"I am not doing you any favors." She spat tied to the chair, her Russian accent laced with spite.

"I'm afraid you are, Miss Romanoff." The man stood too far away. He obviously knew what she was capable of. He went through a lot of trouble finding her too. She was hidden for quite some time in London. Somehow he found her.

"This chair won't hold me."

"I didn't expect it to. You're free to quit pretending I'm holding you captive."

She stood slowly showing that the ties to the chair didn't hold her. The man who tied the knots to her left look shocked and made to capture her again, but the man in front of her waved him off.

"No, no, let the Widow run." He inspected his fingernails, and Natasha began to move away from them. "That is what you're calling yourself now? Black Widow? Preys on the rich, vile men, kills them after sex."

She flinched at the accusations. Stopping, she looked up at him through her red hair. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Why don't you explain it then?" He paused cocking his head to the side. She wanted to fight him. She wanted to kick his face and make his head roll to the other side. It would make her laugh, but she knew it wasn't wise. If he found her, he would have been a man who was very important, a man who could give her a lot of enemies.

He added, "The British government would love to know what goes on in that pretty head of yours." That gave her a hint at who he was. He might have been rich, but it would have been from working with the government.

The Black Widow cursed at him in Russian. She knew that she wouldn't win this battle. She made too many enemies, and now she was trying to change that. The suited man let out a laugh.

Sighing, she gave in, "What do you need?"

"I don't do babysitting." She hummed in a British accent while walking in the cold knowing that the man could hear her.

She was wearing the most ridiculous dress. A renaissance faire? Really? She died her hair blonde, a stark contrast to her normally red curls. It was straightened, a headpiece attached to her head. The dress she wore was an ugly mustard color and she felt like she couldn't move in the dress. It was period correct.

She had no way of fighting.

Natasha Romanoff was certain that the mysterious man was sending her to her death, not to "keep an eye on" some equally mysterious man named Sherlock Holmes just to clear her name with the British government. Why else would he put her in something so restricting? It was like binding her. She knew if she had to she could break out of the clothes though.

What kind of weirdo was this Sherlock Holmes anyways?

Who needed to be watched at a renaissance faire? Who went to renaissance faires? She locked down her emotions as she entered the grounds, gaining control of herself. It was like she had suddenly entered another world. Everyone was dressed in similar costumes to her own. She looked around the faire, walking around cautiously as her eyes aimed to find her target.

"Excuse me." A portly man tried to pass her. She stepped out of the way, curtsying because he bowed to her.

"I apologize."

"My, aren't you a beautiful flower?" The man grinned at her, but she knew from the description that this was not Sherlock Holmes. Her stomach sank as she began preparing herself from the trap.

Natasha gave him a sickeningly sweet smile hoping it would push him away, "Thank you, sir."

She began to walk away when the fat man asked, "Do you dance?"

Pausing mid step, she turned to look at him, "I am afraid not."

"Come!" The man chorused, "I shall teach you to dance." The man pulled her into the open area. A live band played ancient music as people did traditional dances. Being a former ballerina had its perks, and she picked up the female part easily. The man was a sloppy dancer, though she knew he was drunk. the stains on his shirt, the alcohol spilling off his breath, the glazed eyes. It wasn't hard to keep focus despite his misplaced his touch on her. She wanted to restrain him, but her eyes hovered to the rooftops trying to find a sniper. No one looked suspicious, but things weren't always as appeared. She counted the people watching. She counted the people who were near, and those not actively paying attention.

"Might I cut in?" A deep voice called from behind her. She turned, ready to rip apart her own dress in order to fight. She was so on edge she didn't realize that there was a possibility of a man who thought she needed a savior from the fat man.

There he was, standing in red with a dorky hat on his head. He looked like he was ready to be a knight in shining armor. So, she would play the part of the damsel while she looked for Holmes.

"Go find your own wench." The fat man claimed.

Natasha turned to him, "I am not a wench, I am an actual woman, and you are drunk. So thank you for the awkward dance, now leave."

The man looked upset, his face fell, and she felt no pity. He walked away, angry. She turned to the man and curtsied.

"And here I thought you were in trouble." The man in front of her laughed.

"What gave you that idea?"

"The worried looks, the sweat beginning on the back of your neck, the constant gazes around the crowd, your tensed body as he touched you." She would have been worried about his observations, but he was missing something. He was missing the reason for her worried looks, but now that she knew someone was observing her, she would hide herself better.

"Well thank you," She curtsied to him once in true renaissance fashion. He stiffly bowed, but he was watching her. She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Shall we?"

"Shall we what?"

"Dance?" He asked her taking her hand in his. She merely nodded while letting him lead her back into the fray of dancers. She kept alert, but didn't let her eyes leave his. He was too observant, so she kept her other senses heightened.

They didn't speak, they only danced.

He moved around her as the dance called for and she watched him letting a smile spread on her lips. She played the part of a thankful maiden perfectly. She maintained control, but neglected the mission of finding Sherlock Holmes.

Whoever he was, he didn't exist. It was a ruse to kill her, but as long as she stayed with people, they wouldn't shoot her. Not out in the open. There were children here for heaven sakes. Not that a child couldn't be part of a ruse. She was once.

Letting her mind wander to those thoughts was dangerous. She had to stay focused.

She laughed as the song ended, applauding the musicians, who then announced that they would take a break leaving the courtyard quiet of music, but loud with talking.

"Thank you," She curtsied again.

"It was my pleasure, Miss-." He left it hanging expecting her to reply. She had a cover, because she couldn't be Natasha Romanoff or Natalie Rushman. She had to be British. She had to play her part even if it was to a stranger.

"Noelle Radcliff." She answered a fake back story flooding to her head. "Might I ask who my savior is?" She smiled at him tucking her blonde hair behind her ear.

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."