

Dare I ask how long we'll be staying? [John is putting down his own paper, contemplating what to pack.]

Though, it's not as if much is going on at the moment. [So there is that. Honestly, the lull in everything has been a bit of a blessing to John. He knows that Sherlock doesn't handle being bored well, but John wasn't ready for another big case, Irene had unsettled him to some degree.]

I could probably find a local rugby.

Let's make a weekend out of it. [That statement does sound suspect, but Sherlock pushes on with his suspicions.] There's only two reasons why Mycroft would ask me to do such a thing. He wants something or he has done something he feels guilty about.

[He looks over at John.] I plan on figuring out which.

[He pushes himself to his feet and picks up his violin, perching it on his shoulder. Since Irene he's needed more to occupy his thoughts more than ever. He doesn't like dwelling on a person that cannot return. Not in the near future, any how. Irene was fascinating and his thoughts drift to her often. Too often for his liking. He would much rather occupy his thoughts with a murder, or serial murders. In a pinch, he supposes Mycroft's mysteries would do.

Without realizing it, he's tuned John out and has begun playing Irene's song as he mentally goes over for the twentieth time Mycroft's possible motivations in extending this odd request.] He'll expect us to steal from his library. He has a number of first editions. Mostly boring poetry.

I can't see Mycroft feeling guilty for anything, he is the man that starts wars over teatime after all. [But John would be the first to admit that he really doesn't know much about Sherlock's brother, even if he ranks as one of the foremost experts on the Holmes'.

Chin in his hand, John watches Sherlock play for a long time. It's a song that he's come to resent, but without much active malice. It's difficult to hold a grudge against a dead woman. In some ways, John should be thankful for Irene's interference in their comfortable little world. Before her, he'd never thought it was possible for Sherlock Holmes to have strong feelings. Oh, well, he knew he might rank highly in that realm too. In a different sort of way.

If it weren't for Irene, John might never have realized that he carried such a jealous streak too. Uncomfortable questions that may have raised, this time, John is less afraid of facing the unknown.]

Think we've found my occupation then. [John would hide himself in the poetry for hours, if Sherlock allowed it. They'd have to see.]

I'll just tell Mrs Hudson that we'll be off then, shall I? [He doesn't need an answer back, since he's already pushing himself up from his comfortable chair, his mind going over what to pack and what, if anything, he'll be able to write about his weekend getaway.]

Hmmm? [Sherlock hums, breaking out of his thoughts to look over at John. His mind catches up quickly and a small smile breaks over his lips.] I didn't suspect you would be a fan of poetry after reading your own.

[There is a definite, tiny tease in the words as he sets down his violin and moves onto the next item of business. He moves into the kitchen, gathering up various items while raising his voice to carry on the conversation.] Tell her we'll be needing a lunch. Something cold will do. I'll notify Lestrade, since he refuses to text when asking for favors.