Chapter Text
“Hi, love! Haven’t heard from you in a bit. That’s fine, by the way,” Greg added hastily. “I know you’ve been busy. Probably tired. Just wanted to say hey before I headed to bed. You get caught up at work? Hope it all gets smoothed out soon so you can get some sleep.”
Greg yawned, adjusting the phone against his ear. “I’ll see you in the morning, yeah? It’s alright if you wake me up when you come in. Happy to see you. Even if you interrupt my beauty sleep.” He laughed, though it sounded a bit sadder than he’d hoped. “Love you. See you soon.”
He ended the voicemail, staring at his mobile screen for a few seconds before switching it off. It had been more than a bit since he’d heard from Mycroft, actually. His last message—Taking off now! May be late; expecting meeting at landing—had come through some fifteen hours ago.
Greg was trying very hard not to worry. Mycroft’s flight would have been less than two hours. But he could have gotten delayed. He could have gotten caught up at the airport and then trapped in some dreadful meeting. He could have fallen asleep in his office the moment he had a moment to himself, exhausted from travel. Mycroft had mentioned being tired on the phone last night. They had talked for hour around midnight until Greg had been too tired to stay awake. They’d texted a bit this morning, their conversation ending with Mycroft’s flight’s departure.
And then… nothing. Greg waited patiently, sending a few check-in texts that sat unread and un-replied-to. He called twice during the day, leaving a short, cheerful message the second time. He had left a longer message this time, making his third call well into the evening, more than a bit of worry seeping into his tone. He even called Anthea, once, though it went straight to voicemail.
The organisation that had invited Mycroft out to consult was flying him back on their company jet, Greg remembered. The flight should have been short. Less than two hours. Luton to their flat was barely an hour, too. He should be here. He should have been here hours ago.
I should be home by noon, Mycroft had said last night, his smile audible over the phone. Paris is lovely, as always, but I must confess that its allure is nothing like home. I have missed you.
Miss you, too, Greg had replied. Can’t wait to see you. It’s been a long two weeks all on my own.
Mycroft had apologised for the length of the trip, as always; Greg had brushed off his apology, as always. Work called, sometimes. They both understood that all too well.
But just as work called, so did Mycroft. He understood that Greg’s one condition on Mycroft’s travel was that he was updated. A quick text was all Greg asked; a just landed or on my way home was all he required. Mycroft always updated him, sometimes by text, sometimes over the phone. Regardless of how, though, he always updated Greg.
But it was midnight. Fifteen hours since Mycroft’s last message. Twenty-four since he’d heard Mycroft’s voice.
Greg had a bad feeling. He was glad tomorrow—today, he supposed, glancing at the clock—was Saturday. He knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight. He tried to tell himself everything was fine as he tidied up the kitchen and changed into his pyjamas, but he knew. He knew.
Greg knew as he crawled beneath the blankets in their too-big, too-empty bed that something was terribly, terribly wrong.
He lay still for barely half an hour, checking his phone constantly. Waiting. Hoping. But… nothing.
He gave up on sleeping and moved to the sofa, switching on the TV but not really watching it. Fifteen hours since he’d heard from Mycroft. Fifteen hours since Mycroft should have boarded his less than two-hour flight. That would’ve been a long bloody meeting. And after two weeks of meetings in Paris? Mycroft wouldn’t have stood for that. He just wouldn’t.
Greg left another voicemail. Short and easy, trying to sound as casual as he could. Hey, darlin’. Doing okay? Haven’t heard from you in a while. I’m getting a little worried.
At hour sixteen, he called Anthea again.
It rang six times before cutting off to a smooth, clipped voicemail. I can’t answer at the moment, her recorded voice said, but please call again when convenient. The tone signalled him to begin speaking.
“Er, hi, Anth,” Greg said. “It’s Greg. Just checking in. Haven’t heard from you or Myc in a long while. Got to make sure your plane didn’t crash, yeah?”
Christ, had he actually said that? Of all the insensitive bloody—
What if their plane had crashed? What if they lay dead somewhere in the French countryside, still strapped into their seats? What if they were injured, struggling, crawling through the woods, desperately searching for rescue? What if—
“Just— er, give me a call. When you get the chance,” Greg said hastily before ending the message.
I may be unreachable, on occasion, Mycroft had said once. Years ago, now. But I shall always notify you in advance of such a period.
He hadn’t said anything about this trip being dangerous. There had only been one dangerous trip in their relationship’s term, and Mycroft had thoroughly prepared Greg for it. He’d had an itinerary practically down to the second by the time their briefing was over. He knew exactly where Mycroft was meant to be every minute of every day he’d be gone. Greg was actually part of the protective measures for that trip. If Mycroft didn’t check in with him, he was to raise hell until someone laid eyes on Mycroft.
They had made every check-in time; everything had gone smoothly.
This time, though, Mycroft had said it was an easy trip. Dull diplomacy, he’d said. Nothing of note.
So why wasn’t he answering his phone? Why had so much time passed in silence? Why wasn’t Anthea answering? What had happened?
Where were they?
Greg found himself leaving the flat before he’d quite thought it through. He climbed into his car and started it, then just… sat. Where to go? No one would be able to help him at the Diogenes. Those silent arseholes were always a no-go. He wouldn’t be let into Mycroft’s office, would he?
Would he?
Hell. He might as well try.
Greg worked himself up into a pretty good fury as he drove. Mycroft was missing. Missing. Completely unresponsive. Anthea, too. And no one had thought to so much as text Greg. What the hell had Mycroft’s job made Greg register for if not for this? Was he not meant to be some sort of emergency contact? What the hell had to happen for them to call it an emergency?
Mycroft was one of the most closely protected officials in the British Government. Greg wasn’t supposed to know that, but it was obvious, really. For Greg not to hear from him—or from his assistant—in sixteen hours was not normal. Not when he’d promised to text; not when he’d left Greg having just taken off from Paris. Not when he’d been meant to be home almost seventeen hours ago.
Greg’s parking was illegal as hell, but he didn’t care. He stormed through the front doors of Mycroft’s offices well and truly pissed off. He was vaguely surprised that it was so bright inside, considering the hour, but he didn’t focus on that for long. Greg made a direct beeline for the lift.
“Where’s Mycroft?” Greg said immediately, perhaps a bit harshly.
The burly doorman was a friendly bloke. Greg had often chatted idly about football with him while waiting for Mycroft. He wasn’t so friendly tonight, though, stationed firmly in front of the lift doors with a stone-cold frown on his face.
The doorman tried the gentle approach first. “Inspector,” he said with a placating smile, “I’m afraid you can’t—”
Fake. All fake. Greg could see it written all over his face. Why had no one contacted him? Why had no one reached out?
“I’m going up,” Greg interrupted. “Don’t try to stop me.”
“Sir—”
Greg sidestepped the man as he tried to physically block Greg from jabbing the button for the lift. “Back up. You can’t touch me. I know what your contract says.”
“Inspector Lestrade.” The doorman’s voice was stronger, this time, a threatening boom in the small lobby. A warning. That’s what this was. A bloody warning.
He had never spoken to Greg like that before.
Greg’s stomach twisted itself into a knot. Confirmation. Confirmation that something was wrong. That something was really, really wrong. They were trying to stop him. Why were Mycroft’s people trying to stop him?
Where was Mycroft? Where was Anthea? And why had no one told Greg anything?
The lift doors opened. Greg knew the doorman couldn’t stop him. Greg had registered as Mycroft’s partner—fiancé, now—for this bloody reason.
He did, though, hear the doorman mutter something into a radio as the lift doors closed between them. Fine, Greg thought viciously. Send security for me. At least they might tell me something real.
What was happening? What was wrong? What had gone so horribly wrong?
Greg got two steps down the sixth-floor hallway before security blocked him in. They were big blokes, four of them surrounding him. They acted like a wall, firmly boxing him into the hallway.
“I need to talk to whoever knows where Mycroft is,” Greg said, raising his hands non-combatively. “I’m not looking for trouble. But you can’t kick me out.”
Their faces were blank. Too blank. Conspicuously blank. If he’d said that and Mycroft had been sitting in his office, just a few steps away, they would have been confused. Reacted with something, at least. They would have blinked at him, frowned at him, looked at him a bit funny. They might have even taken pity on him and called Mycroft out to speak to him or brought Anthea ‘round to calm him down.
But their faces were blank, flat and smooth as ice.
Greg’s stomach twisted itself into another firm knot.
“Take me to whoever’s in charge up here,” Greg said, voice rising slightly. “I haven’t heard from Mycroft since yesterday morning. He promised to text me an hour or so after that; he never did. He hasn’t answered my calls. Neither has Anthea.”
He was met only with stone faces and blank expressions. Still, Greg pressed on.
“I’ve heard nothing from either of them,” he said desperately. “Anthea even answers her phone at three in the morning, normally. Something’s wrong. Something is wrong. Where are they? What happened?”
Silence. Painful, horrible, telling silence.
The silence only lit Greg’s fear and fury.
“Tell me where he is!” Greg shouted, balling his fists. “I don’t care if I can’t talk to him, just show me that he’s safe! Tell me what happened! Show me where he is! Where is my fiancé? Where’s Anthea? Where the hell are they?”
“Leave him,” a woman’s voice called from further down the hallway.
The security detail melted away instantly, their massive frames seeming to disappear directly into the walls. Greg was left alone, facing a figure at the end of the hall. She walked closer slowly, her heels clicking softly on the hallway floor.
She was familiar, Greg realised. He had seen her before, following quietly in Anthea’s shadow, just as glued to her mobile as Anthea herself. Why was she here, apparently commanding this team?
No.
He knew why she was here. She would only gain this sort of power if she were filling in for Anthea, wouldn’t she?
Anthea wasn’t answering his calls. He knew Anthea wasn’t answering. He knew that. But he hadn’t wanted to consider why.
Greg’s body went cold as the woman stared him down, her posture ostensibly relaxed but also visibly ready. He knew if he so much as sneezed she would be on him in an instant. He wouldn’t stand a chance against this woman.
“You should not be here, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”
“Who are you?” Greg snapped, glaring at her. Ruder than he had to be, maybe. But something wasn’t right. He could feel it in every fibre of him. He could smell it in the air, touch it in the chill, wavering dustiness of the hall.
She held his gaze, utterly unfazed. “My name is Claire Reynolds,” she said calmly. “I am acting in Anthea Clarke’s absence.”
If she was going to be direct, so was he. “Where is Mycroft?”
“I am not at liberty to—”
“Stop.” Greg knew he was angry, knew he was over-emotional now, but they were all being so difficult. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t. These people were supposed to be able to find anyone. Anyone. If anyone in the world was going to be well-protected, they were going to be someone in Mycroft’s team’s care. Right? Right? “Mycroft is missing. That’s what you’re saying. You don’t know where he is because he went somewhere and you can’t find him. My fiancé is missing and no one will tell me where he is!”
The silence stretched long and thin between them, seeming to bounce off of each wall and ricochet back through the room. Claire kept cool, emotionless eye contact with Greg, seeming to be searching for something. Piercing. Exploring deep into Greg’s soul, assessing his very self through his eyes.
Finally, she spoke.
“We lost communications midway through their flight, Detective Inspector,” Claire said, crisp and clear. “Attempts to reestablish contact were unsuccessful.”
He knew what was coming. He knew. But he whispered “no” under his breath anyway as she continued.
“We have some limited footage of them both leaving Luton in the custody of a known terrorist organisation.”
No.
Claire did not waver; did not hesitate. Her simple, monotone report continued flat and clear. Mycroft would be proud of her, Greg thought wildly, his heart pounding. She’ll go far in this job, ice-cold as she is.
He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to. Couldn’t, maybe. He knew what she was going to say but feared the words might still break him, prepared or not. No.
Mycroft. Mycroft.
“Mycroft Holmes and Anthea Clarke are presumed dead.”