10 years earlier
"Mrs Bream," Mycroft addressed the housekeeper as he came back down the stairs from his room, "Have you seen Jerry this afternoon? Did he leave?"
Mycroft had left Sherlock dozing on the sofa and gone back upstairs to the guest room expecting to find Jerry still sleeping. He didn't expect to not find him though. He had checked the bathrooms, the kitchen and even dared to check in Mycroft's own bedroom, but he hadn't found his husband anywhere.
"I haven't, dear." Mrs Bream replied, collecting up the empty glasses from the drawing room. "Maybe he had an urgent call and had to leave?"
Mycroft had never known Jerry to just leave without saying anything but he supposed it was possible. "Thank you, Mrs Bream." he replied, peering across into the living room to check on Sherlock before heading back up to the guest room again.
He straightened the bed covers and reached over to the dresser to retrieve his phone. One message.
We need to talk. - Jerry
Mycroft frowned. Since when did Jerry send a text message rather than speak in person?
He hastily tapped the 'call' button alongside the message. He would sort this out by talking even if it wasn't to be face-to-face.
Voicemail picked up with the standard pre-recorded message. Mycroft huffed and hung up, instantly trying a second time with the same result.
"Jerry, it's me. Call me when you get this?" he replied flatly. He hated answer machines.
He ended the call and glared at his phone for a few moments, as if blaming the device for the failing, before tapping in a text reply.
Is everything OK, my love?- My
His stomach flipped as he pressed send, realising that it was a question he probably never wanted an answer to, and he was still thinking that over when another text message buzzed in.
Krafty's old warehouse at 7pm - Jerry
What? Mycroft's frown deepened again. What was Jerry talking about? Krafty's was an old mill on the outskirts of town, not far from the Holmes residence, but it was, as far as Mycroft knew, abandoned and had been so for some time.
He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. 6.30pm. He briefly considered walking it but decided against heading out on foot in the chilly darkness of December. He lifted his phone again and called for a taxi. It was early enough in the evening to be able to book one without any problems and, in the 20 minutes he had to wait, he decided to freshen himself up and wander back down to check on his brother.
Sherlock groaned when Mycroft gently tried to rouse him. "You'd be more comfortable in bed, Sherlock." Mycroft said, reaching an arm around six feet of sleepy Holmes and pulling him into a seated position. "Let me take you back upstairs."
Sherlock nestled into his brother, inhaling deeply as he buried his nose into his auburn hair.
"You smell good." he mumbled drowsily making Mycroft chuckle as he guided him up the staircase and back into the guest room.
"I have to nip out for a bit, Sherlock." Mycroft leaned his brother down, resting the bed covers over him and watching the younger man almost bury himself in the softness of the pillows. The only response Mycroft got however was his brother's muffled groan in acknowledgement.
"Krafty's? You're sure?" the taxi driver queried as Mycroft stepped into the back and pulled the door firmly closed, shutting out the bitter December wind.
Mycroft let out a long, intolerant sigh. "Yes, please. Krafty's" he responded impatiently. The man was paid to drive not to question where he was driving to.
The driver shrugged and nodded his head. "Right then."
As the car pulled up alongside the old mill building, the driver turned around to Mycroft. "You needing a lift back, mate?" he enquired casually. Mycroft thought a while before deciding. "No, thanks." he replied, passing the payment forwards and exiting the car. Jerry must have his car so Mycroft decided he could just head home with his husband anyway after whatever he was here for. He wrinkled his face in confusion for a moment as he surveyed the building, wondering where was the way in. He noticed a light on inside what looked like it may have been a reception or office, and pulling his coat around him, he headed for that entrance.
Surprisingly, the door opened with ease, being both unlocked and recently replaced, he wondered, and he stepped inside, glancing around at the large open office space, divided up with half-height partitions.
He didn't immediately see anyone, and so he startled when a voice came from behind a partition nearby,
"Mycroft Holmes." the familiar voice said, becoming clearer as its owner stood up began to walk closer to the man.
"Jerry?" Mycroft frowned. "What are you doing?" He studied his husband carefully. Gone were the trademark slacks and soft wool sweater that Jerry loved so much. Instead of quiet, comfortable, casual Jerry, he stood before Mycroft in a sharp Westwood suit, crisp white shirt and immaculate tie. Mycroft had never seen Jerry look like this. It was almost as if he were a completely different person.
"Jerry?" he asked again, this time his voice betraying every bit of his confusion.
Jerry stepped forwards, a crooked and slightly self-satisfied smile on his face.
"My dearest husband," he began, extending a hand to his partner of ten years, his voice calm and confident, "Jim. Jim Moriarty. Pleased to meet you."