The Coffee Shop

Chapter 4 -Tuesday 4th April 2017

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. 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, he stepped off the treadmill, pat his face with a hand towel and picked up an apple from his fruit bowl. He bit into it, and picked up a newspaper.

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 rouge 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 table, deciding against reading it in its entirety.

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

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

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.