It had been many months since his brother had come to him with a case - something to do with all the work he had done over the last few years earning him a bit of a reprieve - so when Mycroft Holmes phoned him with a case that needed looking into personally, he was immediately intrigued.

Which was why, sitting across from an unassuming young woman, Sherlock was a little more than annoyed at Mycroft's trickery.

He knew all about this case already - Minor lordling goes missing (apparently kidnapped, but thus far no ransom), unusual in itself as this particular lord had a small (according to Mycroft) position in the government. The woman sitting across from Sherlock was his wife - who seemingly ALSO worked for the government. This also explained Mycroft's appearance right behind her.

He sighed, indicating to the woman that she should begin her story ("and don't be boring") in her own words. She took a steeling breath, and began.

"Mr Holmes, my name is Lady Abigail Hartley. My husband, Lord Trevor Hartley, has been missing for over a week now. His office showed little signs of a struggle, and thus far there has been no request for a ransom. I am loathe to go to the police as Trevor was involved in some...confidential matters for the government that could be jeopardized if anyone was to discover his disappearance-"

"So why come to me?" Sherlock interrupted.

She gave him a look, one that could easily have cowed a lesser man, and simply continued "I have come to you, Mr Holmes, because My...employer here assures me that this is something you can deal with rather discreetly".

Mycroft appeared to shift uncomfortably behind her, something Sherlock was sure he would deal with another time. For now, he was determined to get rid of this ridiculous case.

He looked over the woman - clearly on office worker, probably a low level admin assistant, her suit very plain and nondescript. She couldn't be more than 28, although she seemed far more mature. A little on the plump side - clearly a result of office work and married life- with auburn hair and what appeared to be a smattering of freckles hidden beneath her makeup. The way she spoke about her husband seemed somewhat detached. Whether it was because she had rehearsed this little speech, or the marriage was in fact unhappy, he couldn't be sure.

What he was sure of was everything he was observing was completely superficial. He couldn't get a proper read on her at all. It was perplexing.

"Mrs Hartley- "

"Lady" Mycroft corrected.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at this, but proceed "My apologies - Lady Hartley - has it at all occurred to you that your husband has faked his disappearance, and is in fact lying on a beach somewhere surrounded by beautiful women".

To her credit, she didn't even flinch. She merely stood up from her seat, brushed off her skirt, and stared Sherlock down.

"Mr Holmes", she began in a deadly calm voice, "I don't care if my Husband is on a yacht in the Caribbean drunk out of his mind. I need you to find him. I just need to know".

The sudden silence in the room was palpable, with Lady Hartley not breaking eye contact with Sherlock once, and Mycroft torn between looking uncomfortable, and trying not to laugh at her audacity. After what seemed like an eternity (but was probably less than a minute), Sherlock also stood up, fixed his jacket, and smiled.

"I'll take the case Lady Hartley, I will need as much information as you and my brother can provide. I will be in touch".

He reached out to shake her hand, receiving a warm smile from her in return.

As she turned to leave, Sherlock suddenly had thought.

"Lady Hartley, you didn't say what it is you do for my brother".

The warm smile suddenly turned into a smirk.

"You could say I'm his assistant's assistant".

And with that, she left the room, leaving Mycroft to speak with Sherlock.

"I will courier you over the file for this case. I know it's a little below what you are used to, but I appreciate this personal favour".

"Yes well, I appreciate that I will be able to lord this over you for many months to come brother dear".

Mycroft turned on his heel, collecting his signature umbrella from its position by the door, and continued down the stairs to join Lady Hartley in the car parked out the front of Baker Street.

Sherlock crossed to the window, watching as the car pulled away from the curb, wondering - not for the first time that afternoon - exactly who Abigail Hartley was, and what was her relationship with his brother.

The rest of his day was spent on his laptop, looking up Trevor and Abigail Hartley whilst waiting for the file to come over. He couldn't find much - both had fairly generic Facebook pages, neither had a twitter account - their social media presence was minimal, Which wasn't surprising considering they both worked in government. Sherlock tossed his laptop onto the small coffee table and laid back on the lounge in a bit off a huff. By all appearances, these two were the most boring couple in existence (and that was saying something considering Andersons new girlfriend). He knew there had to be more to this case than this, otherwise Mycroft wouldn't have intervened.

After waiting nearly an hour, one of Mycrofts many little helpers (or "minions" as Sherlock liked to consider them) arrived with the case file. It contained a biography of both Lord and Lady Hartley, including a small piece on their positions within the British government. There was also photographs of the supposed crime scene - Lord Hartleys office. This annoyed him greatly, as it meant he would be unable to look over the room fresh. He cast aside this information for the moment, focusing on the couple themselves. He had learned over the years to focus on the human element of a case, as that could tell you almost as much as the physical evidence (or sometimes lack thereof) could. He flicked over to the personnel file,and began reading:

Lord Trevor Xavier Hartley

Born January 29th 1986 at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital

Parents: Craig Steven Hartley (25) and Sandra Kathleen Hartley (25) (nee Ryley)

Attended Kensington Aldridge Academy, graduated top 15th percentile, studied Politics and Economics at Cambridge. Began work for the british government after graduation in 2008, is now a minor member of parliament working with the Treasurer.

Awarded the title "Lord" for "services to Queen and country" in 2011 in a closed ceremony - Sherlock made a note in his mind palace to ask Mycroft exactly what that entailed.

Abigail Violet McKenzie

Born: March 9th 1990 at St Mary's Hospital London

Parents: Andrea Louise McKenzie (19), deceased as of July 14th 2005 -father unknown.

Lived with her Aunt - Julia Moran (nee McKenzie, widowed) in Dublin.

Attended Our Lady of Mercy College in Dublin, graduated top 5th percentile. Studied business via correspondence at Trinity College, Dublin.

Returned to England in 2012 to take a position as an Administrative Assistant in the Ministry of Defence.

Married May 4th 2013

Sherlock positioned his hands under his chin, his classic "thinking pose" as his best friend John Watson would call it, as he assigned this information to various areas within his mind palace. After filing it all away, he finally turned to the photos of the crime that he had discarded earlier. Mycroft had had his own team come in, so as to eliminate the need for any police involvement. He took in the obvious information - Just a few things in the office out of place, no blood found at the scene. For the most part, it appeared exactly as Lady Hartley had explained: very little signs of a struggle. Sherlock found this the most puzzling - either he was dealing with experts who were able to drug Lord Hartley and remove his body without disturbing the room, or he wasn't taken from there, and somebody had made a conscious effort to make it SEEM like he might have been abducted from his office. Nothing about it sat right with him. Luckily, what little forensic evidence had been found had been collected and sent over to Saint Bartholomews for him to look at.

Sherlock smiled, thinking it had been a few days since he had popped in to see his favourite pathologist. He knew Molly had missed him, and thought it would be nice to spend some quality time together - analyzing samples from a maybe-crime scene. Maybe his day wouldn't be wasted after all. He gathered up his things, and whistling happily, made his way downstairs to catch a cab to Barts.