Mycroft Holmes checked his watch.

Running on the treadmill certainly was not as exciting as others made it out to be – in fact, he noted, it was rather boring. It was beneficial to his health, of course, which is why he pursued it, but he was too often reminded of his younger brother's unusual, unmistakable good looks that he barely had to work for. He had inherited his high cheekbones from Mummy, and his curls were from their father's side. Mycroft resented him for it, but he loved him like a brother ought to, and did his best to respect him.

He increased the speed on the treadmill.

Mycroft was at his home in central London – occupying a role in the British Government certainly had its perks – but also its downsides. For instance, he could not bring himself to go to a local gym, surrounding himself with young people that all seemed to know exactly what to do. No, he had bought himself a treadmill of his own, so that he could exercise in private, for privacy was so essential to the man.

He also sweated profusely. This was not something he cared to advertise.

Slowing his pace, he maintained a steady jog for a few minutes, doing as the screen advised, which was to allow himself to cool down before he stopped. Once he had done this, the machine played a little fanfare to announce he was done.

Finding himself out of breath, and thirsty, he stepped off the treadmill, patted his face with a hand towel and picked up an apple from his fruit bowl. He bit into it, and extracted a newspaper from a desk drawer.

Football matches, television shows, the usual. Mycroft was bored of it all.

Then something caught his eye. A photographer had captured the four of them at the crime scene, and the headline read, "Four is a crowd. What is Sherlock Holmes up to?" Mycroft sneered – he couldn't help it – but read on, his curiosity piqued.

"Sherlock Holmes, the rogue detective." Mycroft scoffed. "Was spotted last night at London's Tower Bridge, sleuthing and deducing, we can only assume! He was accompanied by his older brother Mycroft, Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard and his best friend, former army doctor now turned physical therapist John Watson.

The four were investigating the disappearance of young James Grant, a fourteen year old boy who has unfortunately gone missing. His parents declined to give an interview.

There was more to the article, but Mycroft folded the newspaper neatly in half and put it back down upon the desk, deciding against reading it in its entirety.

There was much to be done, and the media certainly wasn't aiding the situation.

He selected Sherlock's number from his contacts, pressed the phone icon, and spoke into his phone. "Sherlock, pick up the…

His mobile buzzed.

Stop telling me to get on with it. I am. Leave me alone. SH.

Typical, Mycroft thought. Nevertheless, to business. He had some calls to make.

Richard and Eloise Grant were kind – everyone said so. They lived in a beautiful house that was very close to Highbury fields, and like most places in London, it was also near something unmistakably cool – the Emirates stadium. Richard would take James there periodically, to see the kids with skateboards and bikes in the evening sun, and to support their chosen football team, Arsenal. On hot summer days, Eloise would pack an elaborate picnic and sit with James in the park, like many tended to do in that part of London.

The pair were hard workers – Richard was a doctor and Eloise a therapist - and from respectable families.

Nothing could have prepared them from the knowledge of their only son's blood spilt on tower bridge.

"Tell us everything." The police had told them the morning after.

So they had. James was fine last time they saw him – he was sensible and revised for tests alone in his bedroom at his desk. He mentioned that he was going out, the evening of Sunday the 2nd of April, to see a good friend of his, Henry, and Eloise and Richard understood this – friendship was necessary and important.

They had many a photograph to share (they kept a detailed photo album), and his room was left intact. Eloise begged the police not to go through her son's phone, as she was his mother and she loved him dearly, and Richard stood firm, so that they would listen to and respect his wife's wishes. Amy Williams, a constable, had explained to them gently that there could be evidence of his whereabouts on his text messages – he may have told his friend Henry, for instance – and additionally that his posts on social media could aid the search.

Neither of them relented. And so Mycroft stepped in.

"Has he ever been to Tower Bridge before?"

Mycroft spoke to them both in the interview room and tried to maintain an air of calm for the couple. Eloise opened her handbag and, hands shaking, tried to extract a tissue from a packet. Richard helped her and at long last the tissue was free. Eloise dabbed at her eyes, and Richard glared at Mycroft.

"I fail to see how this is relevant."

"Just context, Mr Grant, just context… did James spend a lot of time in his room? Did he see friends often?"

"…Yes. But it's normal for him, he's always enjoyed doing well at school."

"And friends?"

"Many." Eloise answered. Richard nodded, "Popular."

"I see." Mycroft said. "His many friends would be concerned, then, if he posted something, let's see, out of character, on Instagram, perhaps? Or even Twitter?"

Richard looked horrified. "I.. never thought about that.."

Eloise found new tears brimming in her eyes.

Mycroft empathised. It was a tricky situation indeed.

"We shall ensure that these posts will be deleted permanently, of course. The government can be trusted in situations as distressing as these. Consider giving the police his phone, for James' sake – it will be the first step towards solving this."

The older Holmes brother paused, to allow the couple some time to digest this information. They looked at him, believing his words.

"Do not fret. Let's see," (he paused for a moment to remember the correct information) 91% of missing children are found within the first two days. It's all under control."

"Okay then." Richard eventually agreed. He tried, with difficulty, to see things from Mycroft's point of view. Eloise took his hand, which was cold and clammy.

"Thank you." She said matter-of-factly.

Mycroft allowed himself to smile at them, if somewhat unpleasantly. He was not used to such genuine expression of emotion – that was Sherlock's forte, irritatingly.

"You're quite welcome. Now, I will speak to the police and let them know you've agreed. You should be free to go home shortly."

The Grants looked at each other, once, then nodded at him. Mycroft, uncomfortable, left the room and spoke to Constable Williams.

"They are willing to hand over the phone. No one is to look at anything other than his text messages and social media posts, out of respect for his parents, and James himself of course. Is that clear?"

She nodded, understanding perfectly. "How did they seem?"

"Miserable, I shall not lie – not a circumstance any parent wishes to find themselves in, as you can imagine."

"Absolutely. I have a niece of the same age – Isobel. I don't know how I'd cope."

"A niece?" Mycroft asked, intrigued.

"Yes."

The man did not have the right words to reply with, so he simply did not speak.

"You should go." Willaims prompted. "I imagine you have to tell your brother of the latest development."

Annoyed at her insight but admiring it, Mycroft nodded.

"Yes, I think that would be best. Good day to you." And he left, knowing there was a Nescafe coffee-to-go machine in the foyer.

He was in dire need of a boost of caffeine, for tackling Sherlock into working would prove a more difficult task than talking to the Grants.

His brother simply did whatever he wanted. And refined, sensible Mycroft let jealousy eat him. But it did not matter – they would have to put their differences aside and work together, whether they liked it or not. There was more at stake, now.

Moriarty was dead, but his presence was still felt throughout London, sickly and sour. He was a figure those who were of good morale despised, yet simultaneously could not take their eyes from. Sherlock saw him for what he was, but Mycroft worried about his associations with him regarding Erus. Their sister had not spoken to them for a few months, preoccupied with practicing her violin while living in a hospital. Yes, he thought to himself, she was in a psychiatric ward, for her mental state was not entirely right – Moriarty had used this to his advantage and though Sherlock loved her and tried to help her, sometimes things went beyond what love can do.

Mycroft didn't have the luxury of guilt.

Selecting decaf on the machine, he put the paper cup in place and waited for it to work. Piping hot coffee soon dispensed out, filling the cup. There was no sugar, only sweetener, so he ripped open a packet and poured it in. These simple actions cleared his mind.

Remembering what Willams had said about his brother, he decided to try calling him again. This time, the consulting detective picked up.

"Hello, Sherlock. It's me."

"Yes, obviously. Caller ID, remember?" He snapped.

"Yes, yes, I know… how are you?" Mycroft attempted.

"I'd be a lot better without you breathing down my neck on every single case." Sherlock remarked.

Silence grew through both telephones, and it was undoubtedly awkward.

"…I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"Are you?"

"Yes. I do not wish to upset you again. I thought…" His mind went back to Moriarty, then he shook himself out of it. "Listen, it does not matter what I think, only that it's in the past, and if you care about James Grant, you ought to stop showing off. You know this, Sherlock."

Sherlock scoffed. "For goodness' sake."

But Mycroft was right, and Sherlock understood.

He hoped their relationship would mend, given time.

"What are you thinking?"

"…The first 24 hours are up. He hasn't been found. I'm lost. And the police say they have it handled, but of course I am suspicious of that."

"Indeed."

Silence again. Then,

"I have spoken to both the parents – they are in the interview room now. They have agreed to hand over the boy's phone,"

"Yes!" Sherlock interrupted.

"And we will of course be looking for clues."

"You have to let me know what you find."

Mycroft sighed. "I suppose you'd want to take a look?"

"No."

This response surprised Mycroft. "No?"

"No. I'll leave that in your hands. You know what to do."

Emboldened by this, Mycroft nodded, then realised he must look a fool as Sherlock plainly could not see the other man. The silence was deafening to him – he had to break it.

"Alright. Sherlock?"

"Yes, what?"

"Thank you."

"…Honestly, brother, pleasantries are so boring." Sherlock stated. Mycroft hung up.

He loved him, but he feared he would never understand him. And with the missing case of James Grant hanging over their heads, there was a lot to unravel.

He wondered what the good doctor would make of this.