Miss Holmes

Summary: There's another Holmes sibling, one that went AWOL years ago into the dark abyss of secret field work. Mycroft pulls her from the shadows to retrieve Sherlock from Serbia and assist with the terrorist threat. Except Cecilia Scarlett Holmes possesses a secret neither Holmes brother ever dreamed of deducing; one that could harm them all, deeply and permanently.

Story Notes: This story came to mind when I started thinking about the missing scenes from Season 3 and how Mycroft Holmes seemed OOC retrieving Sherlock from Serbia. The man barely braves London rain without his umbrella for goodness sakes. Also, his mentioning to another sibling in HLV. I know he said brother, but the dynamics of a Holmes sister intrigued me far more. Some things have my own twist on them, since TV shows can be very unrealistic. This takes place through the course of Season 3. Most of the plot is changed, but some parts include almost word-for-word dialogue from the characters. Therefore, I'd like to make clear I don't own Sherlock. I already have about five chapters written for this story, so expect an update in about a week.

"Don't be absurd. I'm not accustomed to outbursts of brotherly compassion. You know what happened to the other one."

-Mycroft Holmes, HLV

CHAPTER 1

- Barcelona, Spain -

Adrenaline coursed through every cell, fueling every deep breath and lightning step. The streets of the overcrowded Spanish city seemed endless, her target turning at every possible alleyway. She darted after him, close on his heels. Shouting in Spanish, she warned people of the rapid chase of two armed people plowing through the streets of Barcelona. It was useless; they were too slow and stupid to move out of the way. She slammed into innocent bystanders, throwing them to side and continuing her fast pace. The thrill of the chase consumed every vein, a religion she thrived off of. Past every yellow colored apartment building, every unique architectural piece of Gaudí's, her lungs screamed and heart pounded. The target, Aarón Martín, surprised her with his athletic ability to still be running. Sprinting, actually.

Her pure black outfit, pale skin, and gun holster stood out unnaturally under the Spanish sun. She despised being so exposed like this. She worked in shadows, in the darkness of secrets, under-the-table deals, and clean executions. This wasn't how this day was supposed to go.

It was a simple enough mission. Find the Spanish MI6 agent who was making rogue decisions and compromising secure files of the Royal government. It was supposed to be a quick, easy bullet. But since when was anything in her life easy?

The dirty streets reeked of sewer. Even when they had booked it past the cathedral. She was ready to leave Spain. If she could just catch Martín. It seemed her chance finally came when she took a sharp turn and found the agent backed up against a dead end. A smoke shop on one side, an abandoned tourist shop on the other. A couple rusty bikes leaned up against the brick building, next to rotting dumpsters. It didn't make for a very pleasant smell. Lines of clothes swayed in the slight breeze above them. It was oddly quiet here, hidden from the multitudes of tourists. Away from witnesses. Martín followed the same idea, 9mm Glock steady in his dark, sun-kissed hands. The barrel lined up with her heart.

"I know who you are," Martín snapped, Spanish accent dripping from every word. Born in the UK but parents of Spain, he resembled their features perfectly.

"Then you know why I'm here."

Dark brown eyes matched brilliant, almost transparent azul ones. "To kill me," Martín's finger found the trigger of his gun. Yet he didn't squeeze it.

"Of course. You've exposed MI6. You know the consequences," her Brit accent showed a hint of boredom. Unnecessary drama annoyed her. Most things annoyed her.

She sensed it before it happened. Martín pulled the trigger; she pulled it first. Two booms of thunder echoed in between the buildings, pounding into her eardrums. The gun felt like chocolate in her hand; warm, smooth, melting chocolate. A familiar sensation. He fell lifeless - she felt his bullet whizz pass and into the stone building opposite. Her bullet made a kill-shot causing blood to slowly drip from his mouth, lungs drowning in crimson.

"F-Fuck you," he coughed, blood staining his white button-up. "Miss Holmes."

Cecilia S. Holmes showed no emotion, placing both his and her guns in her holsters. By the time she was finished, his pulse faded into non-existence. It was a clean job, though she couldn't avoid the blood already staining the cobblestones beneath him. Pulling on some gloves, she dragged his body closer to the dumpster and hauled him inside. With the rats. Where he belonged.

Eyeing the clothes above, she crawled on to the top of the dumpster and onto a windowsill. She managed to reach the first string, grabbing a blue blouse and a pair of white jeans. Jumping off the dumpster containing her latest kill's body, Cecilia stripped in the alley, changing out of her "spy attire" and into more casual clothes. She pulled her hair up in a bun, then fiddled with the lock on the old tourist shop. Taking only a few seconds, she infiltrated the door and grabbed the first backpack and pair of sunglasses she saw. Returning the guns to her holsters and stuffing her clothes into the backpack, she left how she came and headed back onto the streets with a lazy swagger, pretending to be a brainless tourist awestruck at the city.

Part of being a secret agent was being able to disconnect your emotions and who you are in a second's notice. Turn into an entirely different person, with no resemblance of oneself. Having barely any human emotions to being with, Cecilia was very good at what she did. One of the best. She started at twenty-one, as soon as she could. Already having been out of the house for years, her connection with family weakened. Orphans always make the best agents. She considered herself one; little contact was made with her family in the last ten years.

In a mechanical manner, she took a new route to her hotel, cautious of following threats. Nothing roused her suspicion, and nobody gave her a double glance as she entered the hotel lobby and entered the elevator. A new staff was at the desk of the ibis Barcelona Santa Coloma; all the better for her. No one to remember her face.

The room was on the third floor, and Cecilia tapped her foot, impatient at the slow dullness of the universe. Her flight to Brazil left in five hours from the Barcelona airport, which in itself was an hour and a half away, at least. It wouldn't take long to pack; she wasn't one of sentiment and only carried light essentials. Plus customs always were a bitch, getting in and out. The MI6 badge pulled a few strings, but even then guns had to be checked. She planned to discreetly leave Martín's gun in the lobby or right outside in the street. Not a trace on her fingers were on the thing; no need to keep it.

Upon the ding of the elevator, she exited, took a sharp left then right to room 302. It was on the end of the corridor of white identical doors, next to a window. She paused for a moment, staring. It wasn't very pleasant on the streets, but now, with dusk painting vibrant streaks of red and purple across the sky and city starlight below, the city of Barcelona was magical. Her lip twitched on one side, resembling a touch of a smile before she inserted the keycard.

As soon as the door opened a sliver, she knew something was wrong. Cecilia knew the lights were turned off when she left. The maid wouldn't of come. So why the hell was the room illuminated?

Slipping her hand into her holster, she felt the familiar comfort of a gun inside her fingers. Gun at the ready, she kicked the door open.

What she was expecting were a couple of men in suits, maybe even spyware, guns anxious to return fire. Not this.

Not Mycroft bloody Holmes.

The eldest Holmes brother sat on the edge of the bed, in her bed, eyebrows raised at the hell of an entrance his sister just produced.

Although they conversed on the phone every now and again over some matter of national importance, a face-to-face conversation hadn't happened in years. He'd gained weight.

"For God's sake! What the hell are you doing here, you could compromise me!" she hissed, kicking the door shut behind her.

"Merry greetings to you too, sister mine," Mycroft smiled, rising to his full height.

"Skip the formalities. I have a plane to Brazil to catch. Whatever you need, request it quick," she glared.

"Little change of plans on that I'm afraid. The flight's been switched to London," he waved plane tickets emerged from his suit pocket.

"You can't just drag me to London as you wish, brother mine," her ocean eyes blazed. The nerve of her brother. Although he may be the British government, that in no way entitled him to boss her around like he contained ownership of her. Whatever ties in MI6 he possessed be damned.

"This isn't what you think."

She gave him an up-down. "I know this is something that forced you to catch a very early flight this morning, eat terrible plane food for the majority of the day, dress in a rush, and it's not something one of your goldfish could handle. Not to mention your returning smoking habit and gain of weight."

He gave a forced, bitter smile. "Save your deductions. Sherlock needs our help. And I need yours."

This stopped any smart-ass words lingering on her tongue. Mycroft outright admitting he needed another human being to assist him; he was desperate. There weren't many things the older Holmes siblings could agree on; they could count them on one hand. But number one, was protecting Sherlock. It always was. Even when she was so distant, in far-away lands, Mycroft would call if Sherlock dug himself too far into a drug ditch. Of course, she never was in the position to help. Not until now. When eldest was right in her face, desperate.

"How? If it's regarding his substance abuse-"

"Worse than that, I'm sorry to say."

"Regarding the fake suicide, then?"

Mycroft previously informed her of Sherlock's plan to fake his death, as not to alarm her if she caught a newspaper title of the grand detective dead. It was an intricate, finely-tuned plan, one she was surprised Sherlock conceived.

"In a sense. Sherlock has been single-handedly disbanding James Moriarty's network over the last two years."

Cecilia's back straightened. "I know the name."

"He's fallen into a row of trouble with one of Moriarty's associates, Maupertuis."

"Know that name too. Serbian torturer," she paused. "Oh."

"I need your field expertise."

"I'm in the middle of a complicated assignment."

"I know. I've already talked to MI6. Thus the plane change. A private jet with me, in fact. So we'll have time to discuss the plan."

"What plan?" she scoffed.

"Retrieving Sherlock from Serbia. Like I said, he needs our help."

"You need me to infiltrate where he's being kept."

"Yes, he's already been there a week. This is the first chance I've gotten to contact you."

"A call would've done," she noted. Walking around him, she grabbed a shirt from the floor and stuffed it in her black, generic duffle bag.

"I needed to convince you."

"Consider me convinced."

"Excellent. The flight leaves in four hours. A quick stop at MI6 to prepare you with supplies and you'll be off."

She paused, thoughtful, as she zipped up the bag. "Why not do the job yourself?"

"Fieldwork hardly is my forte, sister dear. This is deep undercover work, something you'll find up your alley, not mine. There is one more thing." Eyeing him, she waited for him to continue. "A terrorist threat on London. Another thing you can be utility for."

"We'll see."

She finished packing, grabbing her toothbrush from the bathroom.

"Shall we?" she nodded to her brother.

They exited the hotel room. Quite an odd pair; Cecilia still in her tourist clothes, Mycroft in his extravagant suit. Some designer name, no doubt.

Yet united them was an unimaginable keenness, a power to bend the world to their will, dark hair and pale skin, a mutual understanding of family, and a single person very dear to their hearts, no matter who many times they denied it.

Time to save Sherlock Holmes.

Please review! They're little motivation cookies for me :)