Mystrade - Christmas in the Cotswolds - from The Personal Journal of Mycroft..

Chapter 2

        The pelt of ice that had built upon the shoulders of my overcoat slid down onto the foyer floor as I entered the home I now shared with Greg. It was the same house I'd lived in for more than fifteen years, but it seemed different as of late. Greg had insisted on adding small rugs in different areas and his love for cooking usually left an appetizing aroma that had rarely wafted through the enormous building before his arrival. I had never believed the house to be cold, as Greg did. These days, however, it did feel a bit more like a lived-in home.

        I'd returned from a meeting at Downing Street. Greg had taken the entire week away from work and had told me he'd spend his time cleaning and packing for our Christmas-themed getaway. We were meant to drive to the Cotswolds in the morning and I'd promised to be home by three o'clock to pack my own clothes. "Greg!" I called through the house as I placed my umbrella in its stand. I was answered by my own echo. I walked halfway up the staircase. "Greg?" Still no answer.

        Where was he? I'd agreed, reluctantly, to his silly trip. The least he could do was be there when he said he'd be. "Greg," I called, walking from the stairs to the sitting room, then to the kitchen. My mobile vibrated in my pocket. The words "find me" displayed on the screen. I huffed with frustration. Was this a game - part of his weekend plan? Was something actually wrong - had he been kidnapped? I didn't have time for this.

        I dialed the phone. "I'm busy," Sherlock's voice was muffled. Clearly, he was looking into a microscope.

        "Sorry to distract you from whatever lovely specimen you've decided to study today, dear brother. Is Greg with you?"

        "Who?"

        "Sherlock!"

        "He's not with me. Why would he be with me?"

        "I haven't the foggiest. He sent me a text telling me to find him. I thought perhaps you were on a case."

        "We both know if you 'haven't the foggiest' you're simply being lazy.  But no.  No case," he said curtly. "It sounds more like he's inviting you to some sort of love lair."

        "Oh, stop it," I snapped. "Where could he be? We're meant to leave for a trip in the morning."

        "What were his plans for the day?" Sherlock suggested mindlessly, clearly having spotted the desired attribute of the object lying on his tray.

        "He said something about cobwebs in corners and bubbles in wallpaper. Do you know I've changed cleaning services three times since he moved in?" I complained. He really never was content.

        "I don't know. You're the smart one," he said with the sharp point of a long-ridiculed child. "That house is so colossal - maybe he just got lost."

        "Oh no." I froze and lost my grip on the mobile. Before I could even hear it hit the cold floor, I was running up the staircase. I hadn't run in years. I regularly rushed across rooms to grab something from Sherlock when his otherwise adult body was acting like a petulant toddler but hadn't actually run since I was probably nine or ten years old.

        "Why are there so many?" I muttered under my breath. Even taking the stairs two at a time as my height allowed didn't seem to empower me to tread them any more quickly.  I slowed as I reached the final landing and saw the door to one of the bedrooms standing open. Breathing so heavily that I could hear nothing but a slight wheeze in my throat, I approached the door.  Across the room, I spotted it. The hidden door that was built into the wall. It was papered so as to perfectly blend in with the rest of the space, its hinges usually hidden by a hat rack. It felt like I was dragging my feet through quicksand as I approached the secret, yet, now open, door.