Greg enjoyed the next days more than he had thought he would. The Holmes parents and Mrs Hudson did most of the babysitting, the flat was cleaner than it had ever been and most importantly there was no real need to hide his feelings for Mycroft anymore. There was still something that made his boyfriend uneasy and Greg didn't dare to kiss or even hug him while others were in the room, but just the slight touch of a hand or warm look was enough to make him feel much at home. Mycroft hadn't addressed the topic of their relationship since the first night and neither his parents nor Mrs Hudson had ever mentioned it again. Greg was very grateful for their silent acceptance for he still felt like there was something Mycroft feared beyond the matter of a coming-out.
Three days after Sherlock and John had gone out on their adventure – John had, of course, called multiple times to make sure his daughter was in good hands – Greg received another text.
"I miscalculated. Events turned out to be far more complicated than I thought. This might be a matter of national importance after all. Don't tell Mycroft. – SH"
They were having tea in the living room, Mycroft typing eagerly, laptop on his knees, on Sherlock's armchair, Mr and Mrs Holmes playing with Rosie while Greg was trying to concentrate on one of the "History of Crime" books from the shelf. He put the volume on the small coffee table, leaning back into John's armchair with a sigh. This wasn't really how he had imagined his short holiday to be.
"Mrs – er – Wanda, how much longer could you stay around?" Mrs Holmes put her hands to her hips, shaking her head. "Got distracted again, did he? Well, I see what I can do. But you're good with her, I'm sure you could survive a day alone." Greg shrugged. "Who knows what the two of them are up to this time." Mycroft looked up from his laptop, frowning. "Haven't we been here for weeks already?" he sighed.
There was a knock at the door and a gentleman entered. He was middle-aged, with rather dark skin and a large moustache. "Mr Holmes?" he asked carefully.
"Yes?" answered both Mycroft and his father, Greg bit his tongue trying not to answer himself. The man looked around in confusion. Whatever he had expected to find at the infamous 221B Bakerstreet, it probably wasn't a gay middle-aged couple having tea with their parents and a wailing child who was chewing on a large plush bumblebee. Mycroft got up and straightened his suit. "What can we do for you?" he asked rather impatiently. "My name is Melas, Sir, I have a case for you." Mycroft frowned even more. "I am not my brother. I do not do footwork. You will have to wait until he returns." He dropped back on the armchair. Mr Holmes looked at him sternly "Manners, Mycroft! We did not raise you like that!" His son flushed red and buried his face in his hands. "Please sit down, would you like a cup of tea? You came all the way, you might as well stay. Timothy Holmes, very nice to meet you Mr. Melas!" He smiled warmly and poured the visitor a cup of tea. "I really don't want to be a bother." Mr. Melas said but sat down on the client chair, taking his cup with a soft thanks. "You're not a bother at all!" Mrs Holmes said "Mykie is always showing of, saying he's the 'clever one' –" "Mother!" "- and Inspector Lestrade here can surely be of help?" She grinned with a teasing sparkle in her eyes. "Unless, of course, you'd rather go to the park with Rosie?" She picked up the child and her husband and silenty gathered her things, leaving the three men alone in the room.
Mycroft jumped, forcing a smile. "What can we do for you?"
The client shifted in his seat. "Well, I'm an interpreter you see and two days ago I was called late at night by a man, called himself Latimer. He sent a fancy car over to my flat to pick me up. It had those dark windows and it was in the middle of the night, so I barely saw where I was. We arrived at this manor, where some sort of servant greeted us and –" "Do get to the point *please* you're not writing a novel!" Mycroft interrupted. "What is your case?" Mr Melas flinched but continued, now a bit faster "The lad I had to talk to, they had me ask him to solve some riddle, though no one said what that was about. Wanted him to help them find something. He said he'd rather die than help them. He looked really frightened, covered in bruises and scratches. They threatened to hurt him, torture him, if he didn't help them and he said they could, he would never give anything away. After an hour or so of trying to convince him they gave up, payed me in cash and put me back in that fancy sports car. Told me if I told a soul about what happened it weren't gonna end well for me. Something very strange is going on at that place Mr Holmes!" Mycroft arched his brow. "What am I supposed to do about it? You don't even know where that house was and the name they gave you was probably a false one. This is barely anything to go on." Mr Melas frowned. "If you had let me tell the whole story in detail – I snuck in little questions of my own, asked his name and such. He said he was called Katides and that the men were not to be trusted. And there was a woman! Didn't see her face but she was screaming, in greek, begging the man not to give in. They sent the servant-guy to silence her. I'm sure there must be some way to find out who these people are!" Mycroft sighed. "Fine, I'll make a few arrangements."
Greg, who had been thoughtfully looking out the window now turned to the client. "You haven't gone to the police?" He shook his head. "I don't trust them. My life probably depends on it!"
The Inspector nodded thoughtfully. "Well there is nothing we can do if we don't know where you have been and who employed you."
Mycroft cleared his throat dramatically. "Mr. Paul Kratides, 24 years old, came to England two weeks ago, following his younger sister Ms. Sophie Kratides. He was last seen entering a black BMW, the very same that you got in in front of your flat two days ago. They know how to avoid being tracked, the trace is lost somewhere around Charing Cross both times, however they were not so careful with young Ms. Sophie, who is mentioned in a facebook post to be the new girlfriend of a Mr. Reginald Musgrave. The gentleman lives in a Manor in Beckenham. He inherited the house and all of his parents debts 5 years ago. I suppose money would be a very obvious motive for any crime." He closed his laptop dramatically, looking very pleased with himself. Mr. Melas looked at him in awe. "How'd you find out all that so quickly?" "I occupy a minor position in the british government."
Greg shook his head in amusement. "And occasionally, he *is* the british government. And definitely a drama queen." He added affectionately.
"Yeah right, er, so what are you gonna do about this?" The interpreter asked, looking at Mycroft.
He rolled his eyes. "I guess we could drive over to the mansion and see what this is all about since we have nothing better to do and I see Inspector Lestrade here is eager to go running about, catching criminals again. On his holiday, I might add." Greg got out of his chair, full of excitement. "But we take your case!" He declared happily. Mr. Melas got up to shake his hand. "Thank you! I can finally sleep at night!"
Mycroft had insisted that they took the sleek black sports car, driver and all, in order to be as suspicious as possible. They got out a few blocks away from the manor and walked the rest of the way.
"Why are we even doing this? Couldn't we just send a few minions out to check on the guy?" Mycroft sighed. "We aren't Sherlock and John, you know."
Greg laughed "No we aren't" he stuck out his chest proudly. "We're way sexier!"
The manor was not as glamorous as their client had led them to believe. Its façade was cracked and dirty, the windows hadn't been cleaned in ages and the front porch was covered in wild plants. Remains of a cobblestone front yard could be seen under a cover of dirt and moss. The place looked deserted. They rang the bell and knocked but no one opened the door.
"It rained last night, had they left with the car we'd see tire tracks in the mud. Newspaper hasn't been taken in, no footprints anywhere, curtains are pulled back but there's no light…" Mycroft muttered thoughtfully. He rang the bell and waited. Nothing happened. "Thought so…" "Thought what?" Greg asked. His companion stepped aside, gesturing at the door. "If you would be so kind and kick it in. The lock is a very old-fashioned one, it would hardly be a challenge for you." "You do realize we don't have a warrant? We'd be breaking and entering." Mycroft shrugged. "I prevented my brother from being charged for a murder that was witnessed by 5 security cameras and 10 special agents, I'm sure I got a little break-in covered." Greg shook his head slightly "You really are a Drama-Queen."
The door gave in at the first try, revealing a gloomy looking hallway. They stepped in, Mycroft holding on to his umbrella, Greg with his hand at his revolver. "Doesn't look like anyone's home…" "Someone searched the place" Mycroft added, pointing at the disarranged décor. At the end of the corridor, a door stood ajar. It led to a large living room, furnished with old oak shelves and a worn-out leather couch. Papers lay spread over the floor, books had been torn out of the shelf and the arm-chairs had been thrown over. The detective kneeled down, searching through the books. They were nothing special, only volumes of dictionaries and encyclopedias on English history.
"Mycroft!" Greg called, picking something up from between the chaos. It was a very familiar looking, long black coat. "Sherlock." Mycroft whispered.