As it turned out, the rumours were absolutely true – Mycroft Holmes is the British Government. The brutally polished mahogany of the walls and a collection of staggeringly costly perfumes formed a choking concoction in Jasmine's throat, the lack of any fresh air not doing much to dispel the anxiety in her stomach. Yanking tight her ponytail, she shifted the stack of papers about in her arm and sniffed. She tried to block out the gathering chatter on all sides, urgent and insistent. Raising her balled fist, she knocked. In gold lettering, somehow still demure against the wood, a nametag tied together all of her deepest fears about her placement: Mycroft Holmes.
"Come in," the words were drawn out, bored almost. His Eton days were etched into them. Jasmine twisted the doorknob with far more care than necessary, almost dropping her papers. Slipping inside, she smiled madly at who she supposed was her new boss. He did not look up.
"Good morning, uh, sir. I'm your work experience for the week…"
"Mm, I think, perhaps, you are in the wrong place. I don't do 'work experience'." He still had not glanced up, pen still furiously scribbling away. Panic sank like a stone in Jasmine's stomach, her heart pounding against her ribs.
"Sorry, sir, but my father said that-" she broke off when Mycroft pressed his pen too hard into the paper, a dense patch of ink spraying over the document he was working on. His head snapped up, a retort on his lips desperate to escape. But something in his stretched mind clicked, disdainful annoyance replaced by regret barely concealing frustration.
"Ah, yes. I do apologise, Miss Carter, please sit down." He gestured to a small, creaking leather seat. She slid into it as quickly as she could. Instinct told her to offer a handshake, but he had already turned to the shelves behind him. That he owed so many favours to spies and other freelancers was a constant source of irritation and this wispy girl in loafers and cashmere was no exception. He eyed her curiously, fighting the urge to mutter to himself at the girl's twitchy nervousness and watery eyes set in a pale face. Sliding a few documents across the desk towards her, he watched in silence while she read through and signed. Every so often, he would chuckle darkly as she came across some clause or another on the various ways she might be involved in breaches of national security.
"So, Miss Carter, what you will be doing this week is cataloguing these," every word he spoke drew out until it was almost ridiculous. He indicated a set of files against the far wall, yellowed with age and overflowing with torn pages. "There is no part of this department to which I can fully grant you access and for that, I do apologise." She thought he looked distinctly unapologetic, but said nothing to object. She nodded, fixing her gaze just above him on the wall.
"I understand," she said quickly.
"I assume you are no stranger to the Official Secrets Act. I will provide you with a suitable computer and have one of my people show you how. It's just… expenses receipts, things of that nature." Standing suddenly, he strode to the door and bade her follow, leading her down a narrow corridor into a small, musty room that badly needed renovation. Leaving her alone, he hurried off and returned a few moments later with a laptop and cable. While he was gone, Jasmine allowed her hands and thighs to unclench, letting out a long-held breath in shaky bursts.
Mycroft was trailed by a young man, no more than a few years older than Jasmine with a more subdued, but similar, terrified expression. He set up Jasmine's station, ran her through the logging process of a few of the files and left her to it, eager to be back to his office. Already, her back began to ache in the chair, but, after a cursory check of her wellbeing, Mycroft left her to her work. After less than an hour, every word, every amount spent and reclaimed seemed to blur together into one. She had no idea why they might need to have these records so long after they had been filed – her jaw fully dropped open when she found a file from the late nineties that somehow still needed to be kept around.
Her lunch break came and went, her sandwich surprisingly tasteless even against the monotony of the work. Anxiety gave way to annoyance and disbelief at her irrationality that morning as she rifled through folder after folder. Boredom tugged at her eyes, luring her wickedly into sleep.
Somehow, four o'clock approached. The pounding of the clock brought tension to her head, her aching shoulders pulling on her neck. Even though she knew what favour her father had called in to get her work experience week sorted with someone of Mycroft's standing, she began to wonder if it was worth working somewhere where every other word of her job description had to be redacted. Restlessness set into her limbs, so she rose from her seat and busied herself pretending to sort through the stacks. Mileage claim, mileage claim, extortionate hotel rates, mileage claim.
Rubbing at her temples, Jasmine sighed. Four more days, twenty eight more hours of logging decades-old files was not the glamorous week she had been hoping for. Gathering up the files as the bells of Big Ben sounded, she imagined her friends at their placements in libraries, schools that were not their own or even other civil offices where they might be able to experience some actual work. Under strict instructions from Mycroft to return the folders to his office before she left, she shuffled down the hall, cursing her throbbing shoulders and rapped more boldly than she had that morning. She was met with the same answer to enter, although decidedly more frustrated than it had been. Curious, she slipped inside and resisted the urge to clap a hand over her mouth at the sight that beheld her. On further and less anxious observation, Mycroft's office was not an office, but a comfortable, even elaborate room padded out with art, leather-bound books and an impressive collection of spirits. Behind the desk, Mycroft glowered petulantly across to a guest with his back to Jasmine. The thick shock of black curls poked at something in her memory, although Mycroft's aggressive words (mingled with something bordering on pleading) brought her back to reality.
"I am being serious, Sherlock, I am facing an extraordinary amount of pressure from Stirco's family," he paused, and then continued, as if needing to clarify, "it's sentiment." Jasmine tilted her head as she recalled why she knew the name Stirco.
"And as I told you," Sherlock's voice was deeper and smoother than Mycroft's although, Jasmine grinned to herself when she noticed, it contained no smaller amount of childlike argument. "I am working on it." He pronounced every word perfectly.
"I'd have thought you'd be finished already. You're not quite so distracted these days."
Sherlock let out edged grunt of offense. Neither of them had noticed Jasmine, so she cleared her throat as loudly as she could.
"Excuse me, Mr Holmes?"
They both turned to face her and said "Yes?"
Sherlock stared at her in a mixture of confusion and derision. Scoffing, Mycroft emerged from behind the desk and took the files from her. As he put them away, realisation hit Jasmine as to where she knew 'Stirco' from. Boldness seized her between Sherlock's mutterings.
"I'm sorry, I couldn't help but hear, were you talking about James Stirco?"
"You know, it really isn't any of your concern," Mycroft began to dismiss her for the day, when Sherlock cut him off.
"Yes," he sniffed and straightened his coat collar. "Mycroft thinks I'm not solving the case quickly enough."
Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, this is Jasmine Carter, my … 'work experience', courtesy of Edward and Nora Carter."
"Ah-ha, so you're the girl who's been causing my big brother such trouble these few weeks." Sherlock's voice was gleeful, his eyes bright and shining.
"Uh, yes, I-"
"So, what do you make of this?" ripping a chair away from Mycroft's desk, he spun it around and collapsed onto it, long legs splaying across the floor. Rubbing his temples, Mycroft busied himself in an email to avoid the conversation unfolding in front of him. "Man murdered, no witnesses, no immediate suspects. One son, one ex-wife, good relationship with each other but not the dead man. A set of six puzzles to lead the police to the murderer, leads to the son. Son has an airtight alibi. Provably, even by me, out of the country. No other possible murderer, so how does that work?"
"Twins," Jasmine said immediately. By the time she'd realised what she'd said, she blushed furiously under Sherlock's piercing haze.
"It's never twins," he replied. In his eyes was a challenge to continue.
"Except in this case," she said, bravery returning, "I knew him. Well, my parents did. The Stircos had twins but had to abandon one while they were on the run from the Belgian government agents, escape gone wrong. They never recorded the birth."
"I didn't think anyone else knew that," Mycroft said softly.
"You knew?" Sherlock said in outrage, "why didn't you tell me?"
"It was funny. Watching you squirm. I informed Lady Stirco weeks ago." They stared at each other for a moment before sharing an uneasy grin. Shock and horror invaded Sherlock's face. John's taunting took centre stage in his mind as he realised that it was, in fact, sometimes twins. Swivelling back towards Jasmine, he stared, open mouthed, at her for a moment before leaping to his feet and shrugging on his coat. Sniffing and bidding Mycroft goodbye, he left quickly.
After hailing a taxi, Sherlock sat, elbows on his knees and hands clasped against his lips. Disbelief was not an emotion to which he was accustomed, and it stung bitterly at his vibrating thoughts. Twins. Mycroft, having spent weeks in complaint of having to conduct work experience, clearly was oblivious to the talent that sat logging files or whatever he had her doing. He had half a mind to drop in on his brother again should something else that week have him stumped. Although, he imagined John would be less than pleased about him sparring with intellect after meeting Eurus. The thought immediately turned sour as he pulled into Baker Street and saw, once again, the lights dim and unused.
As if John was around anymore to find out.