Mycroft groaned, his whole body aching. He blinked several times to clear his vision of sleep and was mildly alarmed by the time. It was almost lunch. Mycroft sneered at himself for looking at the world around every time to eat. It was almost midday. Mycroft groaned again, rolling off the bed in an attempt to get his body to obey him and get the hell up.

This was surprising, Mycroft could normally hardly sleep a sturdy half hour without waking with a start and yet this night he had slept the whole way through a healthy sleep length and more. And now he felt even more exhausted than when he'd fallen asleep. Mycroft shook his head at himself, this was a new low of laziness even for him. Good thing he'd stared that diet.

Mycroft pushed himself up to his feet, wincing and recoiling as his hand stung. Ah yes. His hand… he'd burnt it. Despite the aching in the limbs Mycroft smiled with a sense of satisfaction. Now it was time to start the day by not having breakfast but using the treadmill. Mycroft smiled, proud of himself for the first time in ages.

"Ah, Lestrade, just the man I wanted to see." Sherlock remarked as the door swung open. "That was almost… nice." Greg said in a mildly suspicious but mainly amused tone "So what is it? You said it was an emergency, this time I didn't bring the entire bloody NSY. I've learnt that if your life's really at risk you wouldn't message me." Sherlock smirked slightly "Very good, detective inspector, you're deductive skills have moved from non existent to limited it would appear."

If Sherlock noticed the older man wince he may have assumed it was because of the insulting compliment instead of his unfortunate choice of using 'detective inspector' which Greg was all too familiar with from a different Holmes. Thinking of the man made his heart ache and Greg didn't know why.

"So what is it then? I have got actual work to do, my life doesn't revolve around you." Lestrade prompted. Sherlock nodded, deciding now wasn't the time for snappy comebacks, and stood so he could better explain by which he meant run around the room pointing at the mess of tracking and evidence on the walls confusingly and referring to things only he could see with his vivid imagination.

"I need your help in a case presented to me by a client last night. I have traced the man concerned, all his actions, movements, his thoughts to some extent all except for a little gap in which I have reason to believe something happened to him. One of my underground network reported to me filling in part of the gap but the second part of it, judging by the state of the man of interest at that time. Something clearly happened just before that and I need to know what, that's where you come in. I doubt you'll be able to help but you know that side of town better, your favourite pub is in it."

All of this information assaulted Greg and he was left staring and blinking "I'm sorry, what?". Sherlock rolled his eyes in an incredibly exasperated fashion and Greg gestured his arms to keep calm him "Okay, okay so what I got was there's a man who's the centre of a new case. You stalked him but can't tell where he was for a little time and in that little time something important happened. When the important thing happened it was near my pub?" "So you were listening!" Sherlock said, standing up and staring at a map and a photo of a playground and another of a bench. Of what significance these things had Greg had no idea and probably didn't want to find out.

"So does this man have a name? It'd be a lot less confusing using it instead of 'man' or 'person of interest' or whatever else you create." Greg inquired, surprised when Sherlock turned to look at him with a face of indecision, unlabelled feelings raw in his eyes. "Yes, of course." He said after a moment "His name is Mycroft Holmes."

At the single name Greg froze. He felt like acidic ice was rushing through his veins, his heart pounding as puzzle pieces fell together. He looked at the photos on the wall and they all made sense to him now, probably more sense than it made to Sherlock. Greg swallowed, trying to keep his breathing as steady as he could "A-and when was the date of the missing space?" Sherlock frowned, trying to deduce the alarming signs the DI was giving off "The third…" At that Greg couldn't take it anymore "Greg, are you alright?" The concerned voice of John asked but Greg paid him no attention and ran out of the doors as fast as he could.