"What was he doing here?" Mycroft asked, inspecting the coat closely. His face had gone pale, his brows drawn together in worry. "He would have never left this behind, yet it has not been worn for at least a day." Greg leaned against the bookshelf, staring at his phone. "Can't reach him on his phone either. Can't you track him?" Mycroft shook his head. "He took precautions after he felt I was keeping too close an eye on him, why do you think I had an entire team supervise the security cameras around the area?" They looked around the room, sorting through the scattered papers on the floor. Documents on family trees, notes on the history of the house and some scribbled calculations, though Greg couldn't see what they were for. He pulled a piece of yellow parchment from the pile, holding it up to his partner. "This one stands out. What d'you reckon, how old is it?" Mycroft turned it over in his hands, eyeing the fragile paper carefully. It had been folded many times, the ink was slightly faded in some places and edges were torn. "It was kept in a book for many years, judging by the severity of the fold, a very packed bookshelf. The colour of the paper shows that it was kept in the dark for a very long time, only recently it had been lying in the open where the sun could bleach out the ink and paper. The handwriting and the texture of the parchment would suggest it's at least a hundred years old." He held it up and read the text out loud:
'Whose was it?' 'Who shall have it?' 'Where was the sun?' 'Where was the shadow?' 'How was it stepped?' 'What shall we give for it?' 'Why should we give it?'Mycroft furrowed his brows thoughtfully, pacing up and down, punching his umbrella in the carpet. Then he stopped, his head snapping back to the messy desk. Papers and books flew around as he searched through them with cold determination. At last, he collected a few shreds of parchment, as old and fragile looking as the first one, lying them out on the tabletop like puzzle pieces. They formed a second set of notes, written in the same handwriting and ink.
'He who is gone.' 'He who will come.' 'Over the oak.' 'Under the elm.' 'North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five,south by two and by two, west by one and by one, and so under.' 'All that is ours.' 'For the sake of the trust.'
"Questions and answers. The riddle Mr Melas had to ask Kratides about?" Greg suggested. He took the paper and read the words again. "Any idea what it could mean?"
Mycroft closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "Directions. There must be an oak tree whose shadow marks a certain start point from which you walk the said steps. Judging by the books and notes on the history of the building and the family I'd say it's a secret no one could figure out for many decades." "A secret treasure?" Greg's eyes lit up with excitement. He stepped to the window, looking out in the garden. "Problem is, there's no trees. Only stumps and dirt and wild bushes. And without sunlight there are no shadows." The sky was a dark gray, thick clouds promising more rain. Someone seemed to have tried to clean the wilderness that was the garden but had given up on some point. Bushes grew over the remains of shredded tree trunks, dirt and leaves were piled up on the sides, shovels lay neglected in the mud. The sun was starting to sink behind the houses, drenching the scene in a gloomy light. Greg turned to look at Mycroft, who was still standing still, clutching Sherlock's coat, eyes closed. There was something exciting about going on a case with him. He might have enjoyed it if it weren't for the worries about Sherlock and John. Carefully, he took the coat out of his partner's hands. "He's Sherlock, he'll be fine." He whispered. Mycroft opened his eyes, his face hardening, the mask of ice built up again. "Worrying will not help them either way, so we should continue looking for him either way. Call for your least irritating back-up."
It hurt Greg's soul to watch his partner as he moved through the garden, his face cold and set. He moved with the precision of a blood hound, inspecting the tree stumps, then he stopped and closed his eyes, thinking in the way Lestrade had seen Sherlock do it many times. He wondered if Mycroft had a mind palace thing too. "The number of rings in the tree stump suggest that the elm was about 120 years old, so obviously it must've been about 50 feet in height. The oak over there was even older and taller. If the sun was just over the branches of the elm, then the oak – 60 to 70 feet in height – cast a shadow in that direction…" he muttered, jogging a straight line away from the second tree stump. Greg followed, listening intently. Mycroft pressed his umbrella in the dirt, then walked on, taking careful steps, repeating the notes from the parchment. "'North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and by two, west by one and by one" He stopped on a patch of loose soil and dropped his umbrella. "and so under." he said, picking up one of the shovels nearby. He started digging frantically, oblivious to the mud staining his expensive suit. Without hesitation, Greg grabbed the other shovel and helped with the digging. It didn't take them long to find what they were looking for, since the dirt seemed to have been moved some time earlier and only roughly thrown back into place. Rusty metal appeared from under the mud, slowly revealing itself from the dirt was an old-fashioned trap-door. With a grunt the two men moved to open it. It was extraordinarily heavy and took all their efforts to lift it.
Soil and small rocks tumbled down into the dark pit beneath with a soft thud. Greg pulled out a torch, directing the beam of light down. The descent was a couple of feet deep, the walls were made of stone and a rusty iron ladder led down to the gray marble floor. "We need something to keep the trapdoor in place." Mycroft said, picking up his umbrella and the shovel and jammed it between the heavy lid and the dirt. Greg looked at him in concern. "Shouldn't we wait for the back-up?" His companion flashed his eyes at him in fury" There's no time!" he snapped and began the descent into the darkness. Inspector Lestrade sighed and followed him.
Underground, the air was stale and thick, the walls damp and the ceiling so low, they had to duck quite a bit. A narrow tunnel led them to a small chamber, walls and floor of marble, filled with rows of mouldy wine barrels. They turned around the corner and -
Greg froze, his heart stopping, breath caught in his chest. Behind the barrels were the figures of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, lying motionless on the ground. Sherlock had his arms protectively wrapped around John, the Doctor's head pulled to his chest. They were both injured, blood staining the marble.
Mycroft dashed forward, falling to his knees next to his brother, checking for a pulse. Greg followed quickly, pressing his fingers to John's throat. A pulse was beating very feebly under his fingertips. "We've got to get them out of here, quickly!" his partner shouted and they dragged the motionless men back to the tunnel. Together, they pulled their friends out of the underground and placed them on the wet soil. "They need oxygen! Unbutton his shirt, stretch his neck, see if he breathes, if he doesn't start with CPR!" Mycroft instructed, tearing the buttons of his brother's shirt. Greg followed the orders, checking on John's breathing. The doctor's chest rose and fell feebly. In the distance, sirens sounded through the silent town at last. The men sat, waiting in the cold mud, watching over their friends.
Mycroft stroked Sherlock's head affectionately, his gaze clouded with worry. He ran his fingers through the messy, dark curls, remembering how Sherlock used to come into his room at night, when he'd had nightmares, and crawled under his older brother's blanket. Mycroft would pull him into his arms, stroke his curly head and tell him a story about brave heroes and their adventures, until his little brother fell asleep. He never told him that sometimes he had nightmares too and then he would come to Sherlock's bedroom door and just listen to the quiet, gentle breathing. How many times had he awoken in his adult life, in the middle of the night, staring in the darkness and missing his little brother beside him?
Suddenly, Sherlock drew a deep breath and opened his eyes, looking around him in surprise. He jumped up, with a cry of shock, only to lose his balance and fall back into his brother's arms. Mycroft held him, making a soothing noise as if to calm a frightened animal. "Shh it's okay Sherlock, it's okay! You're safe, it's okay, I'm here!" The detective sank back against the familiar chest, his breathing calming. "John?" he asked, turning around. "He's breathing." Greg said softly. His chest ached with sympathy at the pained expression in his friend's eyes, as he moved forward, touching John's cheek with careful affection. One hand holding onto John's, he leaned back into his brother, forcing himself to breath slowly. "How – How did you find us?" he asked. "It doesn't matter now, Sherlock." Mycroft whispered. "It can wait." His little brother nodded. "Rosie?" "With our parents." "Okay." He closed his eyes, resting his head against his brother's shoulder. Noise rose as the police cars and the ambulance stopped with screeching wheels and officers a came running down into the garden. As the paramedics loaded Sherlock and John onto stretchers and carried them up to the ambulance, Greg couldn't help but take Mycroft's hand, as he stood, watching, covered in mud, and gently kiss his cheek.