Plain Jane
I feel so plain Jane...
I have no costume,
I have no hairdo,
Limited attitude...
But I can blend in,
With the best of them,
Bring me a crowd and
Let me get lost within...
-Chantal Kreviazuk – Plain Jane
…xXx…
It had been like this for nearly half her life.
Being a face in the crowd, that is. Having the power to change skins, to adapt a whole new personality. Become someone infinitely more interesting. A monster of a woman perhaps, yearning for her fifth cigarette of the day. Or, if the case called for it, a sweet little thing. Someone innocent, save for a few mysterious scars. Anyhow, in the end it was all the same. It was deception, pure and simple.
...Oh, how addicting it was.
…xXx…
John walked into the building at a quarter to eight, just as she had for the last nine months. It was a dirty little shack, basically in the middle of nowhere. The walls smelt of rot and there was a distinct feeling of unease about the area. This part of town was dirt poor.
It was easy to see how her latest target, a corrupt inspector, had thought this a safe spot to conduct business. Generally, any sane person would attempt to stay far, far away from this house. Luckily, John wasn't exactly sane. With a smirk, she picked up her pace and made her way to the back door. Nine months, eleven days, and a year or so in planning was ending today. This hadn't been her favourite assignment by any stretch of the imagination. Steeling herself once more, she opened her mouth and shut down 'John'.
"Yo, hey, Mikey. Open up, why don'cha."
The door opened with gusto, revealing a man in a beyond worn suit. He took one look at the blonde hair and stepped aside.
"Liz. Nice ta seeya. Listen, the boys over there gotta talk things over, yea? Looks like a problems comin' up. You know what he's like." John nodded, keeping her movements sharp and irritated. In a couple of long strides she reached the couch and plopped down on it, playing idly with a strand of her hair. She glanced to the calendar that had been hanging there since she had arrived. It read 1948, over two years old. It was a sick reminder that this man had skipped his duties. He'd escaped an honourable life of fear and fighting for a coward's life of much the same.
As if to prove her point, the room beside her began to grow loud in an argument. Within five minutes, the muffled yells had evolved into what sounded like a poorly executed fist-fight. Glass shattered.
Silence.
John looked up, a bored expression plastered on her face. She uncrossed her legs.
"You all done in there, hon?"
His head popped out from the door, hair mussed from the struggle. A smile, much like that of a sharks, overtook his face. John forced herself to stand, swinging her hips as she practically stalked toward him.
"Liz." His voice was gruff, but it lacked its usual edge. Oh, yes. He was in deep.
"Cause if ya are...can we have..." She slinked up close, grabbing the collar of his trashy suit and pulling him in. "...some fun?" A deep breath was released from the man. At her beck and call, as always. It didn't seem to bother him that he'd probably just disabled a man, or that she'd literally just walked into the room. This was how they were, how they'd always been.
It was exactly how John had intended.
"Sure, sounds...good. Yea. Mikey. Take care of the skunk." They walked toward the room, the back room, where many tortuous hours had been spent. John gripped her purse. This had to be perfect.
At first, the room was blessedly dark. It was almost peaceful like this. In the absence of sight, she could almost forget. Then, harsh light illuminated the space. The furniture was visible, the wallpaper still its ratty self. In less than half an hour, she would never see this place again.
Together, they moved toward the bed. She was handled roughly, hands thrown above her body. Still, she clutched her purse with almost a desperate strength. His head slid down to her neck, leaving hateful bite marks.
With purposeful movements, the purse was unlatched. It made a small noise, a soft clicking sound, but not enough to alert the man who was currently violating her. Very slowly, a pair of silver handcuffs were taken out.
Right. Only one chance at getting this, then.
John lifted her hands minutely, praying the cold metal wouldn't come into contact with his skin before she cuffed him. It didn't.
Dimmock was still very much distracted with her neck.
He was murmuring things, perhaps half baked declarations of undying love. She highly doubted those would last after this was all over. Hopefully not.
Concentrate. Recall your training. The plan that lead you here. Deductions of a master sort, set out in front of her like the plot of a fairytale. He chose you for this, because he knew you could do it. He knows you can, because he never would have taken that chance if he had not. She took a deep breath in.
Her hands didn't shake as the cuffs wrapped around his pale wrists. They clicked with a suttle sound. It was the end of one's freedom, and the start of another's (for however temporary that may be).
…xXx…
For a couple of seconds there had only been silence. A soft sort of nothingness, filled with the sound of breathing.
Then, confusion.
Hands tried to free themselves, clashing against the headboard. He grew more and more frantic in his efforts as time went on, within a minute he had rubbed his wrists raw. It was useless though, as the cuffs had been linked through the headboard. There was no escaping that, unless he had decided to break the thing. John knew firsthand that he wasn't strong enough anyway.
"W..." His voice shook, panic evident. It was fear for her, someone he trusted. Someone he loved.
Someone he really didn't know.
"What are ya doin', doll?" John didn't open her mouth. Instead, she rolled from underneath him and landed on the floor. Standing up, she wondered just how many seconds it would take for him to piece it all together. Maybe minutes, he wasn't the brightest of men.
"Liz? Com'on. Hon. Just, just tell me what's goin' on here." Another useless pull at the cuffs. "Wow. These...These are real. Huh. Why do you have these? Liz." A short silence. It didn't last. "Fuckin' look at me, Liz!" he screeched. She complied.
"I'm sorry, who?"
She watched his face as he noticed. Her voice was different, almost an octave deeper. The accent was gone, replaced with a decidedly British one. Yet he still didn't get it. What a dense man. Was common sense extinct?
By now, Dimmock was in an absolute panic. His breath was ragged, his eyes wide. The cops were supposed to be here approximately two minutes ago.
"You, you better tell me. Tell me what's going on Liz. They...They'll hear me screamin'. Mikey will-"
"Mikey has other things to worry about at the moment. Now, if you wouldn't mind, do shut the bloody hell up. You're giving me a headache."
For a few seconds, he sputtered uselessly. Predictably, (and regrettably) the silence ended not a minute later. He was much more handsome with his mouth shut.
"You owe me an explanation. After..." His voice broke for a second, and if John hadn't heard it hundreds of times she would have felt a genuine twinge of guilt. "...After all we've been through, all the things you said, all the fuckin' things you did..." More silence, perhaps as Dimmock gathered his wits. "I...you told me you...I trusted-"
"You shouldn't have. The smartest people out there are the ones with trust issues." John let out a deep breath as Dimmock kicked the bed in frustration.
Where was Henry? He should have been here by now. The adrenaline that had died down not minutes ago started to build once more. Something must have gone wrong down the line.
Dimmock continued to kick at the bed. John wished she could do something less futile with her time, but could think of nothing that might help the 'situation'. If there was one, anyway. The whole thing could have been irrational panic, although how irrational that panic was could be debatable. Still, staying here was the best bet for now.
Right.
John had never been particularly good at waiting. In fact, some had called her impatient. But if Dimmock somehow got away...No, she wasn't about to waste this much effort because of some paranoia. That's why she was good at her job. John could follow orders. That's all they wanted from her, and that's all they ever got.
It was easier this way, too. Having someone make all the choices alleviated all of the guilt. Nothing was your fault. Because really, it was never up to you anyways.
(Only the guilt doesn't vanish. It doesn't go away, and it certainly doesn't disappear.)
So, John continued to wait. Because although she did carry some guilt, it was still greatly diminished. This wasn't murder after all. This was sitting in a cramped, rotting bedroom, waiting for a cop to show up and take away the person who had been her lover for the past seven months, because really, the whole thing had just been one big police bust that needed somebody to be on the inside. John had just happened to be that somebody.
…xXx…
The police did arrive, about twenty minutes later. Henry's appearance explained it all. He wore a black eye and a red-stained shirt. She'd have to take a look at that later. For now though, it was time to return to 'base'. The place that her and her co-workers (she used that term loosely) lived and worked while not on an assignment. It was the closest thing to a home that any of them ever got.
The ride there always carried a bittersweet feeling to it. Letting go of an entire person, letting go of yourself, wasn't easy. It was all so sudden that the change was made, from Liz back to John...God, how many characters had she played? 'John' was starting to slip away. Only her memories kept her grounded, and many of those she wished to forget anyway. Following this train of thought, she sat back and let the train carry her away.
Upon arriving, John saw that the building itself was perfectly intact. The bombings had taken away none of its majesty, and on a whole everyone had escaped unharmed. It really must have been a miracle, a place like this seemed to have a target on it. Even more so because of Mycroft.
The Blitz had caused a certain strain on the building and its inhabitants. The iceman himself had been absent most of the time, who knows where. It just lead to more rumours of his suspected poweress. John hadn't been here either as the city went under attack. She'd been in that stupid little shack with that stupid little man. She wasn't sure which one she preferred, but as luck would have it neither were hit.
The total area of London hadn't been so lucky. It was a mess. Roofs had fallen, entire buildings destroyed. Roads were out of commission (not like anyone could afford cars)...it was bad. They were going to need a lot of money to fix it. Money they did not have.
When they got off the train and into the building Henry gestured for her to follow him. Nothing had changed; the walls were still adorned with copious decorations. It made the entire building look like a castle. She held in a snort – it was a popular joke here that their boss was more like a king than a business worker. Or a government official. Nobody seemed to have a very clear idea of what he did outside the organization. Whatever it was, it probably had a great national importance. People like Mycroft Holmes didn't have boring jobs.
Her room, down three corridors and to the left, had been designed in a similar manner. She had insisted on ridding the room of all 'frills'. It had taken about two weeks to do just that, and another week for John to decide that Mycroft's men had an odd definition of 'frills' and redo the decorations herself. Now all that remained was a bed (too big), a table (too detailed), and a few personal objects. The room looked empty now, but it was far better suited to her than it had been.
They ended up walking past it and into the kitchen. Chefs buzzed around at all hours of the day, and today was no exception. There was probably going to be a feast tonight, in congratulations of a job well done. John may complain about many things here, but the food wasn't one of them. She found herself looking forward to the meal. The cuisine she had eaten for the last half year had been...sub-par to say the least.
Through the kitchen was the entrance to the private rooms. There were nineteen in total, each having a different design and purpose. Rumour had it that some famous guests had stayed here. For all John knew, they could still be in the rooms. Personally, she had only been in them twice. They had made her own room (prior to the renovations) look pitifully plain.
Past them was a long hallway. It was tripped with many fail-safe gates and security technology galore. John suspected the reason for the long route was also for added security. Although, someone would have to be either freakishly smart or pitifully stupid to mess with Mycroft. A complicated floor plan wouldn't exactly stop the former.
Upon actually reaching the room, John saw Henry take a quick breath. He was right to be nervous, Mycroft would be furious that his team messed up. His rage, more than anyone else's, was something to fear. Personally, John didn't worry herself with Mycroft (nearly to a fault). With familiarity came contempt.
The door opened without as much as a squeak. This room was one of the less ordinate ones, thank god. Compared the other spaces Mycroft was said to inhabit, this one showed more obvious signs of wear. He did most of his office work here, which was most of his life. Not many people saw him when he wasn't working, if he ever actually stopped. Once though, John had caught him casually flipping through a book. It had come as quite a shock, honestly.
Currently he sat behind his desk. He looked as if he owned the world, with that unchanging smile plastered on his face. Of course it was completely fake. Not many people would be able to tell, but someone like her (who had spent the brunt of her life lying) wouldn't be fooled for a second.
"Oh, if it isn't John and Henry. How are you two? Comfortable, I hope. You have just taken down one of the most corrupt figures in London; I expect that you are treated to all that we have to offer." Mycroft's voice fluctuated in a teasing manner. It was as contemptuous as one could get without being overtly rude.
"We just got here. This place hasn't changed at all." John lifted her hand and did a quick check for dust. "Spotless, as always."
"Of course." The man sounded a bit too pleased with that comment, as if there was an inside joke to it. "And Henry. How are you doing?" His voice seemed to adapt a bit of venom as he turned his attention away from John. A snake about to strike.
"I'm fine, sir." Henry was starting to shake, which was unfortunate for him. Mycroft could smell fear.
"It was a dog, yes? Pity that was. I've heard rumours, you see. I myself am not one to put much faith in the babble of the commons, but it seems this one has a grain of truth to it." He crossed his legs, smile still in place. "Henry, you simply must get over your highly irrational fear."
"Sir...if I may, it's not-...it wasn't irrational. My fa-"
"Yes, yes. Your poor father. I have files on this. Such a shame, a waste of a good worker. You are too. With this, you are a waste of a perfectly good worker. One of more importance than your father could have even imagined." He clasped his hands, leaning forward on his desk to look Henry in the eyes. "We cannot let this continue, Henry. Do you understand?"
Henry nodded.
"Good, good. Mistakes have been made on both sides." An elegant hand lifted up, flicking towards the door. "Henry, you may go now."
The man practically tore out of the room. He wasn't very emotionally stable even at his best, which was a genuine shame.
"That man acts like a rabbit sometimes, I swear. John, come over here and hand me the evidence. I trust you still have it?"
Now that it was just them in the room, Mycroft loosened up a bit. It seemed strange to admit it, considering the circumstances, but after spending 16 years with the man they had grown...closer. Well, that might not be the right word. Perhaps 'less formal with each other' would be a better fit.
She handed him the purse. Inside was the billing information she had found tucked inside of Dimmock's pillow cover, as well as some of his more commonly used items.
"Found these on his desk. That one," she pointed to a small wooden figure in the shape of a woman, "sounds hollow. There could be something in it."
"Hm, yes. I'll send it to the specialists. They should be able to find anything it has to offer."
Mycroft lifted the small statue up, weighing it in his hand. After about thirty seconds of utter silence, he deposited it in his desk drawer. She decided now was a good time to attempt an escape.
"Is that it then?" John really hoped he would dismiss her. She just wanted to go to her room and sleep. It was already turning out to be a long day. Sadly, it seemed as if her luck would continue.
"Don't sound so impatient to be rid of me. I must admit that this last assignment of yours had more to do with... A trial, shall we say."
John blinked. A trial? As in a test? For what? What could Mycroft possibly want with her that he couldn't have 'Anthea' do? She voiced her concerns, but was silenced by a lifted hand.
"We'll talk about it more in the morning. For now, fill out your paperwork. We both know how long it takes you if you don't finish it the first day." The mountain of paperwork he handed her was beyond impossible to finish in one day. She sighed and grabbed a nearby pen. It looked as if she wouldn't be leaving this room for a while.
Mycroft's smile, although still rigid, seemed to soften.
…xXx…
It was three o'clock when she finished. Considering she had started at eight in the afternoon, it had taken almost no time at all. Ink stains ran up her arms and her hands felt as if they might fall off, but that was just collateral damage.
Mycroft acknowledged John's small accomplishment with a distracted nod in her direction. With that done, she was free for another five or so hours. Then Mycroft wanted to...talk. Really, that was never a good thing. Best to sleep while she had the chance.
After what seemed like a twenty minute walk back to her room John collapsed onto her bed.
It was odd. It felt like the first time she had seen this place in years. A lifetime ago, she supposed. With a wry sigh, she curled herself around one of her many pillows.
It would be a while before she fell asleep.
...xXx...
If things had went according to Johns plans, she would be sound asleep right now. At around two o'clock (in the afternoon), she would rise to eat some of the food that had been prepared for her. It would, of course, taste delicious. After that, John would meet with Sarah and Mary (hopefully avoiding Irene) and catch up.
However, things don't go according to John's plans. Ever.
Currently, John was awake. Barely though, as she had no doubt gotten less than three hours sleep.
Urgh.
Mycroft had made good on his word to 'talk' with her. Of course he had, that man couldn't miss an appointment if he tried. If this caused John to miss her celebration dinner, then there would be hell to pay.
"Good morning. You slept well?" the words were spoken cheerfully, and John hated him for how well-rested he looked. She could hardly believe he had been awake as long as she had.
"Three hours is never a 'good sleep'." she shook her head, fighting the urge to yawn. "Now, why did you call me here? Couldn't it have waited till, I don't know, noon?"
Mycroft shook his head, giving off a disappointed aura.
"As much as I would love to cater to your sleep schedule, I am a busy man. I can't simply cancel a meeting to propose something like this."
"What's this proposal? Out with it, Mycroft. I'm tired and hungry." her feet were starting to hurt as well, but she thought it for the best that she didn't include that in her speech.
"You know who Irene is, correct? More importantly, do you know what she does?" his face was setting back into that slimy grin again. Johns self preservation instinct flared up, and she gave a nod of understanding. In return Mycroft tilted his head.
Go ahead, it read.
"She's also a live-in, but permanent..." she hesitated. Generally, John tended to avoid Irene as much as she possibly could. That woman was poisonous. "Ah, with that Moriarty one, right?"
Mycroft gave a nod to the affirmative.
" Yes... That 'Moriarty one'. One of, if not the most, dangerous criminal in England. Irene was a guinea pig of sorts. So far, it has worked remarkably well. The man doesn't suspect a thing."
"Mycroft, you can't be serious. I just came back. Not even a day ago."
Her mouth pulled back into grimace as she spoke. This was insane. A normal wait period between assignments could be seven months.
"Not now, obviously. But I'm glad you're following. I suppose you're thinking, 'why me', yes?"
"No, I'm thinking this is bloody murder! I haven't even had time to call my sister! I haven't had time to eat! I am not going out again."
Well, that's what she said. But really, if Mycroft wanted something then there was little that could stop him.
"Calm down. You'll have all the time in the world to call Harry. Just mull it over for now. Remember, we chose you for a reason." he kept saying that. John figured it was a hint at something, so she took the bait.
"All right. Why?"
Mycroft's eyes lit up. Fantastic, she could already tell what was coming next. Complete objectification. He had a truly awe inspiring talent for taking the skills and talents of others and somehow making them 'his'. Someone needed to get it into his head that working for him didn't equal being owned by him. John certainly wasn't going to be that person.
"We have an amazing talent in you, John. I once asked you how you were able to stretch the truth so convincingly. What you told me changed the way I thought. John, you manipulate your emotions. You don't tell lies, you tell fanciful stories that you can feel. No lie detector can stop that, and no human could ever guess. Not even me."
"You're joking. You've known every time I've lied to you."
John still remembered lying in bed, pretending to be asleep while Mycroft walked near her door. Somehow the man always knew she was awake. God, that was such a long time ago. She must have been around thirteen at the time. Almost sixteen years had passed...though she couldn't say it'd flown by. At all.
"Yes, but there are many ways of spotting a bluff. It wasn't how you told your story, but what your story entailed. That, of course, is eliminated by my presence. A fool-proof back story is easy for me to provide."
John couldn't say anything to that. It was true she based her work on her memories. When she was sad, she would think of her parents. When happy, she'd think of a joke between her and Sarah. Anger was the one thing she never really had to focus on, it seemed readily available whenever the case called for it. Though, if she ever really needed to, the man in front of her would make a fine model.
"When... If I do decide to do this, when would I start researching him?" She was beyond wary, but if Mycroft was set on it...
"Ah, another perk to your job. You don't have to, or rather, you won't be allowed to." He stood up, grabbing his ever-present umbrella. "Before you voice your obvious confusion, which I know you will, listen to me. This man, he's on the same playing field as Moriarty. He's usually able to tell when someone's lying within twenty-point-eight seconds."
"You've timed him."
"I've had plenty of opportunity. The point is, this man looks at body language to tell him the truth. He relies on the physical signs that betray the mind- far too much."
This was all coming together. John wasn't stupid, she understood why Mycroft had chosen her for this. It didn't mean that she wanted to do it.
"Fine. When does this start?"
" Oh, good. I was hoping you'd agree." John rolled her eyes. Mycroft had to have known she'd give in. It wasn't as if she had any choice in the matter, anyway. "You can start in a month. That should be a reasonable amount of time."
John nodded. It would have to do. For now, the best she could do was try to forget this whole conversation.
"Well, I look forward to having you deal with him." He tilted his head in the direction of the door, clearing his throat. "Now go. I know you've been dying to attend to the feast they're throwing. Don't let me hold you back any longer."
She turned, quickly leaving the room. In that one exchange, a new path had been laid out for her. It was slightly exciting, and perhaps that was the reason she'd been so agreeable. Honestly, with the assignments she had been put on lately things had been pretty boring. The adrenaline rush that she needed and craved was becoming more and more scarce. If this bloke was anything like Moriarty, then life with him would be anything but boring.
John both dreaded and anticipated it- and only time would tell which emotion was correct.
AN:
Hey guys : )
This is a Fem!John AU set in the early 1950's. I apologize for the horrible speech...it's totally not in character for the time period. Feel free to make suggestions.
So, I kept Johns name. I figure, Harry is Harry so John can be John.
And I'd love to hear what you think about this, so maybe review? It would make me jump up and down in my computer chair. I'll also update faster if I don't think it's crap, haha! At this point, I don't know what to think about it.
Oh, and if anyone reading this is somehow on the small island of PEI, message me! I'm there on vacation and I'd love to meet up with someone around my age (I'm a teen) that shares my Sherlock obsession…. love. Not that older fans aren't awesome and cool, but y'know.
Thanks for reading, and have an un-boring day : )