[24, and quickly rising through the ranks of MI6, Mycroft Holmes was certainly busy and nearly missed his phone ringing. His desk was full of paperwork, data to be scoured over, and he was with more responsibility than someone of his particular standing should have, once his superiors realized his mental prowess and incredible intelligence. He was an ambitious sort, hoping that one day he'd be able to head all of this. It was a nice thought. Uncle Rudy had left safeguards in place for Sherrinford, but it would be much better, they both agreed, if Mycroft was able to find a governmental position that would allow him ready access to the facility without questions asked. And so Mycroft did his best to begin to make his way to the top, getting contacts, networking, making political allies, though a poor experience had left him with a sour taste of 'legwork'--he would rather not be a field agent. All of this had left him too busy to really check in with Sherlock, even though he felt guilty about not paying him more attention.

His phone was still ringing, buzzing on his desk. He frowned, fishing through the papers to find the Nokia 6110. The screen read Sherlock. Odd.

He leaned back in his chair.]

What is it, Sherlock?