Mycroft Holmes never texts when he can talk, but by the god he doesn't believe in, he texts his brother upwards of one hundred times the day the Richard Brook story hits the tabloids. There is no particular reason for it. Mycroft Holmes is simply worried.
Mycroft Holmes has never been a man who put much stock in instinct. Inference is more Sherlock's area. Mycroft Holmes likes his world quantified, and makes his deductions on solid, impartial fact. That being said, there is nothing any more worrying than normal about those insubstantial rumors he has heard about Sherlock's dramatic near arrest last night, nor is there anything impartial about John Watson, when he comes railing into the Diogenes at 9:43, ante meridian. And yet, irrationally, he worries.
Mycroft Holmes is not a man who apologizes often, but he does to Sherlock via John. That's when the worry spikes in his heavily guarded heart, a companion to the guilt already present. The first text is sent within seconds.
Mycroft Holmes does not swear, and he never, ever begs. He never flags in his grammar, either, from which stems his dislike of texting as a rule. His final, desperate text is sent at 3:59, post meridian.
Sherlock holmes for christs sake answer me
At four, the news ticker reads: Suicide at St. Bart's.