The only unlocked door on the street. The knob squeaked in protest as a delicate hand coaxed it to open. The flat was quiet, just the way it should be at four in the morning. From what she could distinguish, every available surface was cluttered with things. It would be tricky getting to the cupboards. Her bare feet tiptoed across the room to the kitchen, heading straight towards the pantry, avoiding anything that could make noise. The pantry door opened quietly enough but the contents made her empty stomach drop towards her feet. An old box of crackers, a moldy loaf of bread, and a can of peaches. Whoever lived here obviously had food elsewhere. They had to. No one could live on junk like that. She grabbed the peaches and stale crackers anyway, her stomach ruling over her better judgement.

Her ears caught the sound of deep breathing behind her. She turned quickly, swinging her right fist around to the space the breathing had come from. A long fingered hand redirected her momentum and slammed her face first into the wall, knocking the food loose. She was spun around and her hands pinned against the wall above her with a large black shoe stepping on both of her feet painfully hard. She struggled but it succeeded only in spreading around the blood oozing from her nose and mouth. The superior strength of her attacker kept her at bay. She stopped and examined the man in front of her. He was very pale, almost luminescent in the darkness with sculpted features, about six feet tall with a lean but muscular build. He was strangely still in a dress shirt and slacks, worn that day (obvious from the day's wrinkles). It occurred to her that he hadn't spoken yet. Why? He was supposed to ask what she was doing here. She scrutinized his face and realized that he was looking at her. Not at her face but all of her in a calm, detached manner.

"Interesting," he murmured finally, not easing up in his grip in the slightest.

She kept her mouth shut, not willing to give anything away.

He glanced at her, then continued. "It's obvious that you are a spy, so why don't you tell me your name, so I know who I am dealing with."

Her eyes widened slightly in surprise, but she kept her silence.

"Come now," he said impatiently. "The only reason I haven't called the police is because you are intriguing. So intrigue me."

"Melanie."

He snorted. "Your real name."

"Eliza Alden."

His eyes lit up with what could be characterized as excitement. This was not the usual reaction to her name, especially in Britain. "In the top five most wanted persons in at least twenty five countries, including this one. Ex-MI6, disappeared five years ago."

Eliza kept her face emotionless. "Who are you? How do you know those things?"

He came back from his mental vacation. "Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

Holmes. Panic rushed into her at the name. It wasn't at Sherlock Holmes, however, that brought on the reaction but one Mycroft Holmes. They couldn't be related but of course, they would be, knowing Eliza's luck.

"My brother is looking for you, you know," he continued conversationally. Ah, there it was. Eliza's hunch was right on the money.

"Let me go."

"Not an option. Unlike most of the people you encounter, I know what you are capable of."

Blood was still dripping from her nose, down her neck. "A tissue at least, to clean up my face."

He shook his head, looking lost in thought. "You could work..." Holmes mused.

She stopped paying attention to him and began concentrating on how to get out of his grasp. Her hands obviously weren't an option, but her feet might be. She would have to tear them out from under his foot though, which would hurt quite a bit. Maybe she would talk him up a bit, try and get him distracted enough to ease up on his hold.

"I need a temporary housekeeper. And you obviously need a place that has food and is away from the government. So you will stay here," he informed her.

She laughed out loud. "How do you figure that is a great arrangement? I am supposed to have murdered several people in cold blood and you want to try and imprison me here to do your cleaning? Plus, your brother is in the government. I refuse. Let me go."

He shook his head again. "How about a further incentive to stay?" He let her go, knowing full well that he had piqued her interest.

She grabbed a dish towel on the oven and put it to her nose and mouth, wiping the blood away as much as possible. "What is the incentive?"

"You think you are innocent of whatever it is MI6 has accused you of. Why else would you be back in London?" He did another one of those cursory glances of his and continued. "You were in the wilderness of Romania trying to help your case. You have been sneaking back to London to follow the trail but you haven't found what you are looking for yet. Nasty run in with an old fellow spy I see."

"How do you know all of this?" She was getting to ready to make a run for it. There was no way he should know any of that, other than the conflict with an old friend. The evidence of that was clear from her bandaged shoulder, clearly visible under her tank top.

"I am a consulting detective. The only one in the world."

This man was obviously crazy. He was taking shots in the dark and getting lucky was all. "Consulting detective? Sure."

"Romania. There are bits of wood and leaves all over your clothes and hair, especially the cuff of your shorts, with a few of the specimens being specific only to Romania. You are obviously a spy because everything about you denotes it. Very in shape body, lean muscle used to heavy abuse, ability to ignore intense pain, unintimidated in circumstances. Your pulse calmed down after our tussle, instead of escalating or remaining high like a normal person's would have. You wouldn't be sneaking back here if you had what you were looking for. You would either waltz back in or not show up at all." He sniffed the air. "You haven't showered for at least three days and since you are after food, it is quite obvious you haven't eaten decently since then either." The tall man swept to his favorite armchair in the living room and interlaced his fingers. He leaned back and closed his eyes. "I can find whatever evidence you need to clear your name, if you are indeed innocent."

Eliza rinsed out the towel in the kitchen and used it to clean her face one last time. "I need insurance that this isn't a set up."

Sherlock hummed a bit of Beethoven's 9th symphony as he thought. "I could give you something valuable of mine."

"You aren't attached to anything enough to make you stop doing what you want." It was her job to read people.

He cracked an eye open in approval. "Very good. I can't give you more insurance than my word. You have me interested in your case."

"I do not have a case."

"You do now."

She sighed and put down the towel, spitting the last bit of blood into the sink. Truth be told, she was tired of running. She was tired of being hunted and stabbed and shot at by the people she once worked for. And this man actually sounded like he knew what he was doing. He had read her like an open book. This was just too much of a risk though. She knew Mycroft personally and if he happened to stop by, he would recognize her.

"Also," Sherlock drawled, "I hate my brother."

Eliza walked over to him and crouched down in front of him. "You do realize that if you turn me over, I will be killed."

"Quite aware of it."

"And if you get involved, there is a good chance you could be killed as well."

"All the more interesting."

She sighed again. This was crazy. She wasn't really going to say yes. "Okay. I'll stay." Why
didn't her mouth ever listen to her brain?

Sherlock grinned and jumped to his feet, startling her. "Excellent. I will finish my current case, then start on yours. And you can start on the kitchen."

"I am going to sleep first." She said it in a way that did not allow for negotiation.

"If you must." He grabbed his long trench coat and headed for the door.

"Mr. Holmes."

He turned around to face her.

"Thank you."

He scornfully sneered and left. "I want coffee ready by eight."

Eliza smiled hollowly. This could work, if he could do what he said he could.