Chapter Text
It was almost 2am by the time Lestrade’s key slotted with a low series of dull clicks into the Yale lock of his front door. It turned with a ‘thunk’, the door swinging inwards as he stumbled into his darkened flat, coat slipping from his shoulders to pool at the floor by his feet. The bag in his hand from the all-night Tesco rustled against the floor as he placed it non-too-lightly down on the linoleum flooring of his small hallway, remembered a moment too late that there were eggs in there, and hoped vaguely that he hadn’t cracked them.
The day had been no easier than the one before. Or the day before that, and he was due back at his desk in no less than five hours. He was fast approaching seventy hours without having been home, catching a few hours sleep at his desk where he could and Greg was understandably exhausted. Despite the showers at the precinct, he was fairly certain that he stank, sweat stains on his shirt likely to leave a permanent reminder of the hellish week he was living through. Still, he’d take what he could get for the moment; the thought of his own bed and a fresh change of clothes was more than he might have wished for only a few hours earlier. If he was lucky, perhaps even breakfast in the morning in his own kitchen and a cup of half decent coffee. The tiny room to his right contained little more than a fridge, sink, oven and the overpriced espresso machine that had been a wedding present too many moons ago. It hadn’t been the best thing about his marriage, but it was the only thing that stuck.
He had been allocated to a missing person’s case first thing on Monday morning, before he had even reached his office; orders from the top that came from above his own boss and required his assistance by name. Above his boss’ boss, even, and he didn’t have to think overly hard to realise precisely who had made the direct request. What he hadn’t yet managed to comprehend was why.
But, Monday had ticked away with no leads. Tuesday was no better and now they had lost Wednesday as well, Thursday seeming ever more daunting even in the far too early hours of morning. He knew, as everyone did, that the first forty eight hours were paramount in the case of any missing persons - after that, the likelihood of finding them alive and unharmed grew ever more remote. Not that he could stop looking; not that he would, even given the order.
Movement, deeper within the bowels of his flat, black as pitch from the heavy blackout blinds which shielded against the unnatural orange glow emitted by the street lamp directly outside his living room window. A lurch of hope-mixed-dread as his hand hovered near the light switch before retreating again, front door still partly open behind him and spilling artificial light into his tiny entrance-way to offer only scant visibility. One part of his mind whispered a hopeful Sherlock; it wouldn’t be the first time he had found the consulting detective lurking in the recesses of his home, admittedly normally with every single bulb lit and the contents of his kitchen cupboards spilled out over his worktops. The other part murmured burglar, and the cold weight of a bread knife in his right hand was a poor substitute for the gun he wished were there, though it was the only thing in his kitchen close enough to the door to grab while keeping his eyes fixed on the doorway into the living area.
Stepping forward, keeping his footsteps as silent as he could, Greg moved into the darkness of the unknown. His own breath held fast between clenched teeth and closer now to the person invading his space, he could hear the slightly stunted breathing of the other, only the one then, and all he could do was hope he might be right . Knife poised - what little it would do if the other person had a gun - and knees slightly bent to either lunge or fall back, he flicked the light switch and flooded the room with bright light in the hopes that it would blind the intruder.
He knew he had half expected to see a Holmes on his sofa. He had not, however, expected to see that particular Holmes.
“Mycroft?” The man blinked up at him, owlish, not bothering to shield his eyes from the harsh light. Greg thought for a moment that he might have woken him, and wouldn’t that be a turn-up for the books - Mycroft Holmes napping uninvited on his sofa - yet the redness of his cheeks spoke of something other than sleep. He had any number of questions muddling together in his head; why are you here? What are you doing in my flat? Are you here alone? Has something else happened? What he finally settled on, however, was a simple, “Are you alright?”
“No, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft huffed by way of reply, his tongue sounding too thick in his mouth as the words lost their typical annunciation, usual strong posture long since abandoned as he slumped over his own knees, sinking further into the well-worn fabric, “it appears that I am not.”
“Has something- has Sherlock..?” Recalling the knife in his hand, Greg abandoned the thing on the telephone table by the door, though his attention on Mycroft did not waver for even a moment. The man looked utterly defeated; his ever-present suit was rumpled and Greg would not be in the slightest bit surprised if he hadn’t changed his clothing in these past three days either. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, hair slick to his head and lacking its usual style, dark with product and lack of care. The sight was more than a little sobering, and for one terrifying moment he thought that Sherlock must have been found.
When the call had come in, Greg initially thought little of it; Sherlock had a habit of vanishing. It would not have surprised him, at that point, if he had gotten himself distracted on some private case, only to reappear days later wondering what all the fuss was about. Hell, he’d been gone for two years not all that long ago, presumed dead and buried! Greg could only hope this was not more of the same - he wasn’t certain John could handle going through that a second time.
But, something had been different about this. The details were sparse, all other cases were taken from Greg’s department and handed off to others, drafting in teams from other precincts to cover the loss of manpower as they poured everything they had into finding the missing Sherlock Holmes, and no one could tell him why. The implication, however, was clear; Sherlock hadn’t disappeared of his own accord. Not this time.
“No, nothing of the sort, and therein lies the problem.” Mycroft wasn’t looking at him, eyes drifting to a stain on the carpet beside the coffee table that Greg had been meaning to clean for almost a month. They clearly weren’t tracking properly, and Greg’s mouth curved down into a concerned frown. “It has been too long, we have nothing of use, and I fear-”
“Hey.” It took less than two strides to cover the distance between the doorway and the sofa, one arm braced on the back and he wasn’t entirely sure why he chose to lean over Mycroft but there they were, and he wasn’t about to back off. Not yet, at least, surprised grey eyes blinking up at him, at the sudden close proximity. “We’ll find him. I swear to you, on whatever god you want, that I will find that smug bastard and bring him home.”
“I know you will.” There was a tight little smile on Mycroft’s lips, far too forced and the scent of scotch permeated the air between them. “One way or the other.”
“You sure it was wise coming here on your own after a couple of drinks?” A couple might have been underselling it; Mycroft looked as though he had worked his way through the better part of an entire bottle based on the lack of focus in his gaze and the slight lean to the right towards Greg’s arm. Not that Greg could much blame him, and he knew that the man would never have allowed anyone to see him in such a state otherwise. He looked as though he might be on the verge of a breakdown, and perhaps that was why he had been allowed to wallow alone in the dark by his people.
“You know as well as I, detective; I am never truly alone. I am considered far too important to be left to my own devices for too long, even when mourning the loss of the brother I hold dear.” There was too much emotion on his face, he was too open, the carefully controlled facade crumbling around his feet and - god, how did a man who could clearly feel so keenly end up in a position where he was expected not to? Greg had seen flickers of it before, but this? He didn’t know quite how to handle this.
“Hey, come on now, you know Sherlock - he’ll turn up in a week, right as rain and wondering what all the fuss is about.” He tried for reassuring, yet it sounded as false to his own years as it must have to Mycroft, slender hands tightening into fists against his knees hard enough to whiten the knuckles and for one ridiculous moment he was tempted to reach out to cover them with his own. Greg paused, watching the emotions flicker over Mycroft’s face, schooled seconds too late. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“It has been decided,” Mycroft started, nervous tongue flicking out over dry lips as he slid back in his seat and apparently away from Greg’s hovering form, “that the document in question can no longer be kept from the investigation.” A damp forehead came to rest against Greg’s wrist, shirt sleeves still rolled up from earlier that day and leaving the skin there exposed, and for one terrifying moment he thought perhaps the man might cry. Mycroft felt near-feverish, and it would not be overly surprising if the man was coming down with something.
“There was evidence and you didn’t tell me? ” The hand propping him upright clenched into a fist within the worn fabric of the sofa back, misplaced anger surging through his veins and in that moment he wondered what it might be like to hit the man sat in front of him. Yet, Mycroft was clearly in no small measure of distress, unarmed and unlikely to defend himself so he swallowed the desire down with a tiny pang of shame at having even considered it. A reflex, and one he damn well wasn’t proud of.
“I did not know. The details relating to this case have been rather successfully removed from my clearance level.” Pointing at the manilla folder on the coffee table behind Greg’s legs, one that had escaped his notice until that moment, Mycroft finally lifted himself away from the light skin-on-skin contact, head rolling back against the sofa.
“I didn’t know that was even possible.” Greg deflated, chastised. The folder itself seemed fairly innocuous; plain, unmarked, not hugely thick from the looks of it.
“No, I have to admit, until this week neither did I.” Greg turned his attention back to Mycroft, who seemed too many miles away in the moment, lips parted slightly as he breathed in shallow little inhales. He looked so small, so vulnerable, nothing like the man Greg thought he knew.
He hated this.
“Shit!” Pushing himself away, Greg caught the flutter of fingers out of the corner of his eye, catching nothing but air and then retreating. When he stopped, turned to look, Mycroft was back to staring at nothing and would not meet his eye. Pushing the odd, almost needy gesture to the back of his mind for the moment, he made his way back through to the hallway without saying anything further. The front door was still open, caught on the crumpled fabric of his discarded jacket which he kicked out of the way. The door swung shut with a loud thump, locks clicking methodically into place and the security chain sliding down the runner.
Not that it would particularly stop anyone who wanted to get in, as Mycroft had proven, but it made Greg feel better at least.
The light in the kitchen blinked and flickered, humming fluorescent tube so many years old that it was certain to die soon. The yellowing plastic cover was in desperate need of a clean, a number of dead flies having gathered within the confines of the cheap casing. Needing a new one would mean a trip to B&Q and a tenner down the drain, and he really should pick one up before it did finally give up the ghost, yet there was always something far more important to occupy his time - such as the man presently inhabiting his living room. Grabbing a clean glass and mug from the draining board, Greg let the cold water run for a good minute or so to get the temperature down and clear the worst of the limescale taste before filling both and stepping back through into the living room with his head a little clearer. He would need a coffee fairly soon, but it could wait.
“Here.” He passed Mycroft the glass, hoping it would be more satisfactory for the man than the chipped mug he kept for himself. “Drink this, you’re probably dehydrated by now, and you’re going to have one hell of a hangover in the morning.” He tried not to notice how Mycroft eyed the thing like it might jump up and bite him, the possibility of poisoning clearly so deeply ingrained that he debated whether to even touch the glass. “It’s tap water. Don’t have any of that fancy bottled stuff, sorry.”
“Thank you, detective.” Considering for a few more moments, he finally raised the glass to his lips, taking the smallest of sips and wincing at the not-quite-fresh taste and metallic tang that seemed ever-present. Greg had a water filter jug, one of those Brita fridge things; it had been on sale apparently, one of the many remnants of his ex-wife which remained in his life, half-forgotten and unused. The filter in it had to be around a year and a half old at this point, and if he had any spare ones lying around their location remained a mystery. He might invest in new ones, one day. More likely though it would go to the charity shop round the corner, or into the bin if they didn’t want it.
“You up to going through this tonight? You’re pretty tipsy, might be better to get some sleep and go over what we’ve got in the morning.” Not that Greg would be sleeping; he had new evidence in what had been an entirely impossible case, his friend - whether Sherlock himself considered Greg a friend was irrelevant - was still missing, he could handle another sleepless night.
“I may not be entirely sober, detective, but my memory is still flawless.” Mycroft sniffed, the sound stuffy, and he almost seemed offended for a moment. It would have been amusing in any other situation, but nothing about their present predicament was funny.
“I don’t doubt that for a second.” Greg replied, pulling the folder into his lap and flipping it open. He had encountered Sherlock drunk or worse more than he had ever wished to, and the man was no less brilliant for his blatant substance abuse. “You want to walk me through this, or can I just go at it?”
“Please, go right ahead, though I doubt there will be much in there which is of any use.” Mycroft wasn’t wrong; the folder contained one page after another with more black than white visible, some pages entirely redacted and completely pointless.
“You weren’t kidding.” What the hell had Sherlock been up to that it needed to be kept even from Mycroft himself? With a frown, he slid a handful of photographs free, laying each one out on the table and shoving everything else away, two magazines, a set of headphones and a book on slow cooking for the freezer clattering to the floor. Each photograph was in a sort of fake Polaroid format, a date marked beneath each one and further details scribbled down on the back. There were twelve in total, going back eighteen months, and Greg wasn’t really certain what he was looking at.
“My superiors, it seems, have been monitoring my brother for some time.” Mycroft took a deep breath, letting it out slowly and staring up at the three-arm light fitting hanging from the ceiling. “His behaviour has been suspect, apparently.”
“Suspect how, exactly?”
“If I knew, detective, believe me when I say that I would tell you.” None of this was adding up, scanning over the few words and paragraphs left to them within the folder helped little, though there was a repeated mention of an unnamed individual referred to only as subject B. Male, late thirties to early forties, short blonde hair, just shy of six foot in height, yet nothing he might be able to use for an e-fit. No facial features were detailed, no identifying marks, or if they had ever been they must have been caught up in the black lines of redacted text - the document seemed to suggest this mystery man and Sherlock were in some way linked, and that this was apparently important, yet there was nothing in there to indicate in what context. There were also no photographs of this particular person, making the description next to useless.
“And I’m guessing there’s nothing in here that shines a light on that.” No, he could see for himself that there was nothing, yet Greg was not about to stop looking; the clock ticked closer to 3am, and this was the best lead they’d had. Hell, it was the only lead they had.
“Nothing at all. Or at least, nothing that I could find; I’m hoping that you may be able to spot something I have missed.” At Greg’s incredulous look Mycroft loosed a humourless chuckle. “I am compromised. I have done the one thing that I swore I would never do and allowed my emotions to override my mind. I cannot think straight, and I’m doing little to help that fact. I have my memory but my mind is...scattered, at present. Until I can piece myself back together, I fear I will be of little use.”
“When was the last time you ate?” The fact that Mycroft had to stop and think about that was far too telling, both in how long it had been and how scattered his brilliant mind had become.
“I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you. Tuesday, perhaps, though I’ve no idea what I might have eaten.” And that was more than a little concerning; for a man so adamant his memory was unaffected to be unable to recall something so basic as his last meal, something was decidedly not right. He could tell the realisation worried Mycroft as well, brows drawing together and the corners of his mouth dipping down into a small frown.
“You’ll be of no use to Sherlock if you don’t look after yourself, you know.”
“I’m of no use to him at present regardless.” Shaking his head, Mycroft seemed suddenly very small, nearing gaunt. The look on his face was too close to utter despair, and Greg felt his heart clench in his chest at the sight. “I just keep wondering if-” He paused, swallowing down the waver in his voice. “A frightening place, the mind, when facts are absent and imagination runs rampant. It’s funny I suppose; I hadn’t considered myself to have much of an imagination.” He laughed, bitter and humourless. “It appears I was mistaken.”
“Don’t suppose you could get me a copy of this without all the black lines?” It was a long shot, but he had to try; there was something in there, something important, and Greg knew full well it was the clue which would solve the mystery of their missing consulting detective. It helped pull Mycroft from his self-deprecating train of thought as well, albeit only temporarily.
“I am sorry, I cannot - even I don’t have access to the unmarked copy. I’ve no idea what it said originally either, before they butchered it for the eyes of the constabulary.” He didn’t miss the note of bitterness in Mycroft’s tone, feeling for the man, knowing that the dossier held potential clues as to the whereabouts of his errant brother and having that information denied to them - it was more than marginally frustrating.
“Useful.” Greg grumbled, noting how Mycroft seemed to flinch at his comment, though he wasn’t sure that the man had actually moved. “Not you, mind. The bureaucrats who think that country secrets are more important than a man’s life.”
“I’m afraid to say that, despite my own feelings in this matter, I agree with them. Some things are more important than the life of a single man. Even if that man is my brother.”
“Well, we’ll just have to do this without those assholes then.” Rearranging the photographs into date order served little purpose other than to busy his hands and help to try to organise what he had been given within his own mind. Of the twelve, eleven were distant shots of Sherlock, barely recognisable and clearly cropped and then reprinted into that format - which made so little sense that he thought to dismiss it entirely for the moment. The twelfth was a close up of another man, clearly not Sherlock, yet the notes on the back stated that it must be and the height at least was there. It was dated one week before Sherlock had been reported as missing, and the rear stated ‘Teatro alla Scala, Milan’.
“Before you ask; no, I’ve no idea why he was in Milan either.” Mycroft looked so tired, emotionally exhausted but perhaps sobering a little as he sat slowly sipping on the glass of water in his hand. He wasn’t looking at Greg, staring down at the manilla folder spread out across the Detective Inspector’s lap.
“John might know?” If anyone would know, it was John; the man had barely left Sherlock’s side since he had lost Mary. Even with their fairly frequent arguments immediately after her death - a few of which Greg had been unfortunate enough to witness, John’s grief and frustration and anger all overlapping to explode at the person closest to him - he scarcely let Sherlock out of his sight. Greg could understand that fear; he had lost his best friend, gained a wife, then lost her too. He wasn’t about to let Sherlock go a second time, not now that he had him back.
“Doctor Watson was under the impression Sherlock was visiting our parents at that point in time, but no one has heard from him for over two weeks now.”
“Two weeks? We were told he had disappeared at the weekend!” Greg gaped at him, and still Mycroft stared down at the papers in his lap, at Greg’s hands.
“It is not unusual for my brother to dodge my calls, unless he wants something for me, and it was not until I spoke with Doctor Watson on this matter that I became aware of a discrepancy in the stories he has been spinning. Had he intended to visit our parents, he certainly never arrived with them, and it would be extremely peculiar for him to choose to go of his own accord, and never alone.”
“He doesn’t get on with your folks, then?” And that was something Greg could understand to a point; he hadn’t gotten on too well with his own Father - the biological one, anyway.
“That is a mild way of putting it, detective. He and our father scarcely see eye to eye, and Mummy for all her brilliance is entirely too overbearing for either one of us to handle her presence alone for any length of time.” The corner of Mycroft’s mouth, the one he could see, shifted up into a wry sort of smile.
“Alright, so our timeline has completely changed.” Grabbing one of the unpaid bills from the telephone table, Greg pulled the letter from the envelope and flipped it over, tugging his pen from his breast pocket to scribble on the blank side. “So when was the last time anyone saw him?”
“He was accompanied to the door by Doctor Watson on the morning of 2nd of June - a Saturday - and took a black cab with a single suitcase. The taxi driver was contacted for statement - page seventy two, if you wish - who advised that he had driven his passenger to Euston station, arriving at 12:17 according to the dashboard camera in the taxi. He purchased a one way ticket to Manchester on his debit card at a cost of eighty six pounds, boarded the 12:40 service, and from that point the trail goes entirely cold.” Simple, efficient, and Greg found himself a little disturbed by the detached tone. Mycroft was stating the facts and only the facts - it was useful, and it didn’t surprise him, but he knew Mycroft cared for Sherlock as much as he did for his own sister. Greg couldn’t imagine himself being able to do the same if he were in Mycroft’s shoes.
“Entirely cold? Surely someone saw him leaving the train?” His pen hovered over the paper, skipping back and forth between the last two lines he had scribbled down. People did not simply just disappear - not on packed public transport. There was always a trail. It was just a case of finding it.
“No, and CCTV has given us nothing. He was very carefully hiding his trail, and likely had the means to disguise himself within the suitcase he was seen carrying.” Which meant he could have disembarked at any one of the stops between London and Manchester; Greg made a note to check which stops that particular train had made, at what times and for how long.
“If that’s the case, wouldn’t there be footage of another passenger carrying that same suitcase off the train, can’t we check for that?” Over two weeks ago...the camera footage might not even exist anymore, much less show them what they needed to see.
“Very astute of you, detective. Unfortunately, we already checked for that; the case was found abandoned in a train bathroom by the cleaners at Manchester Piccadilly, entirely empty, and was at that point handed in at the lost and found.” Which meant it had been ignored and overlooked for the entire trip; not unusual on a busy train where suitcases and bags were liable to be shoved into any and all free spaces.
“Empty?” Greg‘s forehead wrinkled in mild confusion. “So the clothes he was wearing when he boarded the train?”
“That is...only his coat has been recovered.” Mycroft’s hand was trembling as he reached over, tugging the final page free from the folder and laying it on Greg’s lap, strangely careful not to actually touch him. Another photograph was clipped to the page, one he had not seen, and this one an original; unmistakably Sherlock’s coat, bloodied and torn from what appeared to be a series of fairly large slashes. Greg swallowed, stomach tightening, feeling mildly nauseous.
“The blood is-”
“-confirmed to be Sherlock’s, yes.”
“Shit.”