The halls were quiet. Unbearably quiet for most, but the purpose of it was that it was very much needed among the frequent visitors who were all about as dark and wooden as the building's interior. It also helped that none of its visitors were quite social. Or at least not when they didn't need to be. Even a cough or sniffle was incredibly out of place and were grounds for removal from the premises. It may have sounded harsh but the need for all this was significant.
People didn't come here to be reminded of the outside world. They came here to be alone with their thoughts. One would occasionally read a book or newspaper provided the turning of the pages was not to be too loud for others to handle. Many of the visitors knew each other but they either already worked in close enough contact where further interaction was not necessary, or they were enemies even in the public's eye. It was for the sake of everyone that interaction was not allowed.
The club for men who would absolutely hate even the idea of being in any other society in London, the Diogenes Club usually comprised of some of the most prestigious men in all of the highest positions in every field you could imagine. The only difference between them and those in other institutions were their social habits. The club was not exclusive to intelligent, powerful people, although you would think otherwise if you recognized its members.
One room, however, differed from the others in terms of social etiquette. Looking like a library in an old mansion, a few leather chairs and mahogany tables were strewn about. A main desk at the center of it was usually tidy when it was not in use. A crystal decanter set was situated in the corner, always filled to the brim in a £300 bottle of scotch, although it was hardly ever touched unless a stressful situation arose. When business and politics did exist in this building, this is where it would take place. This was the Stranger's Room. And it was the only place members of the Diogenes Club could speak to one another.
This was where many called home, but none more than one of the club's cofounders, Mycroft Holmes, who haunted these walls like a well-dressed gentleman looking to have a cup of tea in peace. He now sat in the Stranger's Room with a plethora of files in front of him on the desk, wearing a suit so black the only part that made you feel slightly optimistic upon meeting him was the blue tie with yellow umbrellas on it. He used the Stranger's Room more than any of the other members, making him by far the most sociable. His job called for social skills, but none of them casual, for his occupation was unlike any in the entire world. Despite CFO's, parliament members, even royalty belonging to the Diogenes Club, none were more powerful and more intelligent than Mycroft Holmes. And the Stranger's Room is where many of his world-changing ideas came into being. Here he sat on most days saving lives: the unsung hero of England. Today, though, was different. Today he sat across another; one who had not been in these halls for many years.
She sat in the aged brown leather club chair, her legs crossed her brows furrowed and head tilted as she absorbed page by page of one of the many files Mycroft had presented her with. Tiny beads of sweat spread across her forehead caused from the roaring fire on the side of the room. She'd have taken her blazer off if she had even noticed her body was trying to tell her something. It was too trivial to have mattered at that moment. Even most murders seemed somewhat trivial compared to the documents in these files.
She had just finished her notes on the first of the dozens of files when the door to the room flew open and in stormed an unexpected visitor. He was tall and lanky with sharp facial features and keen eyes that looked as if they were somewhere else entirely.
She had barely lifted her pen off the legal pad when he threw his long coat off into the corner and began in his rage. "This is the last time I consult to anyone but Lestrade! Despite my international notoriety and flawless record these 'detective inspectors' that barely find their keys every morning have the audacity to wait several hours, sometimes even days to ask for a consultation. At that point they might as well have had all the neighbor's kids have a go at solving the crime and contaminating the crime scene while they're at it," his baritone voice vociferated furiously. Mycroft could just barely look up and let out an exasperated sigh before the man went on pacing back and forth and starting to explain his arduous adventure.
"A murder, of course. All the money and jewelry in the safe were stolen in a professor's mansion in Kent. Apparently his secretary caught the thief but was murdered by some woman, according to his dying words. Only a pair of broken eyeglasses lay nearby – the murderer's glasses, of course. A thinly paved walkway with no footprints outside of the pavement, which would have been visible as it had rained two nights ago. All this they told me a full day after they investigated and found nothing. A few hours earlier Detective Hopkins called to tell me-"
"She had escaped. The thief and murderer had been hiding in the house all along," Mycroft finished as if he were stating it was raining outside. "If she had left there would have been tracks in the mud next to the walkway as she couldn't see that well without her glasses. She was hidden by staff, a fellow co-conspirator, I assume?"
"The maid," the other man grimaced. "I could have easily deduced this had they contacted me right away. Instead they waited until the next day when the maid could easily have snuck out with her friend. They've contacted Interpol but I doubt they'll be caught." The man let out a furious sigh as he stopped pacing in front of the window. He stood there a while looking out into the dusky night before finally snapping his fingers toward Mycroft's companion, still gazing outwards. "I'll have a coffee, black, two sugars."
She raised her eyebrows and looked at Mycroft, who clasped his hands and leaned back in his chair. He knew this was not going to end well. For whom though, he wasn't certain. The woman was his protégé, and the man was his intelligent younger brother.
Her response to his demand was quietly sitting there, staring back at him with a curious expression. The silence finally built in the room to the point where the other man realized no one had yet moved. At this point he turned around to look at the woman who he had just addressed, and his confused, slightly agitated facial expression changed to one of understanding.
"You must be the other Holmes brother. I have to confess I am not in the slightest impressed by your observation skills," she admitted coolly. Her voice was soft and quiet, as if she were directing a meditation course.
He took a deep breath in and stood up straighter, buttoning the top button on his blazer. And that's when he finally decided to have a good look.
A hardened face. Perfect posture. A muscular build. All of it pointing to combat experience. Her long dark hair fell around her face, no strand out of place. Very minimal amount of makeup on. Her job required her to be presented to other people, but not for her looks. Her dark hair had a few streaks of grey in it. Not many, but for her youthful face, definitely off. Either genetic or stress-related. Most likely both. And there was, of course, the fact that she had no inkling of who he was. She clearly had not been reading any newspapers in this country. Or even abroad, as most newspapers had begun to write about this crime-solving genius. She had not only been out of this country but out of many first world countries.
He tried to read more off of her, perhaps the pinstripe pantsuit, the military-like demeanor, anything, but got nothing.He furrowed his brow. There should be more. Why isn't there more? And then it hit him. She's trying. She trying not to be deduced, if she can help it. She's erasing any clue that might set anyone off, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. People had done it before. But they usually made mistakes. It was difficult fooling the world's greatest detective. How did she do it? What was he missing?
And then it hit him. He raised his head and looked at Mycroft who sat there looking as smug as ever.
He helped her. He is helping her. This is his favorite. This is his protégé. She's one of his government operatives.
He cleared his throat and looked confidently back at her. "I…I thought you were his assistant."
"Of course," she calmly stated, taking hold of the crystal scotch glass in front of her. "Kassandra."
"Not your real name, obviously," he declared before pulling over one of the chairs previously set aside and sat down.
"Obviously," she affirmed, taking the slightest of sips and setting aside her glass.
"Sherlock Holmes," he distractedly stated as his eyes started scanning over the documents on the table.
It was at this point Mycroft interjected. "What are you doing here, Sherlock?" he asked through gritted teeth as he tried to close any open files.
"Ranting," sighed Sherlock. "John's away on his honeymoon and I'm apparently prevented from ensuring justice."
Mycroft snorted in laughter. "Since when do you care about justice?"
"Well, it's either that or-"
"Drugs," she finished, already scanning through another file on the table. "Hardly surprising. Not many other alternatives to distract a heavily stimulated mind." Mycroft raised his eyebrows in mild amusement. This was far more excitement than this clubhouse seen since Margaret Thatcher's membership.
Sherlock turned back to her with the slightest of glares and narrowed his eyes. "I was going to say meddle in my dear brother's affairs. Someone has to prevent him for advancing British imperialism."
"Sherlock!" Mycroft irritably intervened, all traces of merriment gone from his face. "While I sympathize that your pet is out of town, I'm afraid you'll have to find accompaniment elsewhere. We are in the middle of a highly delicate matter that requires our utmost attention, and this is the last time and place your childishness is appreciated."
Kassandra observed the conversation with curiosity. Although it felt like a personal familial argument that she shouldn't have been present for, she couldn't help but examine the captivating social study. Judging by the imperious look on Mycroft's face, he still thought of his brother as a child that had much to learn. Sherlock's contemptuous face showed that he thought Mycroft would never be satisfied by whatever he may accomplish. And none of this was said with words. In fact, the room remained incredibly quiet and still until Sherlock finally stood up.
"Very well then. I…erm…apologize," he stammered out, although it was more to me than to Mycroft. And with a nod and a flourish of his long coat, he had left the room, leaving behind a baffled Mycroft.
"I apologize for my brother," he sighed with a forced smile. It was clear that it was neither the first nor last time he had to apologize for his brother. "Now, where were we?" He spread out the files some more, shuffling through them. "If you'll direct your attention to the main file…" He flipped through them repeatedly, looking more and more bemused with each wrong file.
She figured it out before he did. Or at least it seemed that way. Perhaps he was just hoping for the best. Now he sat back in his chair, fingers massaging his temples as if the world's biggest migraine had flown in with a billowing coat.
"Get some rest, Mycroft. I'll handle this."
