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

Chapter 5

        I awoke with my face buried in Greg's chest.

        "Good morning," he offered softly, as he felt me shifting.

        "Hmm." Words weren't my forte during the first hour or so of the day. He smelled good, though - like cologne and sex. I kissed his chest in several spots, wrapping my arm around him, signaling that I had no intention of rising.

        For a moment, the room was as still as the cold winter outside. That, however, was interrupted by a ringing. Greg slid out from beneath me, walking quickly to the sitting area.

        "That'll be the kitchen," he explained. "I ordered breakfast.

        "This is Inspector Lestrade," he said, picking up the hotel phone. "Yes, of course, thank you."

        I could hear that his voice was a bit startled, so I stood from the bed, wrapping myself in a dressing gown and making my way to rest on the crushed velvet of one of the sitting room chairs.

        "What is it, John?"

        I shot Greg a glare. We had turned our mobiles off for a reason. Why did Dr. Watson even know where to reach us?

        "Slow down. Now, what happened?" Greg's face grew white with panic. "When did you last see him?"

        I took a moment to consider the situation and Greg's body language. It was Sherlock. He had disappeared again.

        "No. It's okay. We'll figure something out. Just stay in touch. And don't leave in case he comes home, alright?" He hung up the phone and collapsed onto the chair opposite me.

        "We're not leaving. We're not ending this holiday early because my little brother decided to throw some sort of tantrum," I insisted.

        "No, Myc, it's not that. He's high and missing."

        "That's unlikely. As long as he has Dr. Watson, he stays clean. There's no reason for him to be using," I argued.

        "Well, John was just diagnosed with cancer," he said, with sorrow in his voice.

        "My God. Alright. Well, I'll find him. I always do." I stood, heading to the suitcase to dress. "I'm not sure I understand why John didn't discuss this with me before telling Sherlock. He had to know how he'd react."

        Greg grabbed my hand as I walked past him. "Mycroft, John didn't tell him."

        "Of course he didn't." I suddenly realised my mistake. "He wouldn't have to, would he?"

        Greg's thumb rubbed the flesh of my hand in an effort to offer comfort.

        "Greg," I started, "I am so very sorry for this. I really am."

        "Not another word," he argued. "Let's just find him before he kills himself."

***

        It certainly wasn't the first time I'd gone searching for my brother knowing he was lying somewhere in a drug-induced stupor.

        Upon arriving back in London, I'd left Greg at Baker Street to meet a drug squad and search Sherlock's rooms. That left me to drive around the city in an attempt to locate my crocked little brother. It was now dusk and I was determined to find him before the cold of night set in.

        I'd already exhausted his most favored bolt-holes and two separate dosshouses where I'd found him in the past. As I ticked another box on the list in my mind, my mobile rang. "What have you found?" I asked.