A/N: Welcome to chapter one of For Queen, Country and Selfish Desires! I have to hand a huge dedication to my good friend stanleydoodles. She's been beta-ing for me and helping me keep on track as I write. So, really, I wouldn't have gotten this far without her. This story is rated 'M' for future sexual content, mild language, and the occasional consumption of alcohol. Sounds like my Friday nights. I do not own Sherlock (the TV show), Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes or any other related charcters. All of the above belong to whomever has the rights at this moment and Arthur Conan Doyle. The only thing I own are my characters, which you can pick out like the white crayon in the box. I do ask for reviews as they help me see if I'm headed in the right direction. So throw me your comments, concerns and ideas! Now, read on my wayward son (or daughter. Whatever floats your boat.)...

Mycroft Holmes closed the file in front of him with a barely audible sigh and moved to the next. Within the first few moments of looking over the contents of this particular folder, he grabbed the phone on his desk and dialed a number. He waited through the ringing on the line until a voicemail box picked up. He hung up the phone and grabbed his cell, dialing the number again. This time the person picked up on the third ring.

"I hope this is important, Mycroft. It's seven in the fucking morning." Mycroft couldn't help but smirk at the irritated American he had woken up.

"I've got an assignment for you." He could hear shuffling in the background followed by something being slammed shut.

"Gimme the details." Paper and a pen, then, he mused before reciting his directions.

For Sherlock Holmes, it was never too early for a murder investigation. For his flatmate, Doctor John Watson, and a majority of Scotland Yard, eleven in the morning on Saturday was entirely too early. Nearly every hand had a cup of coffee in it if its owner wasn't already in the process of gathering evidence. His favorite Detective Inspector was among the percentage with a cup in hand. Nobody spoke to him as he kneeled near the body. John was steps behind, his own coffee in hand. Lestrade offered him a nod for a greeting and set his eyes back on Sherlock. The consulting detective lifted the victim's head, the congealing blood sticking to the back. It took him only a moment to inspect and drop the head back down, causing the army doctor and DI to flinch. If Sherlock had noticed, he didn't allude to it as he ran his eyes over the man's thin frame and looked over the man's arms with interest.

"Well? What've you got?" Lestrade prompted the consulting detective after a moment of silence.

"It's not your jurisdiction." The DI blinked blankly at Sherlock and his response.

"What?" Sherlock sighed, willing himself to be patient, before turning to the body and beginning his explanation.

"His suit is expensive, freshly pressed. Tells us he has a high paying job, one that requires him to dress well, a government official. How do I know government? Dressed in all black, freshly shined shoes, silver watch and the identification in his pocket. He was killed by a single shot to the back of the head. Popular for enemies of the government, however this man has track marks on his arms from years of doing drugs. Recovered addict? Maybe, but probably not. A few of the marks are a few days old. So government worker, does drugs. But the government drug tests its workers on hire and every six months. That means working long enough to figure out the pattern and pass the tests. Still, why the single shot to the back of the head? I'd put my money on it being an inside job, this man most likely being a double agent for a king pin. Ergo, not your jurisdiction." Lestrade blinked. "And a waste of my time, as it seems." Sherlock moved to walk away but stopped very quickly. No one else would have seen the long blonde hair on the ground, but now he was willing to bet they'd find no bullet in the head. With a poker face and irritation growing in his belly, he left the scene.

Mycroft Holmes hung up his desk phone with what could be seen as a slam. There was a headache growing at his temples and there was no doubt in his mind that it would turn into a migraine by the end of the day. He was glad that the knock on his door was a light one and not one of those heavy handed buffoons he employed. Mycroft granted his visitor entry but as soon as he heard the heels click on the marble floor, he wished he had told her he was busy.

"Afternoon, boss." The American set a cup of tea down on his desk, careful to avoid all the papers, and a bottle of ibuprofen. He gestured to the chair in front of him, amused as she smoothed her pinstripe pants down before sitting. She wore a matching blazer, no doubt to cover one of her many weapons, and a light blue button up shirt. Several earrings were in each of her ears, something Mycroft knew he told her not to do many times. The woman's long blonde hair was up in a straight ponytail on her head, blue eyes clearly reading the documents on his desk upside-down. The offending heels she wore were at least five inches high and as thin as he'd ever seen heels made.

"Allessandra. Do you know what I've had the pleasure of spending most my afternoon doing?" His tone, to anyone else, was pleasant. This woman, however, knew the anger her boss was concealing very well.

"I'm sure you're about to tell me and it's somehow my fault."

"Well, yes, it's your fault. When we need someone dealt with, you're supposed to take care of the body. Not leave it in the middle of the city!" Allessandra smirked at Mycroft's almost loss of control. She hadn't seen him do that in a while.

"Don't wake me up at seven in the morning for a hit and you won't have to clean up after me all afternoon. Simple, really."

"He was on his way to take classified information to-"

"Mycroft, I'm sure you've learned by now that I don't care if he was taking tea to the queen. It was seven in the morning. I was on my last job til five of the very same morning. You're lucky I got the right guy and not some civilian."

"Not even you are that clumsy." Mycroft mumbled to himself as he picked up a fax and glanced it over. He held his hand out as Allessandra handed him a few ibuprofen. Without a word, Mycroft put the paper down and used the fresh cup of tea to ease the pills down his throat. He shuffled through the folders on his desk for a moment before pulling one out of the mess it had become. "Do me a favor, Allessandra, would you?" She sat up straighter in her seat and grabbed the folder.

"It's what I'm paid for, boss." Allessandra read the label on the side and instantly knew what the entire file contained.

"Deliver that to Sherlock. The agents watching his flat reported gunfire today. He shot a face into the wall because he was bored. That," Mycroft pointed to the file, "ought to keep him busy for a while." She nodded and collected herself, buttoning another button on her blazer.

"And if he refuses?" Mycroft sat back and tapped the pen he now had in hand on the desk.

"Give it to his flatmate, John Watson. If Sherlock won't take it from you, John will convince him. My brother would be a fool not to take this case." It was only when Allessandra was in a cab on her way to 221B Baker Street did she realize that this particular case was one of the few she had been instructed to see through to the end. For her, that meant cooperating with Scotland Yard and Sherlock Holmes.

And, no, you cannot pass this case onto anyone else. –Mycroft Holmes

Allessandra scowled at her phone. She hated the fact that Mycroft knew her so well and had the ability to make sure she did exactly as instructed when it came to her job.

This isn't what I was hired to do, Mycroft. –A. Caswell

Yes, it is. You're just lucky you found other talents to amuse yourself with. –Mycroft Holmes

She scowled once more, unhappy that she was reminded with her original purpose. When she had first taken the job with the British Government and Mycroft Holmes, she was sent out to solve the mysteries that were directly related to the government. As she worked, her talents with a gun and her connections got her noticed. Soon she was working more hits and illegal activities than unsolved cases.

Dinner is still at 8. Don't miss it this time. –Mycroft Holmes

Yes mother. –A. Caswell

The cab stopped, the man holding his hand out for his payment. She dropped a few bills into his hand, knowing that she paid him more than was needed. Allessandra insisted he keep the change and unfolded herself from the vehicle. With a deep breath and a poker face on, she knocked on the door. An older woman she knew to be Mrs. Hudson answered, giving her one of the most skeptical looks she'd ever received.

"Can I help you, dear?" Allessandra gave Mrs. Hudson her warmest smile.

"I'm hoping so. I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes. I'm here on behalf of his brother, Mycroft." She got another skeptical look for a moment before Mrs. Hudson opened the door for Allessandra completely.

"Right up the stairs, dear. I'd be wary if I were you. He's in a right mood when he's bored." Allessandra gave her another warm smile and a nod. She would know better than anyone just how Sherlock acted when his brain went into overdrive with nothing to do. Upon reaching the door labeled '221B', another gun shot went off.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock! What was that for?" A man yelled from the other side. Logic told her that was John Watson.

"I don't want the case; I don't want you in here." Sherlock's voice grumbled on the other side as well, but she knew this was directed at her. Without hesitation, Allessandra opened the door and walked in, hands on her hips.

"I don't care what you want, Sherlock Holmes. I'm here to do a job." He shot at her again. Her eyes narrowed. "Shoot at me again and you'll have to force me to explain to Mycroft why you're in the hospital."

"Excuse me, who is this?" A man a bit taller than Allessandra's height stood to the side, out of the line of fire. Sherlock looked from the woman to his flatmate and back to the woman.

"John, meet Allessandra Caswell, my brother's right hand and the bane of my existence."