I don't often get kidnapped. Well actually... it has happened twice before. But when I do it is engineered by the same man. The last time was several years ago. I thought I would never lay my eyes upon Mycroft Holmes again, but here he stands on my doorstep in his bespoke suit, umbrella in hand.
Mr. Holmes is the most powerful man in England. Why he sought me out and came to trust me, I have no inkling. I just know that when he calls upon me it is in the name of national security and I am sworn to secrecy.
"My dear Lady, I find I am in need of your services, again," his posh tones flowed from his mouth like silk. "Would you pack your things and meet me downstairs? I have a car waiting." Without another word, he turned and walked away.
Shortly, I handed my bag to the bodyguard and turned to lock my flat door. I never knew how long I would be gone. The first occasion I had been employed three weeks, the second three months. I don't mind, though. Mr Holmes and the British Government pay very well. And as far as my social calendar goes, well, I tend to be something of a hermit. I have no family to miss me. My late husband and I had both been only children and our parents were long gone. I guess that was why we had clung to each other so desperately.
The black car idled at the kerb and Mycroft crushed his cigarette with his expensive leather shoe. He held the door open and then climbed in after me. The bodyguard settled in the front beside the driver and soon we were merging with the evening traffic. I love London and happily watched the city roll past. I grew bored staring out at the sparse lights of small villages and sporadic farmhouses once we were out of the city, so I pulled my book out of the bag at my feet.
Mycroft, who had been silent until now, looked up from the notes he had been studying. Raising his brow at the title in my hands, "Again?" he queried.
"Again," I nodded, smiling. "It's been three years, after all."
He nodded, acknowledging the fact that I had been reading the same story the first time we met. I could see the amusement in his eyes even though he tried to hide it behind the cold façade he so often put up. "And, I suppose you have the other one too?" he said in mock distaste.
I giggled. "Of course. Why bother reading Frankenstein if you are not going to go all out and follow it with Dracula, Mr Holmes?" It was the only personal fact about this man that I was privy to; he was a fan of Gothic horror.
"It is a rare woman that appreciates the more macabre works of literature, Mrs Craig."
"Serena," I retorted. "Mrs Craig has long grown cold in a damp Scottish grave. Her heart died with the man. I am just Serena."
He looked down his nose at me, not in a haughty manner, but more a calculating gaze, as if unsure if I was truly offended or just speaking my view on the matter. He must have decided the latter for a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he repeated, "It is a rare woman that appreciates the more macabre works of literature… Serena."
I laughed again, knowing that somewhere under that icy front was a very complex man, one with emotions like the rest of us. I knew he had a sense of humour somewhere underneath and I was determined to hear him give a genuine laugh at least once before the end of my employment. "If I had pulled out some rubbish romance novel the first time we met, would we be sitting here now?"
Mycroft looked affronted at the idea of knowing someone that read cheap romance novels. Then he looked at me and I knew he was trying to figure out whether I was the type to do such a horrible thing. His expression changed and I felt as if he was seeing something other than my proclivities for classic literature. He was reading my personal story as easily as one reads the newspaper. I swallowed thickly and resisted the urge to squirm under his probing gaze.
I don't know exactly what he saw, but when our eyes met, I knew he had seen through my own façade. He had seen the real me. "What do you see?" I whispered despite the pounding of my heart beneath my ribs. I felt stripped bare, my heart flayed open for all to see. Would he be disgusted by my bitterness of being made a widow so young? I had to know what he thought of me.
"I don't do deductions to impress my peers. That is more my brother's favourite pastime." He frowned, clearly mistaking my involuntary question as an expression of interest. "The answer is no. We would not be sitting here."
"Fine," I snapped, even as my mind told my mouth to shut up. "You appreciate fine literature. But why the bias against romance readers. My favourite book is Jane Eyre. It's a Gothic romance."
"And, it is well written. Most romance books published today are barely more than poorly written drabble; quantity and speed of works written being substituted for quality. If you were a fan of such rubbish, I would have thought you mundane. You are obviously intelligent or you wouldn't be recommended so highly. But I would not have kept interest in you long enough to appreciate your intuition and," he paused, looking almost pained, "compassion. You are interesting and complex. And since this position answers only to me, I choose to continue your employment not only because you show superior skills, but because you are the least irritating option."
I couldn't help it. It happened before I could stop myself, and he recoiled in distaste. "Thank you," I managed to get out, between giggles. I could see the driver and his companion snicker along with me. Well, at least, I wasn't the only one that was amused. "I think there was a compliment in there somewhere. Thank you." Finally, when I had composed myself, I leant over and placed a kiss on his cheek. "That was very sweet, coming from you. Thank you. Now, tell me a little bit about my patient."
He seemed relieved to change the subject and I certainly wasn't going to irritate him further by wiping the smear of my lipstick from his face. He handed me a thin file. "Here is a summary of your patient's medical history and a rather brief assessment of his injuries at the extraction point."
My patient was one of our country's operatives that had gotten in a bit of trouble and had to be pulled out, but not before being tortured. I would be looking after his physical well-being, but I could triage any emotional or psychiatric issues that I deemed needing further evaluation.
"Nothing is broken save a finger or two, but he does seem to be mildly concussed. He was flown directly from the extraction point to here." Mycroft indicated the secured compound, whose gates we were approaching. "I don't doubt your thorough inspection will discover more wounds than initially suspected," he tapped the report in front of me. "You are aware of my resources and only have to ask for what diagnostic test or consult with the physicians of your choice, that you deem necessary."
We were greeted by a Colonel Carter, who led us down to the medical bay where they were just moving my patient from the stretcher to the bed. I waited until he was settled and the transport attendants retreated before moving closer. The sight of him made my heart ache. A thin patina of blood covered all but the smallest area of his exposed skin. He had been severely beaten, and only he knew what other trials he had endured. He was groggy but watched me with interest as I donned gloves and began assessing his condition.
"He's going to be fine, Mycroft," I said as my medical assistant turned the patient back and forth gently, allowing me to inspect all surfaces. "I'll fix him up."
Mycroft nodded, "Then I leave him in your most capable hands, Serena."
I smiled. To have received any compliment from him was rare and he had graced me twice today. I knew my cheeks had reddened, for my patient smirked up at me. Cheeky bastard.
"You," I turned to the other tech waiting at the side, "Let's get a basin of warm water and I will start to clean him up. I want to know what bruises are hidden beneath the grime and blood. Then, I want another bag of IV fluids, lab draw tubes, and a specimen cup. I want to check his kidney function; it looks like he took a boot to his flank. I want to make sure his kidneys aren't bruised." I rattled off instructions as I headed for the wash basin myself, stuffing supplies in my pockets as I went.
The tech, that I had barked orders to, was stunned at my abruptness and looked down at the man on the bed. "Who the hell is she?"
"My personal nurse. And if I am not mistaken, my future sister-in-law." Sherlock replied, scratching weakly at the stubble covering his face. He wished a shave and haircut were a priority, but it would have to wait. She wouldn't allow it, but maybe she would give him some pain medication. What they had given him before leaving Serbia was wearing off. She was a nurse after all and they frowned upon leaving their patients in pain.
