Prologue

The tiny pub was dimly lit and smoggy with cigarette smoke, tucked somewhere discreet and cozy in a back alley in Soho. It was called the Blue Piano.

Inside, Jerry tipped his cap and determinedly plunked out a few vaguely jazzy tunes on the worn-out old blue piano in question. There was a dirty tin bowl on the piano that a few customers would occasionally toss coins into.

Kristen rubbed a few glasses at the bar and always joked that the old beauty was on its last legs and would soon give out its last melodies. Maybe then she'd have an excuse to reform the pub and rename it something classier.

Giselle sauntered around several tables, hips sashaying provocatively, winking and simpering at the whistles and catcalls that were thrown her way.

Those three were constants at this pub. They were all their patrons needed. Music, drink, and a body to keep them warm at night. What more could they want?

All in all, it was just another day.

"'Ello, handsome." Giselle giggled, slightly drunk, suddenly dumping herself and her many skirts onto a handsome stranger.

The 'handsome stranger' was middle aged with silvery hair, a firm body, and eyes like chocolate. It also didn't hurt that he didn't seem so unhappy to suddenly have a lapful of woman sprawled over his poker game.

His liquid brown eyes twinkled. "Hey there, Gorgeous." he smiled back boyishly, squeezing her ample rear and keeping the prostitute from falling off him with one hand as he knocked back his drink with the other.

He looked years younger than he was when he grinned that charming lopsided quirk of his.

Just then, four men - three in dark overcoats and one in a plain brown jacket with elbow patches - walked in.

The stranger playing poker saw them, startled, and grinned brighter. He planted a kiss on Giselle's neck and moved her off himself as he surreptitiously stood, tossing down his hand as he grabbed his coat.

Full house. And indeed it was.

"Sorry, darling." he whispered in Giselle's ear as the four men caught sight of him from across the pub. "Must dash."

And then he was darting away, jacket flapping from one fist as he rushed out to the back room.

"Stop! Police!" One of the pursuing men shouted, dashing after him and tripping over Jerry's piano. Coins, loose piano keys, and one copper flew everywhere and Kristen heard laughter like a witch's cackle waft out of the back room before she heard the back door slam.

The stranger was gone.

"Well done, Dimmock." The tallest of the four coated men spat scathingly. "You've embarrassed yourself expertly."

"No need to be so awful about it." The only blonde of the group remarked. It was the man without an overcoat. "At least he tried."

"No use trying when you're only going to fail." The last man spoke with smooth, cultured tones, toying with the handle of his umbrella.

The man on the floor groaned and got to his feet, dusting himself off. "Well!" he huffed. "That certainly did not go as expected."

The curly haired, spitfire tongued gentleman turned to Kristen. "Well that settles it!" He slid cat-like onto a stool. "I need a drink."

Kristen stared at the mismatched group and numbly set a glass in front of the tall gentleman.

And until now, today was looking so boring. Funny how that turned out.

Three months earlier...

It was a warm, spring day when Mrs. Hudson saw the car amble up the driveway while she was tending the garden. Having guests was one of those things Mrs. Hudson reveled in, pity visitations didn't occur often enough these days.

Mrs. Hudson wiped dirt off her hands and hurried out to meet the visitor.

Out of the back seat stepped a rather distinguished-looking young man with warm copper hair and icy eyes.

This man - Mrs. Hudson knew - was Mycroft Holmes, the British Secret Service's youngest running spymaster. This was a man who, before the age of thirty, outed two amateur German spies, persuaded one to continue as a double agent, and by thirty five years, trained three British agents who were now stationed somewhere in German Occupied Europe.

And this illustrious spymaster has a younger brother.

"Mrs. Hudson." Mycroft greeted the little woman cordially. "So lovely to see you again. Is Sherlock in?"

"As always." Mrs. Hudson shook her head in a motherly way. "Locked himself in his office three days ago. Won't open the door, even for food!"

Mycroft sighed in exasperation. "Very well, please lead me to him."

He was led through bare corridors and heavily machined rooms that were occupied by several women at desks working tirelessly away at type-writer-like devices that Mycroft knew to be Enigma Machines, a sort of special cipher machine that was used to encrypt, and vice-versa, decrypt German secret messages that they intercepted.

This was the main decryption establishment of the United Kingdom, Bletchley Park.

This is also where Sherlock Holmes worked.

Mrs. Hudson halted in a dark doorway and knocked gently. "Sherlock?" she called.

"Go away! Can't you understand I'm working?" A brash, irrational voice shouted back.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, be reasonable. Open the door." he growled.

There was a sudden cacophony of noise from inside the room, papers flying about, keys on a keyboard being haphazardly pressed, and the sound of wood sliding against wood.

Mycroft exchanged a weary look with Mrs. Hudson. "He's trying to escape out of the window, isn't he?"

Mrs. Hudson sighed like a disappointed mother hen. "He doesn't seem to look forward to meeting you anymore than the last time you came."

Mycroft inwardly groaned and retraced his steps, moving the meeting outside where his driver had caught his wayward brother firmly by the back of his shirt collar. Mycroft felt a thunderous migraine growing behind his eyeballs when he saw the state of his brother.

If anything, his younger brother had grown taller, thinner, and paler in his absence. His black hair curled as wildly now as it it had when the young man was twelve. His shirt seemingly hadn't been changed since he locked himself up, the sleeves rolled up at the elbow, his hands and trousers were smudged with ink, and his shoes were nowhere to be found.

"Sherlock." he sighed reprimandingly.

"Brother dear." Sherlock smiled back wincingly. The expression looked so fake, it hurt. "To what do I owe the honour of meeting you here?"

"I had a call late last night informing me that you decrypted a German message hinting toward a German spy in Britain?" Mycroft reminded.

"And like I said; I'm working." Sherlock scowled back. "Get someone else to fill you in, surely it doesn't have to be me?"

Mycroft leveled him a glare. "As I heard it, you detached only long enough to inform Mrs. Hudson of what you found before you locked yourself back up in that infernal fortress of codes you revel in hiding in!"

Sherlock let out a great sigh and went limp in the grip of Mycroft's driver. "Fine."

"You know, we could've all been spared this dreadful meeting if you had only told Mrs. Hudson the details of your discovery." Mycroft huffed as he herded his brother back into the building where Mrs. Hudson was brewing tea.

"Bollocks."

After a long and much overdue bath and change of clothes, Sherlock joined Mycroft over Mrs. Hudson's tea.

"The German agent is referred to only as 'Napoleon'." Sherlock opened up the topic of conversation. "He came up on my radar half a year ago. So far, mentions of him have put him in Paris, Lisbon, Norway, and once to Britain."

"What can you tell me about him?" Mycroft questioned him.

"I can tell you that he is most-likely of Irish origins. Napoleon's German handlers constantly complain about his mood swings. They describe him as being friendly and charming one moment, then rather angry and violent moments later." Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. "In the reports to higher ups, his handlers say that he is strategically brilliant, an expert in explosions, and natural linguist, fluent in English, German, and French. However, he has no patience for radio communications and waiting for orders." Sherlock thought about it for a moment. "From what little I know of him, he seems averse to authority figures, most-likely stemming from a previous life of crime."

"I'll have Scotland Yard assist us on that point." Mycroft sighed reluctantly. "If he has a criminal record, they will find it."

"On his visit to Britain, he was said to have been dropped by plane in Cambridgeshire. The police in the area had been informed, but lost him, apparently." Sherlock scoffed. "The great fools."

"I had heard about the unhappy incident." Mycroft sighed. "But, if we had known about this spy earlier, what is the urgency now?"

"In the last message I decrypted, they mentioned another mission to Britain." Sherlock replied.

Mycroft frowned. "I see..."

"Also..." Sherlock added in afterthought. "They also remark on his fondness for another British citizen-come-German spy codenamed; Heinz."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Apparently, they met sometime between Napoleon's first mission to Britain and returning to his base of operations in Paris." Sherlock shrugged. "Since then, they have been notoriously inseparable. It's a main source of a pain for his handlers as Napoleon is a quick-witted, sly character who seemingly always gets his way. I can only assume that he will somehow manage to convince the higher ups to send this Heinz here with him."

"It would be a great relief if we can capture these two in one fell swoop." Mycroft mused.

"Better get on it, then?" Sherlock said almost hopefully, eager to be rid of his hated brother.

"What are you talking about?" Mycroft replied breezily. "You're coming too."

"What!" Sherlock jumped up, spilling his tea. "No Mycroft, I have to stay here and continue my work. You want more information on this spy, I assume?"

"Of course I do. But constantly communicating by phone or radio is just begging for a leak in intelligence, and as much as I enjoy coming to Bletchley Park, I cannot continue to drive back and forth from London just to satisfy your need for privacy." Mycroft said with a smirk. "That is why we are bringing your equipment with us to my flat in London."

Sherlock opened his mouth soundlessly, then closed it. "No, you cannot do this." he stated firmly. "Mycroft!"

"You will find, brother dear." Mycroft smiled sweetly back at him. "That I can."

And as always, Mycroft Holmes got his way.