The scene looked like a Microsoft default background: a small stone cottage out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but fields of vibrant green grass. Heavy clouds reigned above it, letting in few select rays of sunlight. The scent of morning rain, with more to come later in the evening, lingered in the air. The serene setting was a place of wonder, where you would expect one of the most ardent of nature-lovers to reside.
The one-lane roadway leading to the cottage was almost always clear, except for this particular time of day. A lone Rolls Royce the color of dark chocolate made its away along the driveway, taking its time to reach the cottage. The windows were darkly tinted, hiding the luxurious interior of wood paneling and cream-colored leather. Other than the valet in the front seat, a lone man sat in the backseat, reading a newspaper in a costly well-tailored three-piece suit inside of the luxury car. With every bump or uneven gravel in the roadway, he would tilt his right hand just slightly so as to look at the black and silver Bulgari watch on his wrist. As soon as he felt the car slow to a stop, he folded up the newspaper neatly, set it aside, and stepped out of the car as the valet opened the door for him.
He looked around him, soaking in his environment for it had been ages since he personally had to make a business trip like this. He looked around him at the vast expanse of nothingness, almost reminded of his very own childhood cottage. A shed as large as the lodge itself stood to the side, locked up with no windows. The windows to the cottage were heavily tinted, showing barely any sign of life inside. Although not visible to the naked eye, he also knew that there were dozens of cameras all around the premises, showing every angle and minute detail of the vast expanse of land. This was not a place for ardent nature-lovers or friendly people of any type, but the many ominous No Trespassing signs to even get on this road showed that well enough.
His limbs started to feel unbearably heavy as he began his trek toward the door. As he reached out to knock, he finally noticed how pale he had gotten as of late. He hadn't the time to look into a mirror, although he would not have been pleased with what he saw. His usually elegant look would be slightly disheveled, although that usually meant a crooked tie or a slight wrinkle in his shirt. Even in his most undone state, his dress was never too badly out of place. It was usually things he couldn't control that gave away his anxious state – dark bags under his eyes, the paleness and heaviness of his body, and the slight dullness of perception, which was so minute it would have gone unnoticed by any but the most brilliant of minds.
His hand was still up in the air in a knocking gesture, his mind distracted as he was silently trying to pull himself together before he could muster the strength with which to knock, when he started to hear beeps and clicks from the other side, no doubt the sounds of bypassing the countless measures of security placed upon it. The door opened at long last and he was met with a young woman, long messy dark hair flowing down almost the entirety of her torso, a smile on her face of soft features.
"Two times this year, Mikey? I'm beginning to think you've developed a crush on me," she greeted in a soft, playful voice. She turned around and walked back inside with a flurry of her long black kimono robe with white floral patterns, left open revealing boxer shorts and a tank top.
He was about to protest at the nickname as he was shutting the door when he was met an odor so foul, he had completely forgotten both his witty remark about his name, and her habit of wearing pajamas no matter the time of day. "What is that atrocious smell?" he asked, waving a hand lightly about, not that it helped at all.
She smiled in front of him, leading him through the foyer to the closest room where most would have had their living area. Instead, there remained a room that almost seemed a polar opposite of the exterior of the cottage. There were gadgets on every shelf; electronic beeping and machine fans whirring met his ears from nearly every corner. She sat down in a highly cushioned office chair in front of a large desk that held three monitors, each black with green codes running down them in some technical language, and two keyboards. Despite this, there were at least two laptops and three tablets strewn about the room also.
But because he had been here before and seen the technical wonderment of this room, the first thing he noticed was a thick cloud of smoke hovering above it all. She reached next to her computer monitors at an ashtray and pick up a rolled, lit up cigarette of sorts. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she replied with a smile, putting it between her lips and taking a long drag.
He curled his lip in disgust at her. Mycroft would have the occasional cigarette, but as a government employee, cannabis was simply out of the question. Even the fact that he remained in the same room with it was making his blood boil, so he closed the distance between them in three long strides and grabbed her above the wrist so tightly that the sound of knuckles cracking broke the dangerous silence. The surprise of the action made her drop it as he proceeded to crush it with the ball of his foot.
"Do you even realize whom you work for?" he seethed through gritted teeth, his face red with anger about an inch from hers. It wasn't even that he got this angry because he worked for the government. He merely had seen the effects of drugs too much in his lifetime, usually within his own family.
Never before had she seen Mycroft look older, more vulnerable than he did at that moment. She could see every wrinkle around his eyes and mouth, caused by national threats that had no doubt been averted by him. Every sleepless night was carved into his face. Every pain he suffered turned into rage glowed within his iris. "Seems like you need it more than me," came her hushed response as she ignored the pain she felt within her hand. "What do you need, Mycroft?"
And with the smoothness of her voice saying his name, he felt as if someone pulled him out of a nightmare, back into himself. He quickly let go of her hand and stood up straight, brushing invisible dust off of his suit as he regained his composure. "I don't want it serving as a distraction," he stated, turning around to face the window on the far side, using the first excuse that came to mind for his behavior. An apology was unnecessary. Her hand would be fine. Even so he looked out the corner of his eye at her, watching her flex her fingers, just to make sure.
"I keep my personal and business affairs separate. I finished my training before noon today," she replied, gesturing toward the window where the large shed he previously saw towered. Inside were weights, targets, sandbags, and any other type of machinery required to keep physical endurance and deadly aim at its highest.
While he had his technical gurus, his muscled warriors, and his keen sharpshooters, very few of those under his service had the skill of being all three. While her specialty was in the technical field, she had a high-ranking military background, even at such a young age, catching the attention of those who would use her as a tool for good. She was an asset to any side she was on. The only drawback was that she didn't want to take sides.
After completing her first vital mission for Mycroft, she fled. For at least a month they had no inkling of where she could be hiding. Her tracks had been covered well. After a while, they had gotten word of a yoga instructor in northern India that sounded suspicious. Another few months confirmed their suspicions and she was brought back, ultimately exiled to work in the most remote of regions where another blunder like that would essentially paint a large target over her head.
"Answer the question, Mycroft. Why are you here?" She curled her legs up on the chair and greeted him with an interested expression when he turned around, all playfulness gone from her demeanor.
"Moriarty."
Her response was a puzzled stare. "I gave him to you last month." No response as his gaze lowered. "Mycroft," she demanded, annoyance (or what that actually anger?) seeping into her voice.
"We had nothing on him. We couldn't hold him any longer," came his response, a hint of disappointment in his voice.
"You let him go? After all my hard work tracking his movements and you just release him back into society?" she fumed, rising from her chair and pacing back and forth, all senses coming crashing back to her. Her mind went through the copious amount of work she had to do to even find him: tracing certain keywords around the clock, looking at disposable mobile phone purchases, hours upon hours of surveillance footage, not to mention all the fake tips…
His eyes watched her figure panic, not surprised or attempting to make any move to comfort her. On the inside, he was doubly anxious. Not because he had failed in keeping the notorious James Moriarty in his care, but because whatever Jim had planned would be disastrous, not just for England, but his little brother as well. He was not planning on voicing his concerns regarding the latter though. The fact that his target seemed so obsessed with Sherlock to the point of carving his name repeatedly in a concrete cell with his fingernails was cause for alarm, but not relevant to how to find him, so he kept that detail to himself.
"You've found him once. A second time won't be an issue, I'm sure," he stated nonchalantly, acting as if he was merely talking about catching a fish in a small pond as opposed to a great white shark in the ocean.
She studied him with a thoughtful demeanor and sat back down in her chair, her fingers massaging her temples. "I can find him again…on one condition," she boldly responded, looking up at him.
His face dropped to a look of half surprise, half fury. Did this instrument that they had created actually think she could give them an ultimatum, as if she had any power to do so whatsoever? The audacity she was showing would not have been handled lightly by anyone else of his standing, but he was desperate. "And what, pray tell, would that be?" he asked, attempting to bottle his rage at the situation.
"I want to be free of this life, once and for all. You will let me live in peace in a location of my choosing. And no matter what you manage to fuck up next time, you will leave me be." She stressed the last three words as if intertwining a threat within them. Her eyes were stone cold and uninviting, a state that he had only seen on the day they had confined her to this cage.
His eyes searched her face for a while, both sizing her up and weighing the options in his mind. Her job requirements limited applicants greatly. If there were more like her, they had already been hired. There were so little of them left though that losing one meant losing a significant number.
"Very well," he sighed. Whether or not he intended on keeping his end of the bargain was a whole different story though. He was not usually one to back out of agreements, but when it was a matter of keeping his country safe, there was no doubt in his mind.
She immediately spun her office chair around and began to furiously type away on one of the keyboards, the monitors coming to life with code and files. He took this as his queue to leave and began walking towards the exit. "And one last thing – if I ever catch you with narcotics again-" he spun around to face her, finding that she already had another cannabis cigarette in hand and was in the process of lighting it.
"You'll what? Fire me?" she retorted, placing the stick between her lips in smug triumph.
He took a deep breath to hold in his anger once more and continued out the door, the sound of keyboard clicking extinguished with a slam of the door.