Elle left her interview with Mycroft Holmes that Wednesday with a chest full of hope, but a clear head. It was entirely probable that she would get the postion- she had met every requirement- all that was lacking in her resumé at this point was experience- and she had the good word of Mr. Briggs to support her.
Mr. Holmes, dry, exact, sarcastic and unaffectionate, had ended the interview with a polite handshake and the promise of a call within the week to inform her of his decision. But she was hopeful. She had seen the spark of intrigue in his eyes.
She left the building just as calm and collected as she had entered it. Her black sheath dress was ideal for the end of the summer's dull, throbbing heat. Her blonde, wavy hair was seemingly unaffected and unfrizzed, pinned up in a becoming way as it was. She had attracted the silent glances of a number of the elderly gentlemen in the lobby where she waited for her appointment but paid them no mind.
She had only realized minutes into the interview that the job title given to her by Mr. Briggs was inaccurate. She had assumed she would be another secretary in another office, and therefore had not given the weight of the interview much thought. Personal assistant or aide would be better, she thought, when halfway through their meeting her potential tasks were explained to her.
"I'm quite sure I can do all of this and more, Mr. Holmes." she had said to him honestly, scanning the printed sheet he had given her. They were all duties she had fulfulled for Mr. Briggs at some point or another, though none of them could quite be classified as secretarial.
She looked up with a slightly questioning smile, knowing now that this interview was now all-important. "May I ask how many have applied for the position?"
"A handful of candidates have come to me from within the outer offices, all sniffing to advance themselves. You, Miss Daniels, are the only outsider applying."
"That applies to your benefit, I suppose." Elle said reasonably. "I come with no alibis, no reservations, no prejudices. Could you do with a clean slate, Mr. Holmes?"
"Couldn't we all?" he responded dryly, to which she had smiled.
Now, as she stood waiting to hail a cab, nobody looking out into the street would have guessed how much her heeled shoes pained her, the easy, logical thoughts going through her mind, or in reality how much she was depending on getting this job.
She had been born and raised much richer than she was at the current moment. She had had to sell her suburban car to pay the down payment on her new flat. This was no matter, she thought, raising her hand with a practiced air to slow the cab wandering down the street. If she got the job, she would be comfortably settled indeed. And there was always public transportation. She held no qualms about that.
She did not know, but might have guessed she was being watched, if her mind hadn't been occupied. Her intention to make a good first impression had not gone unnoticed.
Mycroft Holmes watched her hail the cab from behind his office curtains and felt a stab of something like pity. She was young. Questionably young to become involved in his affairs. Especially as a personal assistant.
His phone chimed quietly from his pocket. He fished it out and answered it with half a smile. Briggs was an old friend of his, besides being a useful business partner to have. They shared a mutual respect.
"Impeccable timing, as usual, William." he greeted.
"Will you have her?" came the lawyer's fruity voice immediately. "She is certainly qualified. Best you have so far, I imagine."
"Too young. Inexperienced." Mycroft said promptly, returning to his desk. "Too green for this office."
"That might prove useful." Briggs said. "She has no loyalties that tie her to anything."
Mycroft snorted, shuffling absent-mindedly through her resumé. "What about her past? Anything significant?"
"Not that I could find. You're better on that front than I am, old friend. I believe there's something strange about her, but as it never interfered with day-to-day business I never pursued it."
The elder Holmes sighed and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. His friend, though fierce in the courtroom and jolly out of it, was faithfully unthorough in the minor details that Mycroft himself was so involved in. The girl could have any type of background, any at all, even if she had graduated cum laude from her university.
"Give her a month, Mycroft. She won't have found anything important out by then, will she?"
"I wonder that you are so invested in this young lady's fortunes, William." Mycroft commented, just slightly teasing. "Are you quite sure the relationship was all business?"
"To hell with you, man. She's young enough to be my granddaughter." The lawyer chuckled.
Mycroft decided. "We'll give it a few weeks, William, for your sake. At any rate I could stand some new blood."
"That's the spirit." Briggs said cheerfully.
Outside, unbeknownst to Mycroft or Elle, another set of eyes was watching the woman enter the taxi with interest. It was unusual a Holmes to hire a new face.
James Moriarty, hidden well behind sunglasses and an overcoat across the street, watched the cab leave in a southerly direction, his brain idly working at the fresh information. If she was taking a taxi she had no car of her own. Yet to Jim, this was niggling. Her clothes, her reservedness, the manner in which she had descended the steps and hailed the cab- as if she owned the very pavement she tread on- appealed to him as someone with money, or who was used to money.
This was interesting. Why would such a young woman with money to spare on fine clothes be applying to work for the underbelly of the government itself- Mycroft Holmes? Why also would such a woman take a cab?
His nose curled in distaste. Dirty public spaces, taxicabs.
The woman herself would have passed out of his mind and been forgotten, useless, except that he was not only here to gaze at passersby. He was searching for a fresh way to infiltrate Mycroft's offices- they were extraordinarily useful to have as sources.
He could always hack into the servers. Child's play. But there was always the risk of being caught and traced. He wanted no inkling, no trace of even a remote, passing fantasy that he was alive and well and continuing to roam the streets of London.
His mind lingered on the young woman. Perhaps he would just have to go about this the old-fashioned way.