***Please note, the only character in this story I own is that of Ri. All other characters are property of their original owners*****
Post "His Last Vow"
Sherlock snarled as he glared at the straightened door knocker under the 221B.
Mycroft, he thought. Why is my brother here?
As he opened the door, Sherlock's brow furrowed. He expected to see Mycroft's lanky frame sitting on the stairs, as was his usual M.O. while waiting for Sherlock to return home.
Sherlock took another look at the knocker and pushed it to the side, so that it resumed its normal, slightly askew appearance and walked up the stairs to his flat.
Upon entering the sitting room, Sherlock's aqua-colored eyes scanned the room, taking in all of the familiar sights and the two things that were out of the ordinary.
The first thing out of the ordinary was obviously Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's older brother and monument of the British Government. The elder Holmes leaned against the drapes of one of the large windows that dominated the far wall, staring at the street below.
No phone in his hand, Sherlock observed. This is not a personal call. Leaning against the window, outwardly appearing casual, but actually stiff, obviously under more stress than usual, here under orders instead of by choice. This, in and of itself, was not unusual. The Holmes brothers rarely spent time together by choice.
All of these thoughts bored Sherlock, so he turned to the other unfamiliar object in his sitting room.
Sitting on the sofa was a woman. Sherlock scanned her impassively. Wavy, strawberry-blonde hair fell past her shoulders. Judging by her pale complexion and green eyes, a natural ginger, he surmised. Though thoughts of this nature rarely imposed themselves on his deductions, Sherlock noticed her slim, yet shapely body. Narrow waist, the fullness of her breasts beneath the emerald-green jumper that set off her eyes so perfectly, the curve of her hips and legs visible through her jeans, the perfectly manicured hands ending in nails the color of blood. Client? No, he thought, she doesn't have that look of apprehension and desperation clients have as they sit there. By her appearance, she isn't British, but has spent a fair amount of time in the London area.
Mycroft interrupted this stream of thought by turning away from the window to face Sherlock.
"It's about time, brother mine," Mycroft drawled. "I was beginning to wonder if you were going to come home at all, and that would have been awkward."
"Had I known you were here, brother mine," Sherlock growled. "I would have been sure not to."
The woman shifted her gaze between the two brothers, a small smile of amusement on her pink lips.
Sherlock turned his attention back to the woman, which was a mistake. He noticed the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks, and one right above the cupid's bow of her lips. Her lips. They were turned up in the slightest smile.
The woman noticed him looking at her. The half-smile was gone and she was biting her lower lip, making it plumper and pinker. She looked at up at Sherlock from beneath her long lashes, blackened with mascara. He could see a slight blush creeping across her cheeks, like she knew what he was thinking.
Mycroft's voice brought Sherlock out of his contemplations.
"This is Ri," Mycroft said, indicating the woman on the sofa. "She will be assisting you in your search for Moriarty."
"I don't need an assistant," Sherlock snarled.
He instantly regretted the words as they came out of his mouth. He spared a quick glance at the woman and saw that she was no longer biting her lower lip. Instead, a confident smile spread across her face, making the corners of her eyes crinkle.
"I'm afraid you don't have a choice Mr. Holmes," Ri informed him.
She's American, Sherlock thought, but her speech was a melange of regional accents. Well traveled. He thought he detected the smallest amount of British accent in the words.
"If you think because my brother wants you to help me," Sherlock spat out, but the rest of the sentence was cut off.
"I'm afraid the elder Mr. Holmes doesn't have a choice either," Ri said wryly.
Definitely a hint of a British accent, Sherlock thought.
"I will be assisting you with this case at the request of Her Majesty herself," she continued. "I promise I can actually be of some use to you in this matter. I have contacts in various intelligence agencies around the world and extensive contacts among the, let's say... less civilized parts of Eastern Europe. I'm quite skilled at collecting information that other people may not be able to access, and I designed the CIA's cyber-security, which means I know exactly how to get in undetected."
"You mean you're a hacker," Mycroft stated, with barely disguised contempt.
"It is one of my many talents, yes," Ri responded flatly, her nostrils flaring slightly in anger.
Sherlock was impressed. Very few people stood up to his brother, and even fewer got away with it. He resigned himself to the fact that he would be having to spend more time with Ri. Maybe that wasn't a bad thing after all, he thought.
"Since John no longer requires your spare room, Ri will be staying here until her services are no longer needed," Mycroft quipped.
Sherlock couldn't keep the surprise from showing on his face.
"Perhaps she will be able to get you to clean this abomination you call a flat," Mycroft drawled, as he ran a finger over the window sill. He looked at Sherlock in disgust, daring Sherlock to say something.
Mycroft picked up his coat from the back of the chair it had been resting on and tucked his umbrella under his arm.
"Until next time, brother mine."
Sherlock said nothing, watching Mycroft walk out the door.