"Are you ready for the world to see you as you really are?"

Natasha Romanoff was a woman on the run. Her feet were weary from repeatedly pounding the pavement. Her body ached from near constant exertion and not enough rest. She was tired and vulnerable and exposed.

Over a year ago she'd attended a committee hearing addressing S.H.I.E.L.D.'s infiltration by Hydra, and the subsequent collapse of both organizations. She'd been running ever since.

Soulless soviet running for her life was a familiar skin. One she thought she'd left behind when she'd turned over the proverbial new leaf and joined S.H.I.E.L.D. She'd spent years atoning for her past under their protection. Burying her secrets. She forgot secrets never keep.

By exposing Hydra, and by extension, S.H.I.E.L.D, Natasha had also exposed her herself. She'd made herself the target of not only the United States government but also every other government and terrorist organization she'd worked against during her long, blood-drenched career. It was only fitting. Her previous protection and anonymity had come at a heavy price. She knew the score. Blood begets blood, after all.

Still, she was a survivor and she had a job to do—a past to atone for. Idle hands or so the saying went. She couldn't count on Steve to help her because he was busy chasing his own demons with Sam. Clint had a family of three, and one on the way, to protect. Tony was still elbow deep in damage control. Bruce made it a point to avoid stress. S.H.I.E.L.D. was in ruins and its agents were scattered, along with their loyalties. Not for the first time in her life, Natasha was alone.

Story of my life.

It was an old debt that brought her to Paris in June. One of many she'd been settling during her year off the grid.

Tori Raven, an acquaintance from the old days, promised her information. Natasha flew in to meet her just outside Paris to make the exchange. Twenty-four hours later found her in a house on La Courneuve or what Raven referred to as the French ghetto. Natasha struck gold. A location and a name.

She stopped for a bottle of vodka on her way back to the safe house. About a block away, she tipped her head back to look up at the stars.

She'd always loved Paris in the summer. She loved the promise of warm rain spattering her skin perhaps almost as much loved the bitter cold of Russian winters. Almost. There was something like comfort in both, at least. Or there had been once upon a time. Those days were long gone.

She lowered her eyes to the alleyway leading up to her destination when she rounded the corner, and swept them over the narrow path between buildings. The slumped form beside her door caught her attention. She reached for her gun.

"Rise and shine," she drawled in perfect French.

When the man didn't stir, Natasha sauntered over and crouched in front of him with her gun clearly within view. His eyes weren't open to see it. Upon closer inspection of his face and body she noticed he was injured, and not from a run of the mill beating. He'd been systematically abused over several days. She recognized the signs.

He was also underfed, and his wrists were rubbed raw by what she could only assume were rope bindings. He'd been held captive. For a week perhaps, but she couldn't be sure until she had a better look. She'd have to drag him in for that soon if she didn't want to be dealing with a corpse come morning.

Rising from her crouch, Natasha opened the door using a hidden keypad and deposited the bottle of vodka on her kitchen counter. She stepped back out still holding her gun and crouched in front of him one more time.

"Hey." Her voice was just fractionally softer this time around as she turned his face to look her way. She no longer bothered with French. "You alive in there?"

The man's bright clear blue eyes snapped open, and his hand moved quickly to grasp her wrist. He didn't attack, or otherwise move, just held onto her. Eyes went to the gun, over her crouched form, and then landed on her face. "If…if you're going to kill me…please do it quickly."

Natasha's green gazed locked onto his blue one. "I'm not going to kill you," she decided at length. "What I am going to do is drag you inside and help you. In return you're going to explain exactly how you came to be on my doorstep in the first place." She twisted her wrist out of his grasp without breaking eye contact and lowered her knees to the pavement so that she was kneeling beside him. "Put your arm around my shoulders."

The man hesitated, but after a moment he did as instructed. A stifled groan accompanied the movement as she helped him off of the ground. "It…it's a…long story."

"I'll bet." Natasha snaked an arm around his broken torso and very slowly helped him to his feet. He was heavier than he looked and quite a bit taller than her, but she guided him inside with a fair amount of ease. She nudged the door closed with her foot once they were inside. "Should I even bother asking for your name?"

Her couch was just eight steps away, past the adjoining kitchen. She helped him into a controlled collapse when they reached it so that he was stretched out on his back. "John…if you need one."

"I need one. You look like you'll be sticking around for a while." Natasha sat on the coffee table and faced him, debating the level threat he posed. His injuries weren't an act. She could tell now that she'd had a look in better lighting. He was also in no condition to fight her either. At least not yet.

Her eyes settled on his face one more time. "Okay, look. I don't know you and you don't know me, but someone did a real number on you. I'd really rather not deal with another dead body right now and, I'm assuming, you'd rather not die. So I'm going to help you and it's going to hurt, but I can't do that with a gun in my hand." Her eyes locked with his. "So whoever you are and whatever you're here for, I'm going to ask you for a truce instead of trust. Does that sound fair?"

Pale blue eyes, sticking out from the bruises and abrasions that decorated his face, ran over her again in the better lighting. "Fair." He said at last, his voice tired and heavy. "I'll behave…because I'm quite certain you would not...hesitate to kill me otherwise. You're an agent, trained killer."

"Yes." Natasha watched him for a moment longer, then stood. "Don't move. I'll be right back."

Once inside her bedroom, she removed her weapons and placed them neatly on top of her dresser. She lingered in front of it when she was done, considering. He was hurt, but it wouldn't be the first time someone was fooled by a pretty pair of eyes and a broken body. She reasoned she could subdue him without weapons if it became necessary. As tired as she was, survival instinct had a way of taking over and getting the job done.

She moved away from the dresser and shrugged out of her leather jacket. The shirt and jeans beneath were a little dirty and bloodspattered, but otherwise intact. She took her boots off next, kicked them to a corner and raked her hair up into ponytail on her way to the bathroom. Having gathered the few medical supplies she kept on hand for emergencies, she stole a peek at herself in the mirror and slipped back out into the living room.

"Talk to me," she requested once she'd resumed her place atop the coffee table, laying the items out beside her one by one. "Tell me what happened. Gist of it, at least."

"Trouble." He paused. "I had a…an assignment, and I wasn't meant to survive. It's done, I succeeded…but those people will try to find and kill me. Just…so you know."

Natasha snapped on a pair of gloves and leaned over to check his wounds. "I appreciate the warning." Her eyes strayed briefly to his face. "I've got a few people on my tail too. Nothing I can't handle, but they might still make an appearance and make things difficult. Just so you know." She straightened a little and scooted closer to the edge of the table to begin cleaning his wounds. She spoke while she worked. "You don't strike me as an agent," she said. "My first guess with you would be MI6 going by your accent, but I've met people from MI6. I don't think you're one of them. Is it pointless to ask that too?"

"MI6…sort of…at least now." He said, hissing as she cleaned a wound on his chest. "It's a long story. I'm…a consulting detective, or was."

"Consulting detective." Natasha worked in silence while she debated how much of her own story she wanted to reveal. She knew he'd gleaned at least some information from her appearance alone, but she still didn't know how much. "I'm no longer an agent, but I used to be. Lost my job about a year ago. If 'lost' is the right word."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. agent then." The man concluded. "Your accent…is currently American, but I suspect it was something else. You're currently…on the run, ever since the organization fell. The people on your tail…they know who you are, but you're.…quite good-" He barely suppressed another cry as the wound pulled, fisting his fingers into his dirty boxers.

Natasha's hands stilled over his chest. "I'm almost done," she assured him and resumed working after a moment's hesitation. "I think I know who you are."

The man didn't look surprised, but there was a certain amount of vulnerability in his tired eyes. "Then I'm impressed." He said, pausing a moment as he studied her again. "And I think…I think I know who you are too."

"Then I'm impressed," Natasha echoed with the barest hint of a smile. "If you know who I am, then you know my reputation. I said I wouldn't kill you, though, and I meant it." She paused. "Sherlock Holmes?"

"If you were going to, you'd have done it by now, without helping me." Sherlock Holmes said, the corner of his mouth raising in a ghost of a smirk despite the circumstances. He took another second, pulling her name out of the sheer amount of information he had. "Natasha Romanoff, it's a pleasure."

"Likewise." Natasha smiled fully but continued working in silence until she was finished. She straightened her spine and turned her upper half away from him to clean the mess of bloodied gauze beside her on the table. "I'm done for now," she announced. "If you feel up to taking a shower, I can go find a towel. Clothes I don't have. None that will fit you, at least, but I'll run out and find some first thing tomorrow. If you don't mind wearing just a blanket until then, that is."

"Not at all." Sherlock said, relaxing into the couch and closing his eyes. "Need to sleep. I'll.…shower later."

"I'll find that blanket." Natasha made quick work of cleaning up and putting away her supplies before rummaging through her room for an extra blanket. He was almost completely far gone when she stepped back out to drape it over him and she eyed him perhaps a second too long.

On her way back to her room, she grabbed the bottle of vodka from the kitchen counter and flicked off the light. "Sweet dreams," she called quietly.

There was a murmur of response, but nothing else from the battered man. Natasha grabbed a towel from her closet without closing her bedroom door and took the vodka with her into the bathroom. It was small but clean, and organized like the rest of her safe house. She closed the door behind her with a soft click, turned the shower on with a quick swipe of her hand and sunk to the floor while twisting the cap off her bottle. She took a generous sip.

After she'd showered and changed, and after she'd gone through her little apartment twice checking doors and windows, she collapsed on her bed with a heavy sigh. From her position on the mattress, she could see the back of her couch past her bedroom door. Sherlock Holmes would be fast asleep on the other side.

Natasha wasn't sure how she felt about that. She hadn't slept in such close proximity to another living being in over a year and they weren't even sharing a bed. She felt vulnerable, she decided. And though her eyes eventually closed and her body managed to relax, sleep didn't come easy.

Come morning, she was dressed and ready to go far too early. She left to meet with Tori Raven one more time and left a note for Sherlock on the counter explaining she'd be back shortly with clothes and food.

She picked both up on the way back, but lingered just outside her door for longer than she cared to admit. She didn't just feel vulnerable, she realized. She felt displaced and out of sorts. Perhaps because her new life was starting to feel so much like her old one.

Or, a voice whispered inside her head, perhaps because for the first time in a very long time, she didn't feel so alone.