A single solider raced through the prison walls, making no sound as their boots slapped against the wet cement. Fifth floor, third hallway, second door on the left. They rounded the corner and broke into a sprint, weapons rustling against their uniform. He'll be heavily guarded, expect hostiles. They turned again, left this time, and found several armed guards standing watch in the hallway. The helicopter will be at the drop point at precisely 0300 hours, not one second before. The solider found the door in question and knocked in perfect sequence, allowing their unquestioned entry. Inside they found only two people, another solider and a bloodied, shackled prisoner. They both turned to watch as the third person entered the room.

"Друже, ја сам за следећи смену. (Comrade, I do the next hours)." The newest solider said, a husky but light tone coming from the capped solider.

"добро, он каже да је моја жена спава са нашим комшија.Сандук за кафу. А ако ја одем кући сада ћу их ухватити на њега." The man took a long hard look at the broken man hanging beside him, "Знао сам! Знао сам да се нешто дешава (good, he says that my wife is sleeping with our next-door neighbor. The coffin maker. And if I go home now I'll catch them at it. I knew it! I knew there was something going on!)!" The solider dropped his metal pipe and ran from the room, determined to catch his unfaithful wife. Silence followed in his absence and the other solider quickly checked their watch before moving towards the prisoner.

"Sherlock Holmes?" The solider quietly asked, masculine undertones all but forgotten. "Can you walk?" The world's greatest detective was too tired to be taken aback and simply nodded his head, dribble falling from his slacked mouth. The solider took a long key from her pocket and made quick work of the cuffs stretching the man across the room. She caught him securely as he fell and helped him take reprieve upon his knees. "You have 60 seconds to rest before we have to make our move out of here. Do you understand?" Again he nodded, exhaustion and relief washing over him.

"W-who are y-y..." He struggled to speak, weakened from the intensity of the beatings he had been given. The woman wiped blood and spit from his mouth and shushed him reassuringly.

"You're safe now Mr. Holmes, Mycroft sent me. I'm to bring you home." She checked his watch again and snaked her arm across his lower back, being careful not to disturb the whipping lashes that bled out against his ivory skin. She hoisted him up, finding him shocking light for a man of his size, and dragged him from the torture room. She took them past several unconscious bodies as they made way for the emergency exit. Sherlock, determined to remain awake until he was sure of his freedom, counted them. Eleven or so, he gathered, until the sound of helicopter wings and the cool night air distracted him. He used the last of his energy to turn his head, wanting to take full stock of his rescuer, but his gaze fell short as the helicopter took off and his exhaustion finally overcame his desire for answers.

X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X

Sherlock sat in his brothers' barber chair, in his secret, underground office.

"A thank you wouldn't go amiss."

"What for?" Sherlock seethed, shooing the barber away. He struggled to sit up, his injuries still smarting as they healed.

"For wading in. In case you've forgotten, service work is not my natural milieu."

"Wading in? You let me rot in there for days, exhausted, getting beaten to a pulp." Mycroft rolled his eyes, ever wary of his younger brothers dramatic antics.

"I got you out."

"No, the solider got me out!" He snapped quickly before remembering. "And who the hell was that in the first place?" Mycroft's eyes seemed to sparkle in a certain mischievous way, as if rethinking a private joke.

"Ah yes... her." His voice was pointed, cunning, and he pressed a button on his desk "Send her in." Sherlock rolled his eyes and waited, silently fuming at his brother and imagining using his large head for certain important experiments. The door was opened and a strange woman stepped through, nodding in respect towards both Holmes' brothers. "Sherlock, might I introduce Vanessa Pedrad. She's the solider who saved you from that Serbian hell-hole." The woman extended her arm forward, a worn palm facing the middle in a gesture of good will. Sherlock fixed the appendage a quizzical stare before following the length of it upward.

"It's a pleasure to meet you again Mr. Holmes." Her accent was British, but he felt wary of it, confused in a way. Her skin was an absolute olive dark, and with her facial features and body shape he gathered middle eastern or Franco-mix.

"Vanessa is an invaluable member of MI-6. I recruited her myself." Her face was sharp, with a long, shapely nose that turned down at the tip, thick brows and prominent cheek bones, though they were not as taunt as his. He furrowed a brow upon reaching her eyes, slightly off-put by what he found. Brown eyes held his gaze attentively between two sets of full black lashes coated in light mascara. They were distant, calculating not unlike her tight-lipped smile. Sherlock hesitantly lifted his right arm to shake hers once and felt the calluses in her hand, built from a lifetime of weapon training and one very specific tradition. "I've also hired her to be your own personal body guard."

"What?!" Sherlock's neck nearly snapped with the force which he turned to glare at Mycroft.

"I can't have you in another life or death situation with a psychopath. You got lucky with Moriarty, lucky to have escaped with such little damage, collateral or otherwise. It cannot happen again."

"So you've seen fit to give me a babysitter." Mycroft scoffed.

"Please Brother, don't insult me. Miss Pedrad is an extremely skilled and intelligent agent, not a nanny. Her job is to keep you and your loved ones safe. You'll hardly even notice she's there."

"I don't need a body guard. Everyone thinks I'm dead." Sherlock was seconds away from challenging Mycroft to a boxing match, his injuries be dammed.

"Not for long Sherlock. And apart from undiscovered terrorist cells and the usual London rabble, you've earned yourself a rather large gathering of fans. You're a celebrity now and will need extra protection."

"Damnit Mycroft, I don't need—"

"If I may," Vanessa interrupted the squabbling brothers, determined to set this right and get out of the underground. "I have no intention of slowing down or hindering your work in any way, Mr. Holmes. On the contrary, I would find it extremely satisfying if I were able to assist as you continued on your path of helping others. I've read all about your extraordinary gifts on Dr. John Watson's blog and I am very honored to be chosen as your charge." Sherlock stared at Vanessa, trying to unnerve her stoically pleasant façade so he could read more. But since his looks did nothing he felt a more verbal approach might work.

"I don't need you." He seethed, bearing his white teeth. "I don't want you. I don't associate with killers." She took a small breath, cracking just slightly. "And you, Miss Pedrad, are most certainly a killer. I can see it in your dead eyes. How many, hm?" He was lashing out, despising the fact that he had virtually no control over the situation. Mycroft narrowed his eyes in shame. "Five? Ten? Twenty or more?"

"Sherlock." Mycroft warned sternly.

"Can you even remember? Can you recall what they looked like? The sounds they made when you pulled the trigger that ended their lives?"

"Enough Sherlock." Vanessa did not look away from his cold, green eyes. Instead she widened her smile, showing him her own white teeth.

"I remember everything Mr. Holmes." She broke eye contact for a second to nod respectively at Mycroft before returning to Sherlock's cold stare. "It was so pleasant to finally meet you. I'll see you in London, Mr. Holmes."