Natalia Alianovna Romonova was the best. She was unbreakable, unbeatable, and a shadow of an assassin. She was also all of nineteen years old, with more kills and missions under her belt than anyone would ever know.

She made a point of ensuring that no one knew the entirety of her past. Not her trainers, not her fellow agents, not her enemies. No one. Even now, and that was a pledge that would follow her the rest of her life.

London, December 2003. She'd been sent on another job. It was the first time she'd been sent to the United Kingdom, and she found she quite liked it. Earlier that day, she'd turned her face up to the sky to breath in the cold December air. There was a quiet somberness that came with the cold early-winter rain of England.

No one walking down the street with her had suspected she meant to kill a man that night. The KGB wanted someone dead, and Natalia was more than willing to comply. It was her job. It was what she'd been trained to do. It was what she was programed for. Jobs would be done without question, without mistake, and at whatever cost.

So with a blonde wig that hid her bright red hair, a server's outfit, and a confidence and array of skills that allowed her access to anywhere she wanted, the Black Widow walked into a foreign ambassador's small dinner party.

Ten minutes later, she walked out, task complete. She slipped out the back door and walked into the night just as the scream from the ambassador's wife echoed from the restaurant's courtyard. Sooner than expected, pity. Her black heels clicked on the pavement and she made just the slightest adjustment to her warm black coat. No need to rush away. No one would ever suspect or know she'd even been there, let alone killed him.

At least that's what she thought from past experience.

"You're good." A tired, almost bored, male voice called quietly from the shadows nearby.

Natalia considered just continuing her path down the street, but something pulled her to a stop when the man spoke. Her quick green eyes fixed almost instantly on where the voice came from, and found the outline of a figure sitting on the ground. He was leaning against a brick wall, tucked in between a tree and a bench, wrapped in a too big coat, with a mop of curly black hair. She couldn't see much else in the dim light, so she stepped towards him. "Excuse me?" She asked, her North London accent essentially flawless.

"I said: you're good. But you didn't need me to repeat that." He said again, just a bit louder this time.

"Sorry, I'm not sure what you're talking about." She continued. Her curiosity was piqued and the only thing she had to go back to was a quiet hotel room to wait out the hours before she was scheduled for collection. So she stayed.

"Two…no, three weapons on your person. And that's only the ones I deduced you have. Accent's really good, I'll give you that, but so am I. I can't figure out what's original. Give it some time."

This time there was an identifiable sound in his voice, she'd seen her fair share of addicts. So she stopped when she was only a few feet away from him. The knife strapped to her thigh would be good enough to dispose of the junkie on the street if he turned out to be trouble. And he was getting there. "What do you want?"

He almost laughed, the sound was a huff and a quiet sigh. "Nothing huge, unless you've got heroin somewhere in your collection. Unlikely, so my next request is just confirmation that I'm right."

"A deadbeat junkie on the street is in no position to be making requests. If you are right, and I'm some sort of…spy, you do have a death wish." She commented, almost casually. Now that she was closer she was able to say he was in his mid-twenties and he was not high, not yet anyways. He was also very thin, too thin, and his angular bones contrasted the almost soft tiredness of his features.

He spoke again, casually, but his gaze was sharp and calculating. "Never said I didn't. I'm curious. Who'm I going to call about the murder? Who'd believe me? I just want to be right."

She moved in a blur. Her left hand grabbed his curly hair, her right held the knife and she remained standing over him. She tipped his head back quickly and placed the sharp blade against pale exposed skin. She leaned in to whisper. Predator to prey. "I could kill you."

"You made that fairly obvious." He said slowly. But there was an almost fear in his eyes - his bright clear indiscernible-colored eyes. "You won't. You're curious."

"You're disposable." She countered.

"Then kill me. I clearly have a death wish anyways."

Something was stopping her. Something that didn't want to stain the cold cement with more red. Something that didn't want those mesmerizing eyes to haunt her above all the other ones. But she didn't move, pulling his head back just a little bit more and pressing down only millimeters. The smallest twitch away from drawing blood. "Who are you?"

"Why do you care?"

"Because I want to read your obituary in the paper. Now who are you?"

He took just the smallest breath before he answered, honestly. "Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock Holmes. She committed the name to memory. This moment was the moment of decision. She could kill him. It'd be easiest. It'd be what the KGB would want her to do, it was what the Red Room trained her to do. Opponents were disposed of, people that were a liability were always put down. She knew this well.

But she didn't slice through his fragile skin. She didn't cross that line to watch his body twitch as it bled to death, she didn't hear his gasp and gurgle as blood poured out, she didn't watch those bright eyes dim lifelessly. She could have…but she didn't.

Instead she let him go and slipped the knife back to it's holder under her skirt. "You're good." She echoed his words from earlier.

"Apparently." Sherlock's voice deepened again, now that there wasn't a blade to his throat. Though he had to know that she could kill him just as easily without it. "Don't suppose I'll get a name from you?"

"Would you trust it if I did?"

"No."

Her lips twitched just slightly and she lowered herself. Straddling his currently outstretched legs, she kelt on the ground over his lap. It maintained dominance, but it also brought her closer than she'd been to someone under her own choice. She didn't have to be here, she could just walk away. But she was…curious.

"It's a wig." Sherlock said next as he studied her in the dim light. He didn't seem to be aroused, disturbed, or intimidated by her current position. "Natural hair color…" he reached and she didn't stop him. He pulled the wig off to reveal her wavy red hair. His expression was almost satisfied. "Red. I knew that."

Once again she was drawn to his eyes as she spoke. "Lying. You would have said if you knew."

This time he almost smirked and reached to slip the wig into her purse. "You're very good."

"I have to be."

"Agency? Or freelance?"

"Secrets aren't meant to be shared."

"Then why are you still here?" Sherlock tilted his head just slightly.

"Curiosity."

He didn't reply, just sat there and stared back at her, as if waiting for her further assessment. Just as curious. Tempting.

Natalia wasn't sure what to make of it. He was difficult to read, not an ordinary man in the slightest. He wasn't afraid anymore, all trace of fear had gone, as if he knew she wouldn't hurt him until he attacked first. She'd touched men before. But it had always been on the job, not by choice, save for one three years ago. She detested touching, and everything that that led too. But it was the job. It was a necessary skill for her to be unbreakable.

This man was different. This man who knew too much, who saw too much.

So with a slow hand she reached for him, cold fingers slipping from his defined cheekbone into his curly hair. Exploratory this time, not grabbing to harm. Despite being a junkie sitting outside like he was, he'd recently showered, so his hair was soft and silky. She watched his face, both trying to memorize it as well as gauge his reaction. There was none but the continued curiosity, as if he knew he was playing with something wild. The wolf and her prey.

She wasn't sure exactly why. She couldn't pin it down. Every move she made was executed with calculated efficiency and logic. This move was entirely selfish. Curiosity.

She leaned forward to press her lips against his. They were cold and there was the subtle taste of cigarette over mint. But they were soft, and after a long moment…responsive. He didn't touch her otherwise. His hands stayed in his pockets. But he did kiss her back. And the feeling of appreciation and acceptance fluttered low in her belly until it washed over her with a honest warmth. She wasn't going to believe it. She couldn't let herself believe that he saw her and accepted her….save for this one moment.

Natalia broke the kiss when she was done and only after needing to breathe. She also needed to move on. Her green eyes opened to meet his mesmerizing mirror-like ones.

There were no parting words. No promise or gratitude or invitation to a bedroom. No left favors or tokens. And not her name. She would leave in understood silence. She slipped her hands out of his soft hair and stood up off of the ground. His hands were still in his pockets and his eyes were fixed on hers until she looked away.

She'd feel his eyes on her back as she continued walking, as she heard sirens in front of the dead ambassador's house. As she disappeared like a shadow in the darkness.

Sherlock Holmes.

She'd remember that name.