He let himself in quietly, careful not to let the latch click as he closed Mycroft's front door. A pleasant glow emitted from the downstairs living quarters, Sherlock walked slowly, observing the surroundings of his brother's home as he tried to piece together what the niggly off feeling was tugging in his mind.
Inside the room Mycroft was standing by the window, blazer discarded on his desk chair, top button unfastened, a glass of scotch in his right hand, the left was rubbing his temple - the beginnings of a migraine. He looked oddly tense and uncomfortable as if something weighed particularly heavy on his mind.
"I wondered how long it would take you, brother mine"
Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa "well I've been a busy boy, being dead and all that" he flexed his fingers on the arm rest, long gangly legs thrown harpazardly over each other "what have I missed?"
"Not much" was the dry response.
Sherlock glanced about the room whilst Mycroft drawled on. Stuff. There was too much stuff in here that didn't belong to his brother. Since when did Mycroft smoke Lambert? There was a grey scarf hung up on the door too that looked out of place. Odd objects littered his desk, things that he knew were not usual belongings that occupied his brother's home.
"Baker Street is quite secure dear brother, I've seen to that. Mrs Hudson has been informed I presume?" Mycroft asked.
"Yes yes, I gave her quite the scare. Dare say I livened up her morning Sudoku" he stood up and started snooping through some of the items on the desk, not in the least bit interested in Mycroft's waffling.
Mycroft set his tumbler down next to an already empty - but not previously one. "don't you think you ought to go there, do things. After all it's where you live and I imagine after two years you've got quite a bit to do there - Sherlock are you even listening?"
He watched Mycroft set down his scotch, noticing the empty one beside it and snatched it up to his nose, sniffing the remnants of its contents. "since when do you drink Jack?" Mycroft tilted his head to the side, squinting slightly "or wear lipstick?"
He spun round, scanning the room, vacuuming up all the information he could into his brain. Various things stuck out to him, Mycroft's home had never looked lived in - ever. Everything was normally sterile in appearance and nothing would look used. The more he looked the more he noticed. A pair of women's sensible black heels where placed by the door - size 5, worn daily. A few loose hair pins were scattered atop the mantle piece as well as a tube of strawberry flavored lipbarm and Sherlock broke out into a low chuckle.
"Mycroft you dark horse" he snickered, "a woman really?" he allowed himself to laugh despite the look of disapproval on his brothers face, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry but really come on, you? whatever happened to not needing a goldfish?"
Mycroft looked glum and sighed, "as per usual as of late dear brother your deductions are becoming sloppy, and I wouldn't be quite so smug if I were you. More to the point what are you doing here?"
"My flat is considerably less occupied than I had left it" Sherlock was suddenly sombre. A heavy expression hung on his face as he tucked his hands into his coat pockets, mentally preparing himself to swallow his pride and ask his dear old big brother for help. "she's not there, hasn't been for a long time. I need you t-" and that's when he smelt it, a musky fragrance - a familiarly heavy perfume.
He sniffed a couple of times at the air, all the while staring at his brother with a very unnatural confused expression. Mycroft sighed and braced himself, he knew this was inevitable. Sherlock followed his nose and backed his way towards the door he had entered through, the familiar smell was coming from the hallway and of course, upstairs.
Before Mycroft could speak, and offer any kind of explanation, Sherlock had spun on his heels and bolted up the stairs, missing every other one as he went. No lights were on upstairs, no sounds other than Mycroft's foot steps, somewhat more tactical on his ascent up the stairs behind Sherlock. He nudged every door open and peered inside as he made his way across the landing until finally there was one door left ajar. Mycroft's bedroom.
With a backwards dirty look at Mycroft he edged closer and nudged the door open and he could feel the elder Holmes' presence behind him, since given up trying to stop his younger brother intruding in his upstairs quarters. The familiar fragrance was practically radiating from inside the room, he could make out articles of clothing abandoned on the floor, familiar clothing, clothing he knew and recognised. With one hand holding the door open, his wide eyes followed the trail of garments to the bed in disbelief until he found the culprit. He no doubt recognised his wife's dark hair strewn across Mycroft's pillow, her head just visible above the thick covers, snoring lightly and all too comfortable for Sherlock's liking to be asleep in his brother's bed.