***Chapter one****
Amidst the gasoline fueled vehicles, the elevated voices of passersby and the ringing of bicycle bells, there was a sound. It was the sound of a small clock. Indeed, within the walls of a nondescript building, there was a small clock, ticking away. A watch to be exact. Through the entrance, down corridors and and into doorways, there sat a bench. On said bench, there sat a young woman, and in that woman's hands, lay the culprit.
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick —click.
A proudly gleaming pocket-watch of silver sat in Ms. Clea Hardell's hand.
As she was seated, waiting for the thick door to her right to swing open, she studied the slender hand of the seconds as it ticked to a full circle. Each turn of those arms were so very much the same, yet was they symbolized and represented was so terribly ever- ticking seemed to echo and reverberate from the corridors. So much so, that it seemed that Big Ben was in her hands, opposed to a palm-sized pocket watch.
As with only the fewest of things, time was a strange thing to Ms. Clea Hardell. T'was the stuff of importance and illusion, and yet she chose to not dwell on its significance as it could easily consume her life and thoughts.
Time was a quiet thing, bit it constantly evolved into the uproar that the future holds. It could be described as being as tangible as pickin up a tea cup, or that it could not be grasped at all. It taught, aged and lacked any morals. Time was not linear as so many thought; it just was. But it was the most constant thing in Clea's life, the one thing she knew would be there when she awoke.
Her small, fragile fingers clenched the case of the time keeper to a close, ceasing the unending ticking of seconds. Clea took a moment or two to dwell on why she was where she currently sat; the office of a Mr. M. Holmes. Perhaps it was in her innermost nature to seek out precarious positions such as this one, perhaps it served as a sign that her younger years of childhood never truly left her without being tainted with its past happenings. Had the recklessness she felt become so engrained inside her that the very feeling coursed through her veins?
She did not know.
However much her childhood effected her, it did not matter, as the consequences remained the same. Poisonous manipulation and solitude. The first had been inflicted upon her and so therefore, she was well practiced in the art of said distortion, the second was what had been her answer to the tangled truth of the former. In both instances, Clea had learned to either accept or relish in them, and, thankfully, both were well thought of in her current line of work. Which subsequently brought her thoughts back to her present at that time.
Upon opening her watch once more, Clea found the little arms telling her that thirteen seconds remained in the duration of her wait. Clea Hardell knew that if her possible future director was to be entitled to employ her service, the regal door to her immediate left would open in thirteen seconds; no more and certainly no less. Furthermore, if the door was in fact opened accordingly, then the position would most certainly prove to be an adequately satisfying one. You see, dear reader, a well practiced employer would be on time, however, a respectable employer was punctual and took pride in it. By what Clea had gathered from her brief background check on Mr. Holmes, he was, respectively, the latter.
Her thumb gently caressed the pocket-watch's surface, much like a mother would her new born's cheek; though instead of relishing in the blush on an infant's cheeks, Clea Hardell luxuriated in the sheen that shimmered along the bright silver. I hope I have done you proud Pa...Gingerly placing the time-keeper in her pastel blue, pin-striped waistcoat, the young woman allowed the remaining seconds to pass quietly.
Then, just as she was lulled into a calmed state, there was a sound that greeted Clea's awaiting ears, other than her own heart precise click of gears in the door's handle coincided seamlessly with her soundless count to zero.
For a moment, Clea's view was blocked by the imposing, wooden door, halting her from seeing the opener. After a short moment, a woman turned to face the sitting girl of only twenty-one. Clea raised her head high with prepared eyes, opposed to studying the woman through her long eyelashes. She also sat a bit straighter - not that she could sit additionally straighter as she was already accustomed to ramrod straight posture.
"Ms. Hardell? We're ready for you."
The assistant spoke smoothly, but with an underlying monotone of boredom. She has most likely been in this position for the better part of her life. A man in Mr. Holmes' position would not take to switching close employees every other year. Personal Assistant? Name-brand clothes in black, manicured nails, suitable amount of cosmetics, tired eyes, slightly flatter right thumb from constantly using her phone. That phone does not part from her hands; she clutches it as though it were her life line, most probably composed of secrets and tea times. Personal Assistant.
Clea looked up to the woman's brown eyes with a small but pleased grin.
"Thank you."
Picking up her black brief case, Clea strode through the door frame; the sound of her small heels establishing her otherwise silent entrance. As she first walked into the office, Clea did the one thing she always did- survey her surroundings. Book cases lined the walls; an empty hearth sat to the right accompanied by the presence of two cushioned chairs; a large window resided near the back of the office to the left of an equally large desk. As a whole, the entire office was well maintained. That being said, the most prominent element in the room was the complete lack of untidiness, and the booming presence aristocratic intelligence, which was proudly displayed in every inch of space.
Possible Obsessive Compulsive Disorder?No, not OCD; OCPD- Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder. This man was obsessed with power, and he made sure everyone in the room knew he held the cards.
Behind the rather large oak desk, sat a man who's attention was otherwise occupied outside of the impressively sized window. His black locks looked to have been subject to his fingers running through them in attempt to tame the curls; his blazer was well made, but looked to have been thrown on his floor after a hard day's work, instead of hung in a closet. He also did not seem terribly at ease in his tie, and his purple button up was far too tight to be considered appropriate. He was an ill attempt of an imposter, and to say that Clea did her best not to laugh would be an understatement.
As she took a seat in the chair opposite him, Clea stared at the man before her. She sat waiting to be acknowledged, which he did, without so much a a flicker of an eye.
"Good afternoon, Ms. Hardell."
Not seeing any true reason to reply, Clea chose to remain silent. Clea knew her manners and saw no fault in not responding when she was not technically spoken to, after all, it was the window he was speaking to. The man that truly owned the office she sat in, prided himself on manners and chivalry; that much was painfully obvious. To her silence, the man looked up at last.
Calculating, clear eyes, and a good mind. He most likely lives in a London flat as he does not fit in with this decor around, though he has an appreciation of it, so probably a relative of Mr. Holmes. The balance of probability says brother; however, when neck deep in politics, wouldn't the more distant acquaintance be more appropriate? So...sibling rivalry? Younger brother picking if the elder? Most probable.
Deciding to break the facade that was so clearly being orchestrated around her, Clea spoke in her direct, soft voice with a simple question.
"Where is Mr. M. Holmes?" She asked, little emotion in her eyes though she spoke softly.
This got his attention, however he was not proving to be the best actor as he allowed curiosity slip through his trick," I'm afraid I don't follow." The man spoke with a creased brow.
"Where is Mr. M. Holmes, since you are more than clearly not he? Moreover, I would like to know to whom I am speaking."She paused, "You are his brother, are you not?"
As the words fell from her mouth, the man's face remained blank for a moment or two, then it broke into a curious smirk that spoke for him. "Well done." He stood and walked to Clea, smirk still in place, but hand outstretched, "Sherlock Holmes." Clea took it firmly, giving him a small triumphant grin. Another door opened to reveal an other man, more suited to the high-ranking position.
"Off you go little brother, you're not needed anymore." The voice that came from this man was not as dark as his brother's, but just as rich and effortless, perhaps with a surpassing class of tone. She quickly took in his immaculate three piece suit and startling, direct eyes. Yes, definitely higher in the aristocracy we pretend not to have.
The younger Holmes still hadn't taken his sea glass eyes off Clea; confusion and admiration shone behind his irises. Minds of thorough intellect were extraordinarily limited in numbers, and the young man before her clearly had a fascination for them as they had the rare ability to match his intelligence. With his hands settled in his pockets, he continued to analyze her. What he received was rather disappointing boring, as he got only exterior nothings; silver pocket watch (sentimental?ornamental?);short chestnut hair; soft, classical features that point to direct Aryan relations, but no trace of German is in her speech, but too young to weed the thick accent out. Good taste, and separates home from work. Non-smoker, early twenties. But still, there was nothing that alluded to the nature and inner workings of the girl before him.
Clea patiently waited as he ended his deduction, and she sighed knowingly inside when he came up with nothing. In truth, not even she could solve herself, she was just a puzzle that sat jumbled up; all details but no outcome.
"Brother mine, would you please remove yourself from my office."
It was presented as anything but a question, and finally, the younger moved.
Definitely sibling rivalry.
The newly produced man-who Clea assumed to be Mycroft Holmes- watched with calculating eyes as the door clicked shut behind his younger kin, leaving him, his P.A-who had remained on her phone for the duration of the interview- and Clea Hardell.
"Well played, my dear. Now, you are Ms. Clea Hardell?"He stated, more than asked.
"Yes, Sir."
"I am Mycroft Holmes. Now it says here," He flipped through what Clea knew to be her file. "That you last served at Buckingham Palace. Is this true?"
She didn't answer. It was a remarkably silly question, after all, Clea knew he had been and always will be informed of everything. It was in the nature of his soul to play the strings to make his puppets dance; it seemed, however, he enjoyed allowing them to think they had control. Mr. Holmes' brows scrunched together and he contemplated his current strategy to converse with the young woman before him, that did not seem to be working in his favour.
"Why did you decide to seek employment here? No position was made known, yet you sent in your file to be reviewed."
Nothing.
"Are you able to keep your mouth shut, should you obtain this position, Ms. Hardell?"He pressed.
Silence.
Mycroft huffed a sigh of tired disappointment and made his way to the door. "Ms. Hardell, you do need to answer sooner or later. However I am a very busy man, as such, seeing as you refuse to speak-"
"Oh, I can speak, ." Clea stated, turning her head to him, speaking with little emotion and a straight face. "I know that your younger brother used to tease you, that you worry over him more than you care to share, that you have OCPD and that you are the man whose secrets I have been keeping and dealing with since I have been a one of Her Majesty's agents. I did previously serve at Buckingham Palace, I am here seeking a different position because that is what people do- their tastes change, and yes, as you have learned, I can remain silent. You see, I simply do not answer silly questions that you already know the answers to, Mr. Holmes. I believe you will find that I often do not answer questions at all."
Silence passed over the office, much like a shroud. The grip Mycroft had developed on the door knob went lax, and he did something that was, in itself, an enigma. Mycroft Holmes smiled.
