A child in a war zone. Well, not a child. By societies standards, she should be both a woman and a child. But when she's doing something like this, it's easiest to pretend it's a game, like hide-n-seek.
Kick-stab-kick.
Pull trigger.
Duck-punch-elbow-down-swipe.
Pull trigger.
She moves, swifter than a ghost and visible as air, and makes her way through all five men in the house. On her unseen face is a look of blank concentration. It's a job, a reflex. There's no choice to whether or not it should be done: killing security threats -the ones who blew her convoy- to protect her family.
She leaves the house, brain bursting with information gleaned from the minds of the men that now lie dead on the floor, rotting in their own blood.
There wasn't a bullet wasted.
The hummer that wasn't destroyed by the explosion is waiting two miles away. It carries four survivors and as many corpses. Wombat climbs in, letting the light hit her once more. Bouncing back. Making her visible. Her gore spattered forehead sinks against the hot fabric of the passenger seat as the vehicle jerks into motion.
She's tired. It wears you out, saps your energy. But at this point in time, there are no tears.
After all, she tells herself, it's just a game.
John would do anything for Wombat (and the other way around) so it was no surprise that the next time Mycroft comes around, John is on him instantly.
"What do you know about a girl named Allie Lark?"
"Never hear of her."
John sighs in frustration and grabs the back of the armchair. "Operative Wombat."
"Oh?" Mycroft's eyebrows go up in surprise. "Tsk. Did she tell you?"
"I served with her for three years before her transfer. I would think you of all people would know that."
"Very few are privileged to any information when it comes to Operative Wombat. No records are kept of her protection unit. Though, this does explain why she was so angry when we transferred her. I suppose you took care of her."
"Through thick and thin."
The voice comes from the doorway, causing the two men to jump. Neither of them have noticed Wombat's silent trek up the stairs.
"Mr Holmes, so nice of you to join us. I brought take away." She pushes away from where she has been leaning of the doorframe and drops the plastic bag of food on the coffee table before plopping onto the couch and dragging the large paper bag Mycroft had brought in with him over with her foot.
The dress within it is a lovely shade of dove grey. It has a embroidered corset top that laced in the back, and a skirt made of different layers of lace. Though front ends at mid thighs, the back falls to the floor. It screams sex appeal.
Wombat shrugs and let the dress fall back into the bag before breaking open the chow mien.
"Well?"
"There's a masked ball at...well," the elder Holmes shoots a glance towards John. "A location Wednesday evening. Your job is to simply make sure none of the high risk profiles are planning anything."
"Bo-ring," Wombat sings. "But the dress I like. Who picked it out?"
"My secretary."
John stares in disbelief at the exchange; she treats it like it's so normal, as if it is a daily happening.
"John," the girl turns around and smiles. "Stop staring and eat your chicken. And don't worry. I have a job and I do it and I'm safe."
"She is the best," Mycroft added.
"Who will be my escort?" Wombat yawns, stretching with the chopsticks and food in her hands. Her shirt pulls up to show a very pale strip of too thin stomach.
"My brother."
Her face falls. In the week she's lived at Baker she's come to know all of Sherlock's many, unpredictable moods.
"Though I hate to admit it, my brother's skills are necessary in this situation. There's been talk of trouble."
"And a man with the emotional stability of a toddler and a shell-shocked Saloon Girl are going to prevent that."
As soon as Mycroft leaves, John turns to the girl sprawled in his armchair.
"Mycroft Holmes is your benefactor?"
"I didn't make the connection between the names until just now, but I suppose he is quite similar to Sherlock."
John mutters something about sending girls out onto dangerous missions, and Wombat gave him another accommodating smile.
"I'm nineteen John, been doing this for years. I'll be fine."
"See, Wom, you say that, and then you'll get quiet and jumpy and it'll be harder for you to control it! You'll start screaming again and you'll get overwhelmed and it's hard enough for me without having to worry about you!"
She blinks at his sudden outburst, and hurt fills her eyes as she stands, face smooth. "You should've just said so. It's London John, I'll find another flat in an instant, and you can forget about me."
Instantly, he regrets his harsh words, and grabs her arm, tugging her into a hug.
"All I'm saying, is I don't want them to hurt you again."
Wombat rests her chin on his shoulder and shakes her head. "They wouldn't dare."