Disclaimer: I don´t own anything of SHERLOCK except of my OCs. And of course I don´t earn money with writing this...

Please forgive me if you find any grammar and spelling mistakes. I am a german who now lives in Finland and my english is... improvable. It would be a great help for me, if anyone would be willing to become my beta for this story. Thank you! :)

Prologue: "The photograph"

"Darling?" Mycroft Holmes wandered around inside his house. He left his shoes in the big hall, but he was still in his coat, the black umbrella as usual at his side.

The big victorian-style house was quite dark and looked completely clean and empty. Mycroft knew that the first thing was true – of course he didn´t clean it himself, but the staff they had, was highly educated in these things – and that the second was not, because exactly that staff was hiding professional in the big villa. And so did the person he was searching for.

The older Holmes brother frowned. Where was she? He didn´t like screaming for her.

"Maggie?"

Especially he didn´t like calling her by her pet name. Of course that was because he didn´t like pet names after all, but she had told him after their first night, that she would not allow him to call her Margarete. Or just Mrs. Holmes, later when they became married.

No, she was Maggie and sometimes Mycroft caught himself calling her like that in his mind as well.

He opened the door of their sleeping room, where they spendt so few nights together with Mycroft knowing himself being always more married with his work than with his wife. Another thing that Mrs.- Maggie – had to except.

The bed was well made... something caught his eye. It was a little too well made. He stepped nearer, touched the day blanket with is fingers.

No one slept here for at least four nights...

The-British-Government-in-person frowned again, taking out his mobile, texting Anthea to instantly drive back to the manner and wait for him at the door.

Then he went to the bed table, checking the surface. No signs that anything has laid there for the last days. His wife was a passionate reader. She hasn´t been here.

Mr. Holmes ran into the kitchen, passing the living room. Everything looked completely clean and calm, a perfect, comfortable home. Of course, the cleaners would have erased all signs that might have been there. He opened the kitchen door slowly, knowing that no one could be inside. The security would have warned him instantly, because there were security cams all over the house, even in their very private rooms Mycroft could have not allowed himself to get incautious.

He was mighty. Maybe the mightiest man in the United Kingdom. There were people who only waited in the shadows for a chance to kill him. And Mycroft knew them all. Did one of them try to kidnap Margarete? But no, that was impossible. This house was well protected. He had guards here that would let no one in and if anyone would have tried, he would have been informed. And nothing has happened. He has been away the last week, travelling to Afghanistan and North Corea after that, but neither Maggie not anyone of his employers had called him during that time. And now he came home, finding his wife absent. This was suspicious. Very suspicious.

Suddenly the umbrella fell out of his hand. There was a photograph laying on the kitchen table.

Cheap paper, printed in a shop, probably in London, has never been touched with bare hands, could probably give details about the kidnappers? Murderers? Habitation.

The well-trained brain of Mycroft Holmes deducted all these facts in less than 5 seconds. But the little warm part in the icemans body could only stare at the woman who was pictured in the photograph. Her blonde hair was laying in soft curls around her head. She was sitting in a garden chair, Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice" in her hand, smiling happily to the man who was taking the picture. It had been Mycroft himself, last summer. But the most shocking of the photo were the two crossed lines that someone has painted over her face.

He took out his phone, forced himself to concentrated and said with his non-shaking voice: "Lock the manner!"

In that very second the house grew completely dark, as every outside door and window was closed and only the red alarm lamps gave Mycroft enough light to pick up his umbrella, opening the sight of every security camera all over the house. Then he frowned and sighed. He was too late. The house was completely quit, but not empty. His staff was lying dead, shot by several bullets, in the kitchen and their rooms. Whoever killed them has left the house instantly. Remarkable was that none of the alarms had started.

He didn´t like that affair. Holmes didn´t liked it after all. Someone came unseen into his house, probably kidnapped his wife and killed the personnel, without being noticed by any security. He had a serious problem.

With a last look on the photograph was the mightiest man after all leaving his villa completely locked behind. Anthea was standing with the chauffeur outside, both were having revolvers in their hands, looking worried and relaxed when he came in sight.

"Sir, what happened?" Anthea was looking at him worried. Mycroft didn´t answer, his brain was working hard. Could anyone of his employes been involved? He looked into Antheas brown eyes. At was one of the very rare moments now when she was not looking at her smart phone.

No, he decided. Whoever was responsible for this mess was an outsider. And outsider that was very good informed about him. Too good.

"Sir...?" The chauffeur got into the car, and so did Anthea and Mycroft. "Where do we go?" Anthea was looking worried. Of course she was sensing something big being wrong, when her boss was behaving so unusual. He caught her eye. This woman was clever. So was Mycroft himself. But for this affair he´d be needing the help of someone even cleverer. Well – in these sort of things after all.

"221B Bakerstreet. Time to ask for some favours from my baby-brother!"