Broken
Chapter 1
Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock" or "The X-Files." I'm borrowing them for a while.
Her name is Mina. She's four-years-old, and he watches her play, the little girl with his eyes and her mother's smile. An ordinary little girl, in so many ways, but a miracle nonetheless. Once upon a time, he would have scoffed at "ordinary," but now, for his child, he craves normal. In her case, ordinary is good. It's safe. He wants that for her, but not as much as he wants her to grow up knowing she is loved, and the most important thing in his life. Five years, and he's been broken and humbled in ways he can't yet quantify. Half a decade since the fall, but it's still like it happened yesterday for him. Leaving London and everything familiar for a new life and a new name. But he's moved past that. Moved on for his child, for the memory of her mother, who she'll never know.
His life hasn't turned out quite how he imagined, but he doesn't dwell on that anymore. The work he does is too important, and being a parent takes more out of him than any previous endeavor in his life. Every day he chooses to move forward. A new day in this second chance he's been given. A gift he's not quite sure he deserves, but he'll take it. It's all he has left, and Mina. For a dead man, it's enough. It has to be. The world has moved on, and so has Sherlock Holmes.
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They have a house in Bethesda, kindly provided by his employers. Close enough to Washington, D.C., to allow a short commute, and also ensuring his handler easy access when he needs to drop by. Holmes still consults, but not his terms. He had no part in negotiating the articles of his employment. He considers the fact he was railroaded, but he doesn't complain about it. The world's former first consulting detective knows where he stands with the Americans. He exceeds their expectations and they leave him alone. Alone meaning they don't bother him at home unless it's an emergency. Work and home are two separate entities now, or at least as much as he can separate them.
His employer appreciates his abilities, and Holmes doesn't take for granted that the people he works with don't consider him a freak. Most of them respect is intellect and deductive skills, and put up with his eccentricities because it's part of the package. He's still blunt with his honesty, but he's learned diplomacy. He's had to. Oh, if only John Watson could see him now. Broken and tamed and brought to heel by circumstances beyond his control.
His brother, Mycroft, has enjoyed the change, and never passes up the chance to mention it. He calls once a week, drops by every few months, making sure everything is going well, and to spoil his niece. Holmes suspects that is the main reason for the visits-Mycroft loves his niece, and never lets his brother forget how lucky he is. Holmes knows, and won't forget. Only two days have passed since Mycroft's latest visit, which included the usual threats to behave himself and a gift for Mina. Mycroft outdid himself this time, Holmes reflected, bringing Mina a dog. A puppy. A yellow, floppy-eared chewing machine that had yet to be named. And he'd asked, as he always did, if he wanted to know how John Watson was doing. The answer, as it always was, was no.
Maybe if it had all turned out differently, he'd say yes, but Holmes didn't want to know. It was a part of his life that was over and done, a life belonging to another man.
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The J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington, D.C. housed the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and the office of the handler of one Sherlock Holmes. Walter Skinner, assistant director of the FBI, was used to handling geniuses, divas, and difficult agents. He'd had 10 years with one of the most difficult in the history of the bureau, and now he was beginning year five of his tenure with Holmes. The man was brilliant, but had a god complex that he'd managed to whittle down to an acceptable level. Holmes knew what was at stake, and had, so far, upheld his part of the bargain, the deal his brother brokered with the American government when he needed a place to stash his brother after he'd faked his own death.
Skinner still didn't know all the details, nor did he want to. Half a decade in the past, and it didn't matter anymore, not to him or Holmes. They understood each other. That and Mycroft Holmes owed him a huge personal favor for taking on the challenge of keeping an eye on his baby brother. Now, Skinner was waiting on Holmes, and a late arrival wasn't unusual. He looked up when his secretary opened his door.
"Sir, he's here," she said, and Holmes followed her in, barely waiting until the door was closed to start in.
"I'm behaving myself, I did not divulge any information of a sensitive nature to my brother, because he's quite capable of finding it out on his own, and before you ask, Mina is fine," Holmes said.
"I'm glad to hear it," Skinner said. "But that's not why I wanted to talk. Holmes, take a seat."
Holmes sat, slouching back in his seat, steepling his fingers. "Well?" he said.
"I got a call from Mycroft this morning," Skinner said. "I have some news to pass on about your friend, John Watson. He was arrested last night."
"What? John? Arrested? For what?" Holmes asked.
"Murder," Skinner said.
