The Sun was high on the third day when Mycroft was admitted to Bakersfield Manor. The butler led him to the drawing room where the politician witnessed a restless Sherlock and a resigned Doctor Watson.

'Lord Mycroft Holmes to see you, sir,' the butler announced his arrival then retreated back into the hallway, shutting the door behind him.

Aside from a quirk of his eyebrow, Sherlock did not acknowledge the arrival of his brother, remaining supine upon the settee, his hands raised to his chin in a prayer-like pose. But Mycroft knew better. His brother was thinking, perhaps wandering the corridors of that blasted Mind Palace he often frequented.

Doctor Watson wearily stood and bowed slightly in greeting. 'Mycroft.'

The posh gentlemen returned the gesture and the two settled into the armchairs opposite Sherlock.

Tapping the tip of his faithful umbrella against the floor, Mycroft addressed John, 'I understand you have been accompanying my brother on a taxing quest in search of a missing woman.'

Sherlock opened his eyes in order to blatantly roll them at Mycroft's less-than-subtle tactics. Before John could respond, Sherlock spat out a retort, 'Yes, my wife is missing. There is no need to feign ignorance about it, blood. Unless you have something important to discuss, such as where she is, I suggest you take your high-handed manners and shove them-'

'Sherlock!'

With a huff at the Doctor's interruption, Sherlock returned to his thinking pose, a definite pout on his lips.

Startled by his brother's quick and blatant animosity, Mycroft chose to ignore it and turned to Watson. 'Has there been any progress in finding Molly?'

With a sigh, Watson shook his head. 'Unfortunately, every place we have looked has led nowhere. None of her so-called acquaintances have seen her since the last social and neither her father nor her own letters written to him indicated where she might have gone.'

'Perhaps it is for the best,' Mycroft deadpanned. A scowl formed on Sherlock's face. Interesting. 'After all, it was a marriage of convenience for both her family and ours. Now that the period of uncertainty has passed, Sherlock may revert back to bachelorhood and she will no longer be a hindrance.'

'For God's sake, Mycroft, that is my wife you are referring to!' Sherlock jumped up from his seat in agitation and scowled down at his brother.

Mycroft blinked slowly. 'Perhaps. But she is your wife in name only. Forgive me, brother mine, but I assumed that, since you have not altered that distinction, you were expecting something of this nature to occur. Frankly, I expected it sooner, but it appears your wife was not observant to your attempts to push her away. A dull, vacant goldfish like the rest of-'

In an instant, an enraged Sherlock lunged at the smirking man, his hand grasping the slender throat of his older brother and cutting off his words. A look of complete disgust and rage contorted his features.

'Never,' he hissed through clenched teeth, 'speak of my wife like that again.'

Interesting reaction, brother mine. It seems you have discovered your heart. And it only took breaking it to find that it is, in fact, your own wife.

Watson was suddenly between them, peeling Sherlock's fingers from their ironclad grip around Mycroft's throat. With an air of a politician, Mycroft gently smoothed his rumpled cravat and cleared his throat. He rose and made his way to the door, turning his back on a red-faced Sherlock and wide-eyed Watson. When his hand was on the door handle, he turned his head slightly and chose his words carefully.

'You have underestimated her for far too long, brother mine. I hope you are prepared to accept consequences.'

As the sun began to set several hours later, Sherlock had once again retreated into his Mind Palace, while Watson was contemplating returning to his own home.

Suddenly the silence was broken by Sherlock's mumble. Watson looked up from his reading and saw that the detective's eyes were open and there was a line between his brows. His frown deepened as he mumbled louder, 'Molly.'

'What about her,' Watson asked. 'Did you remember something?'

Sherlock lowered his hands from his chin as realization dawned. 'He called her 'Molly'. And referred to her as a friend of both himself and his wife.'

'Who? Inspector Lestrade?' John asked.

In a sudden whirl of clothing, Sherlock sat upright and twisted to face his friend. 'He lied to me.'

'Sherlock, Molly would never-'

Sherlock waved a hand in dismissal. 'No, no, no. I'm certain nothing indelicate happened between Molly and the Inspector. But he lied about her whereabouts. He knows. He knows where Molly is.' Sherlock's voice grew louder and more confident with every word. 'He's been hiding her from me! And sending me all over the whole of bloody London on wild goose chases!'

By now the detective was shouting and pacing in anger. 'George!' The faithful butler answered immediately to his master's bellow, his worry over the absent Lady Holmes keeping him nearby.

Sherlock whipped off his dressing gown and threw it carelessly over his shoulder as he strode toward the door. 'Bring me my coat and have Bennett bring our horses around.'

Doctor Watson made to follow, grumbling as he removed himself from underneath Sherlock's discarded dressing gown. 'Sherlock, just a-'

'Do hurry up, John,' Sherlock huffed as he shoved his arms into his heavy coat. With a flick of his collar, he snarled, 'I have a few choice words to relay to the dear Inspector before I retrieve my wife.'

Watson hurriedly followed. As the two men rode toward town, both were withdrawn in their thoughts.

At last, thought one, this ridiculous game will end and life shall resume.

The other, rather morose, couldn't help worrying. There is no outcome of this that will end well for anyone involved.