It was a dull, rainy day, clouds covering the sky, their deep gray colour promising more rain. Lestrade got out of his car and approached the Musgrave Manor. Police tape surrounded the area but the policemen had long left the scene, leaving the place to look straight out of a horror movie, with the cracked façade and dark windows, wild plants climbing up the walls and covering the paths.
Sherlock Holmes was leaning against the door, smoking. "What happened to the patches?" Greg asked. Sherlock tossed the cigarette into the mud. "Not strong enough. This place is not exactly pleasant." The Inspector nodded. "John feeling better?" He asked. The detective's eyes flashed with warmth for a moment. "Yes, he's not allowed to leave his bed yet but he'll be fine. Mrs. Hudson is taking care of him."
They entered the hallway and climbed up a set of marble stairs leading to a large bedroom. Once upon time, the room might've been luxurious. Now it was as wrecked and chaotic as the rest of the house. Books and papers scattered on the floor, ink had been angrily spilled across the desk and the bed was only covered in a thin ragged blanket. Large, dust-covered paintings decorated the walls, ancestors of the Musgraves, Lestrade guessed. A photograph of Ms. Sophie lay on the floor, the glass splintered.
Sherlock dashed around the room with his lens, eyes alive with determination. "What made you decide to check this room in particular?" He asked. "The police already searched the entire place, I hadn't expected anyone at the Scotland Yard to have enough imagination to check it again." "Your brother has contacts." Sherlock grinned "So she's in London. Good to know." Greg rolled his eyes. Of course he knew. "Anything ideas yet?" he asked impatiently. The place was creeping him out, all the dust and broken things and paintings staring at him.
"Several." Sherlock said. "Whats her name?"
"Whose name?" He sighed in annoyance. He hated it when Sherlock did that, acting like everyone knew what he knew just so he could show off.
"Your new girlfriend." Sherlock looked up from his lens and eyed Greg suspiciously. "You started shaving regularly a while ago, as well as putting way too much product in your hair and wearing after-shave, so I assumed you were seeing someone. Not to forget you dress much better since you started seeing her, so you evidently think she is out of your league and seek to impress her. Now you show up here, wearing a rather expensive ring, brand new, clearly a Valentine's day gift. She must have a lot of money to afford it so I'm guessing she's not at Scotland Yard. Your lips are slightly sore and chapped, which means you've seen her a couple of days ago and there was quite a lot of kissing. You also don't expect to see her again all that soon since you didn't shave yesterday and you've been wearing those clothes for three days. So, since you know about me and John I was trying to start a conversation by asking you for her name."
Greg crossed his arms uncomfortably. "We really have other things to worry about Sherlock, there's a man dead and a woman still abducted."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Someone I know then." He arched his brow. "Please tell me you're not dating Irene Adler, that really isn't a good idea!"
"What? No, I thought she was dead until yesterday! Keep your nose out of my romantic life and inside that case!"
The detective shot him a confused look and continued his search of the room.
Half an hour passed in uncomfortable silence until he broke out of his thoughts, dashing out of the room. "Got it!"
"Sherlock!? Wait!" Greg followed, jogging down the stairs to the car, where Sherlock was already seated, typing wildly on his phone.
"Will you tell me what you found?" He asked impatiently, climbing into the car.
"Kings Cross please" Sherlock told the driver and pressed a pair of eyeglasses in Gregs hand. He turned them around, trying to make sense. The frame was thin and golden, the lenses rather thick and round, one of them cracked.
"Quite old-fashioned. Looks like something my grandmother would wear." Greg commented. Sherlock arched his brow.
"Is that all? Really Detective Inspector, I would've thought you'd have learned more by now." He picked up the glasses and held them at eye level. "We are looking for a small woman with really bad eyesight, an unusually broad nose, small eyes, used to have quite the fortune but has lately been struggling with financial problems. These glasses have been repaired twice within the last month, probably at the same shop. Where would take these glasses? They are custom made to fit the woman's features, therefore she would take them to the same place for repairing that made them in the first place. I looked up all the stores that offer custom made glasses and sell this particular and honestly quite unfashionable model and the only store in London I found is next to Kings Cross Station."
"How could you possibly know all that? And also, why is this woman important, she could just be a visitor or the glasses could belong to Ms Kratides."
Sherlock sighed. "Its so obvious! The temple has been bend quite extremely in order to properly fit over her ears which you usually only do for children, suggesting that she is quite small. Frame front and pads are very far from another, so she has a broad, large nose, the lenses are very thick and strong, so she has a really bad eyesight, probably couldn't see anything without them, their size also proves that she has small eyes. These glasses are made from real gold, that and the fact that they are custom made tell us she was really rich. The screws and pads have both been replaced multiple times, sometime within the last four weeks but on two separate occasions as the pads are older than the screws. Now, if the Lady still owned a lot of money she would just replace the glasses for a newer and more fashionable model. Instead she replaced the broken parts, so she can't afford anything new.
As to why she is important, I found the glasses under the bed, the lens is cracked, the shape of the crack suggest it broke from falling to the ground, not from a blow, so it wasn't lost in a struggle more like an escape. Some of the papers scattered around the room were written in a female handwriting that doesn't match with the note young Sophie gave to our unfortunate interpreter. She wrote down notes on the history of the manor as well as coded letters which I will take to Bakerstreet with me in hope of cracking the code. She was in league with these men somehow but probably of a very low rank, otherwise she would be able to afford new glasses. If we're lucky, she's still alive and not important enough to feel like she needs hiding. We'll just have to rely on The Woman's information, if this clue wasn't important she wouldn't have pointed us in this direction."
Greg had listened to his companion with fascination and a bit of annoyance. He nodded, impressed as ever, and cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Impressive." He admitted. "Obvious." Sherlock grinned.
The store was a large, modern building with a shiny shop-window.
"They won't let us near their customer records without a warrant." Greg whispered. Sherlock chuckled. "Just leave that to me" he said with a wink. An overly motivated employee greeted them, shoving a pair of glasses into their hands and complimenting their good looks. To Greg's surprise, Sherlock smiled happily. "Oh thank you, really, it is very nice of you!" He said in a cheerful voice. "I am so, so sorry but we're not here to buy!" He took out the glasses and held them up. "We found these on our morning walk. Am I right in assuming by this extraordinary quality it is one of yours?" He smiled, his eyes twinkling. The girl smiled flirtingly and took the glasses from him. "Yes it is, an old model but we still have means of repairing them. I could keep them here and tell the others to keep an eye out for the owner." Sherlock sighed theatrically. "Oh well, I am sure the man who owned these will be able to live without them or just buy new ones" The girl shook her head. "The woman who owns these is nearly blind without them and can hardly afford the repairs, let alone a new pair. I do hope she'll come over to pick them up." Sherlock nodded. "Ah yes, I suppose she will take a cab to this place soon."
"That would hardly be necessary, her workplace isn't far away from here, she can just walk." The girl beamed proudly. "Ah yes, I suppose she has a very minor job, since she has such little money?" She shook her end. "Funny thing is, she dresses rather well, seems to have an office job." In an instant, Sherlock's eyes flashed with motivation and the overjoyed mask fell, to reveal the keen expression of a hunter. "Thanks!" He said curtly and dashed out of the door. "One thing to remember, Inspector, people are always more willing to give you information if they can proof you wrong!"
Lestrade followed Sherlock down the street, feeling like the owner of a particularly energetic bloodhound. "How do you know which way to go?" Water splashed were he stepped into the puddles and the icy wind blew into their faces. "Her eyes." Sherlock said. "She kept turning her head in this direction. Her eyes looked up to the left so she was clearly remembering something. What else would she remember but the direction the woman went." They hurried through the rain, shoulders pulled up against the storm. Sherlock led them into a tall office building, straightening his scarf and running his hands through his curls as they reached the dry foyer.
"She's dressing for an office job but has financial trouble, since she's too old to be a trainee or intern we know she has a low position job, badly paid but requires good looks. No cleaning service then, they have uniforms. Could be a personal assistant but then she wouldn't travel by bus. Receptionist then. The company she's working for must therefore be important enough to need a receptionist, yet not popular or successful enough to pay her well. The only companies in this area that fulfil those requirements are design agencies, which means…" He scrolled through his phone while he was talking, quickly and energized, tapping the screen with impatience. "There we go. Tracy Wilhelm. They have her picture on the website." He held up his phone, showing Greg a middle-aged Asian woman that fit the description perfectly. "Let's see if she's at work!"
The office was a small and scarcely decorated one. An annoyed intern opened them, coffee in hand, looking tired. He put on a broad fake smile and let them in. Sherlock introduced them as marketing managers of a small financial institution and asked for the supervisor. The boy shuffled off to get his boss, sighing in annoyance. "Reception is closed." Greg observed. "She might've suspected something." The detective shook his head, searching through the papers behind the counter. "She was at work yesterday." He said. "These bills are already sorted out, envelopes prepared to send them. Besides, there's no reason for her to think she was a suspect. Couldn't have played a big part in the whole thing." "Then why did our contact think she was important?" Greg asked. He picked up a pamphlet, scanning the list of customers. "What would she have access to? Finances, customers, bank accounts. Money laundering?" A handsome young man in a cheap suit approached them, introducing himself as the owner of the small business. He had the pale skin of an office worker, his young face already lined with stress and exhaustion. Sherlock smiled broadly and introduced their fake business. The manager answered quickly, the smile never fading from his lips, though his eyes were tired and cold.
Yes they did marketing campaigns, yes of course they were trustworthy, and indeed their customers were not well known but certainly better known since they employed his company.
Sherlock thanked him, took a card and pulled Greg out of the office.
"It's not about the receptionist, it's about the manager. Musgrave was blackmailing him."
"How on earth do you know that?"
He rolled his eyes. "It's obvious. His nails are bitten, his hands were shaking, ice cold and sweaty, he obviously hasn't slept well for days as I hope you saw by his eyes, he's exhausted. Cut himself while shaving, multiple times. Someone who needs to be clean shaved every day should have enough practise now to shred his skin, so he's nervous. What could make him this afraid? Probably whatever was in the papers that went missing yesterday."
Greg stared at him, thoughtfully. "I suppose you found an irregularity in the papers on the counter or deduced it from the Manager's watch?"
"No, there was a post-it on the desk" Sherlock grinned.
Greg reported the success of their investigations, gave orders to investigate the shipping company whose papers went missing from the agency and then took a cab home.
After finding his fridge empty and his kitchen too chaotic to even try cooking, he dropped on the couch with a defeated sigh. Thoughtfully, he looked at the ring at his hand, sparkling in the dim light of his living room. He should've expected Sherlock asking about it. It was sheer luck that his deductions hadn't gone far enough to uncover the truth, though it was unlikely to last. As soon as John was back on his feet, following the Detective everywhere, Sherlock would do his best to impress his companion. Gregory wouldn't mind, he knew he loved Mycroft endlessly and he wasn't ashamed of it. Quite on the contrary, he wanted to shout out to the world how amazing and wonderful his boyfriend was, but he also respected and understood Mycroft's worries.
There was a knock on the door. Greg rolled his eyes in annoyance. Was this case not going to let him sleep until someone was locked behind bars? He forced himself up and trotted to the door, opening it slowly.
Mycroft was standing on his doorstep, chinese take-out in one hand, his umbrella in the other.
"I thought you might need something warm after being on your feet all day." He smiled shyly. Greg beamed at him, the exhaustion gone, his chest filling with warmth. He threw his arms around him, burying his head against his neck, the scent of expensive aftershave and the warmth of his body surrounding him. With a surprised chuckle, Mycroft clumsily tried to return the hug, umbrella and food in his hands.
After eating his chinese food at remarkable speed, Greg lay on his couch, head in Mycroft's lap, watching their favourite Doctor Who Christmas Special. He looked at his ring again, turning his hand around, watching the metal sparkle. "Thank you." he said softly "It's really beautiful. Who knew you actually have some romance in you?" He teased with a warm smile. "I must admit" Mycroft said "I spent quite a lot of time researching." He nodded seriously. "I watched 4 rom-com movies and an entire season of a musical teen drama show. It was ghastly." Greg laughed softly. "I really appreciate it! You know you didn't have to." Mycroft smiled softly, running his fingers over Greg's cheek, down his neck, over his chest… "I wanted to." He whispered. "Too many years I locked myself away and forbid myself to feel. Watched the people around me loose all their dignity in their romantic entanglements, become so attached and dependent." he smiled." I missed out on so much. We have a lot catch up on." Steady breathing answered him, Gregory lying absolutely still, head resting in his boyfriend's lap, fast asleep. Carefully, Mycroft pulled the blanket further over his lover's curled up body, whispering "good night.", an overwhelming wave of affection and warmth washing over him.