"Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock crumpled to the floor in a heap of torn flesh and sore muscle the minute the chains fell away. Cold seeped through the thin fabric of his dirty trousers, making him curl in on himself and shiver. He was sore and tired and hungry. His hair was a mess of greasy curls and his head was pounding—but good God, he'd never been so relieved to see his brother.

"Status?" He heard Mycroft say. He lifted his head. Mycroft's back was turned to him, but he could see he held a phone to his hear and his hand to the door. "Good, because we're done here. Sherlock needs a coat." He peeked at him over his shoulder. "And shoes."

"Who'd you bring with you?" Sherlock spoke once Mycroft tucked his phone into his coat pocket. "Who could you possibly trust enough to bring with you for field work?"

Mycroft opened his mouth as if to answer, but the door opened a beat too soon and a redhead dressed all in black slipped inside, carrying a large bundle of clothes. "These should work until we get to the safe house," she spoke quietly. "I've got a truck outside ready to go. We don't have much time."

Her eyes flicked momentarily in Sherlock's direction, a shade of green easily confused with blue under the dim lighting. He blinked twice and she'd disappeared, a blur of red and black sliding out the door. She left it open in her wake.

"Let's go." Mycroft approached and reached out as if to help him to his feet, but Sherlock brushed him off and scrambled up himself. He barely looked up when he snatched his clothes from Mycroft's hand.

"Who is she? She's not one of yours." He slipped hastily into his stolen clothes. They were made for a broad man much shorter than himself, but they'd do. The boots were a tight fit. He looked up when Mycroft didn't answer. "Well?"

"We don't have time for a long explanation. She owes me a favor and she's here to help, that's all you need to know." Mycroft reached the door and nudged it open a little further. "Are you ready?"

Sherlock followed him out without a word, noting the half naked guard lying prone on the ground at the entrance. His ear buds were still in his ears but his iPod lay dark and smashed a short distance away. He stepped over him without remorse and secured the coat around his own body.

As many as fifteen people lay similarly strewn about the place, most of them dead. Sherlock made deductions as he went. He noticed the thin red line at some of their throats. Garrote. Three of them had ugly red splotches on either side their necks, but they were alive. Electrocution. Two sported fatal knife wounds. Five of them deep gashes where the skin had broken from being hit with a heavy metal object. Pipe, maybe. All in all, Sherlock surmised only four of them would survive if they got immediate medical help. Unlikely.

His brow was furrowed by the time they exited the building, eyes narrowed against the brisk wind cutting at every bit of exposed skin. A truck idled a short distance away, with the unnamed redhead tucked inside behind the wheel. Her hair was tied back neatly in a long red ponytail that swept down and curled around her shoulder when she turned to look their way. "Tick tock," she called over.

Sherlock pushed past Mycroft to climb inside truck and soon they were all bumping along a trail in the woods, presumably on their way to a main road. She didn't say anything, but she did peek at him using the rearview mirror. Mycroft chose to turn in his seat. "Any serious wounds?"

"None that can't wait," he answered tightly. "Where's the safe house?"

"Near the Hungarian border," she finally spoke. "Not too far from where we are now. I'm estimating about an hour of travel time once we get on the main road."

They rode in silence after that. Sherlock had questions, but those could wait. He knew Mycroft wouldn't have bothered with field work unless there were pressing circumstances. He was half convinced he'd been enjoying the show, watching him get beaten unconscious.

Close to an hour and a half later, the safe house emerged at the end of a long dirt road fenced in on both sides by tall trees. There was nothing remarkable about it. The design was simple and straightforward, the very definition of functionality.

Sherlock slipped away to shower and change as soon as they stepped inside. He didn't bother with the scruff on his face, instead plopping into a weathered old kitchen chair once he'd donned clean clothes. Mycroft set a bowl of soup with a side of bread in front of him and Sherlock all but inhaled the first bit of nourishment he'd seen in well over a week. The soup was scalding and it burned the roof of his mouth. He ignored his brother's tut of disapproval.

"Extraction team will be here in eight hours," he heard him say. "I suggest you get some rest."

Sherlock didn't look up. "When can I expect a briefing?"

"Briefing?" Mycroft's expression was blank when Sherlock looked up.

"Yes, you've got a job for me. It's why you came." He narrowed his eyes. "Are we going to pretend this was all an outburst of brotherly compassion? Because I think we skip the pretense."

Mycroft looked away. "I'll brief you once you've been suitably taken care of in London. You need a doctor."

"I have a doctor," he retorted.

"Yes, and he thinks your dead. I've arranged for you to see mine."

"Fine." Sherlock returned to his food.

"Mycroft," he heard the redhead's subtly husky voice say from the doorway. "Call for you."

"Yes, thank you. Sherlock, do stop to chew." Mycroft took the phone and disappeared from the room, leaving Sherlock alone with the redhead.

He looked her over but deductions were scarce. Her body spoke of a lifetime of grueling training, but he already knew as much from having seen her handiwork back at the base. She'd taken her hair out of her ponytail so that it now hung in shiny red waves halfway down her back, but she wore no perfume, makeup or jewelry. Her demeanor was disciplined and controlled, and her expression deceptively casual. She was clearly used to being scrutinized without giving anything away.

Sherlock straightened in his chair and resumed eating when she sat across from him at the dining table. "You're good," he said between bites of bread.

"Is that a deduction or a compliment?"

"A deduction," he said. "It wasn't meant to flatter."

She sat back in her chair and crossed her legs at the knee. "Tell me," she prompted with a tilt of her head.

Sherlock dropped what was left of his bread on his plate and pressed his hands together in front of his lips. He should've been in bed already. His body certainly needed the rest. Every inch of him felt tired and sore, except for the familiar surge of energy that came with being presented with a challenge. He was curious. More than that, he was intrigued.

He set his elbows down on either side of his plate and held her gaze. "Even if I hadn't seen the trail of bodies you left back at the base, it wouldn't have been that much of a leap," he began. "You must be good. This wasn't an easy job. You had to track me down. Go deep undercover. Smuggle your way up through the ranks. Survive. You'd have to be clever, resourceful and quick. Mycroft doesn't trust British agents in general, let alone foreign agents specifically. He has ties to the CIA but you're not CIA, are you? You're not even American. Not originally. He wouldn't have asked an agent for help unless it was absolutely necessary… and he wouldn't have asked you in particular unless you were at the very top of your field," he spoke in his usual rapid fire way.

"You're wondering why I accepted the job," she interjected when he paused. "Why I'd risk life and limb for someone I clearly have no close ties to."

"A deduction of your own?"

"I have my moments," she said enigmatically.

His lips curved up at the corner. "Yes," he answered after a moment of consideration. "You're clearly not in this for the money. Mycroft wouldn't have trusted someone with his life and mine if there was a chance they could be tempted with a better offer from an enemy party. And you're not in it for the glory. This is not that kind of job."

"So what's your theory?" She leaned forward and crossed her arms atop the table.

Sherlock twined his hands together without breaking eye contact. "A favor," he concluded at the end of a long pause. "An old debt, perhaps. A score that needs to be settled."

"You're as good as your reputation."

"I'm still missing pieces of the puzzle."

"Such as?"

"Your name," he answered smoothly. "One really should know the name of one's savior."

"You didn't need a savior," she countered.

"And you are good."

"You're not so bad yourself." She smiled slowly. "Natalia Alianovna Romanova," she said. "Natasha Romanoff, nowadays."

"A pleasure, I'm sure."

"Likewise."

Mycroft cleared his throat from the doorway and both Sherlock and Natasha straightened in their chairs like they'd been caught conspiring.

"I have business to take care of tomorrow after we land and I need to be presentable, so I'll be taking the room upstairs," he announced. "Sherlock, do try to get some rest," he urged again.

Sherlock responded with little more than a nod and a hum, but Mycroft didn't ask for anything else. His brother stepped away from the door and not a moment later Sherlock heard his footsteps going up the stairs.

Natasha unfolded herself from her chair and rose to her feet. "There's another room down here," she told Sherlock on her way to the door. "I'll go find you a set of sheets while you finish."

Sherlock didn't linger more than a few minutes. He'd eaten just about all he could without making himself sick, and his body desperately needed the rest. Natasha had already made the bed by the time he found her.

The room itself small but adequate. Neat and clean, like the rest of the house. Sherlock sat heavily on the mattress when she signaled he could do so, and resisted the urge to collapse without another word.

"This is your safe house," he observed.

Natasha reached inside the closet to retrieve additional blankets. "One of them."

He studied her from behind and clasped his hands between his knees. "Thank you," he said quietly.

She walked over to the bed and set the stack of blankets beside him with a smile. "Something tells me those are rare words coming from you," she teased. "You're welcome." He bowed his head and his long mess of curls fell forward. "Get some rest," she added softly. "Gun's underneath the pillow and I'm just a call away if you need anything."

Sherlock waited until she'd stepped out of the room and closed the door before he fell back against the pillows, carefully curling up on his side. He'd been tallying up his injuries before Mycroft made his presence known back at the base. Cracked ribs were on his list. He thought about calling out for painkillers, but it suddenly seemed like too much effort. He blindly grabbed for one of the blankets instead and haphazardly pulled it over his body.

Halfway through the night, he was sweating and shivering in equal measure. He'd been tired enough that he should've slept the whole night through, but the painful memory of being beaten to a pulp and the injuries that came with it were still too fresh. He woke up from a nightmare screaming into his pillow.

Natasha's voice close to his ear startled him into silence. "Sherlock you're okay," she said quietly but firmly. "You're safe. No one's hurting you. Nothing's going to happen to you. You're okay."

Sherlock opened his eyes to find her pale green gaze and sleep rumpled curls hovering just above his head. She was sitting beside him on the mattress. Close enough to touch but not quite.

He swallowed hard. "Where's Mycroft?"

"I'm here," Mycroft answered quietly from the bedroom door.

"He tried to wake you up and you lashed out," she explained.

Sherlock understood. Natasha must've stepped in to save Mycroft from getting hurt. He closed his eyes. "Just a nightmare," he said tiredly. "I'm fine. Go back to bed, My."

Mycroft must've hesitated because Natasha spoke next, quiet but firm like before. "Go to bed," she repeated. "I'll wake you up if necessary."

Sherlock rolled completely to his back once he was sure Mycroft was gone and stared up at the ceiling. "What sort of debt would justify you taking care of Mycroft Holmes's violent little brother?"

Natasha shifted to sit with her back against the headboard and one of her legs tucked underneath. Sherlock scooted further away to make room. "I've already repaid my debt to Mycroft," she informed him. "This I'm doing because I like you." His turned his head towards her on the pillow and she winked. "Go to sleep," she added. "I'm not going anywhere."

He didn't immediately look away. "What makes you so sure I can sleep with you here?"

Natasha exhaled a tired laugh and turned her own eyes to the ceiling. "I'm not," she admitted barely above a whisper. "But you stopped screaming when you heard my voice."

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in, turning his broken body on his side to face her. He was close enough that his nose brushed against her thigh but she didn't move away. She smelled like gunpowder and leather.

He spoke one more time as he drifted off to sleep. "Maybe I like you too."