Margaret's eyes fluttered open and she was met with a bright light, which she immediately shied away from. Her head was still spinning, though the rest of her was horribly stiff and sore. She blinked several times, trying to banish the black spots that danced in her vision. When she could once again see, Margaret noticed the room she was in.

It was dingy to say the least, but one lone bulb swung from the ceiling, casting shadows about the room. She was in a kneeling position on the cold stone floor and, she noticed, her wrists were shackled on either side of her, fastening her to metal rings cemented into the floor.

"Oh, they've got ta be jokin'"

"I assure you, Miss Gladstone, this is not a joke."

Margaret hung her head with a huff, her red hair falling messily about her as the door swung open. She knew that voice, it was the posh fellow she had kicked in the jaw, who then proceeded to sedate her and, she guessed, lock her up in this dingy hole.

Mycroft came around so that he was standing in front of her looking down. Margaret craned her neck up to look at him. He was wearing a new suit, she noticed, which told her it must have been at least a full day since she had been sedated.

While this was not exactly good news, she noticed something else which brought her spirits up. Much to her delight, there was a large purple bruise already formed on his jaw.

"I see yer bruise is comin' in real nice." she quipped, not even bothering to hide her delight.

"Yes well, I have you to thank for that, don't I?" his hand unconsciously went to his jaw and he glared down at the Scottish criminal.

"Yer very welcome," Margaret nodded her head. "Now, onto more important matters, how long are yeh plannin' ta keep me here?"

"That all depends on you, Miss Gladstone." Mycroft said idly, "give us the location of the disk and you're free to go."

Margaret groaned; this again. She was beginning to question their intelligence. What part of 'I ain't gonna tell you a thing' did they not understand.

"God's sake, what was on that disk that's got all yer panties in such a twist?"

Mycroft froze, fixing Margaret with a bewildered expression. Margaret met his eyes and her eyebrows rose, waiting for an answer.

"Do you mean to tell me that you are risking your life to keep it hidden and you don't even know what's on it?"

"Ah course not," she answered, feeling suddenly very out of the loop. She squared her shoulders awkwardly, "it was a job for a client, and I didn't bother to look at what was on it. Not my place."

"And you're client would be-?" Mycroft goaded her. Margaret however, knew what he was trying to do and grinned.

"Ever heard of doctor patient confidentiality?"

"Yes," Mycroft answered hesitantly, not sure where this was leading.

"Same basic principle." Margaret grinned, leaning forward and winking swiftly at him.

Mycroft looked down at her, his brows knitting together in what looked to be a look of pity. Margaret didn't like that look, not on him. It made her feel small and definitely not like the accomplished criminal she was. Without another word, he turned on his heel and passed her, going back through the door.

"Oi, where're ya goin'!?"

But she received no answer. The door slammed shut and she was once again left in the silence of the dingy room. Margaret slumped forward, feeling the shackles digging into her wrists as she flexed her numb fingers. She shook her hands, trying in vain to loosen the grip of the metal on her flesh.

When it didn't look as though they would be slipping anytime soon, she sighed and hung her head, prepared to wait out this captivity with as much dignity as she could muster, which admittedly, wasn't much.

…

Margaret had only been locked in that room for about an hour and she was already going steadily mad with boredom, and kneeling in the same position was becoming terribly uncomfortable. In that hour, however she had come to notice the mirror which stood right in front of her and spent a good fifteen minutes wondering how she had missed it.

"Another two-way if I'm not mistaken," she muttered to herself, glaring at the glass, hoping that the posh government man stood behind it bearing the brunt of her glare.

Suddenly the door behind her swung open and Margaret heard the sound of heavy boots on the concrete. Definitely not the light Italian shoes of the posh man.

"Sent in the cavalry, has he?" she shouted over her shoulder, smirking and feeling quite pleased with herself.

Two men came around her, big burly men whom she recognized from the interrogation room. Pattenson and that other man, she remembered. Pattenson looked particularly pleased and the other man simply stood stoically beside him.

"What ho, gentlemen. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Pattenson's smile grew and from his belt he produced a pair of leather gloves, which he immediately put on, his smirk ever growing. Margaret's eyes drifted to his hands and knitted together in confusion.

"What're yeh doin'?" her voice was slightly panicked.

"Orders from on high," he grinned, "and I would be lying if I said I wasn't a tad pleased."

"Wha-"

She was silenced by his fist connecting with the side of her head. She cried out and her head shot to the side. Next, she felt his boot against her stomach followed his fist to her jaw. The other man was stayed silent, standing in the corner of the room watching with a look of disinterest.

"The disk?" Pattenson prodded.

Margaret slowly lifted her head, a grin easing its way onto her face, her teeth red with blood. A giggle escaped her lips and her head lolled back as she stared up at him with wild eyes.

"Do your worst, yeh won't get a word outta me."

And that he did. Pattenson discarded his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves, trying to look intimidating. True to her word, Margaret kept silent, taking the beatings like a real trooper.

Though, she would be lying if she said it wasn't terribly uncomfortable, what with the cuffs ripping her arms this way and that every time she moved, which seeing as she was being slapped around, was quite often.

…

Behind the mirror on the wall, Mycroft watched the scene play out before him. He was not alone however. Two other men stood beside him watching the beating of the Scottish criminal.

"So this is her?" one of them asked, their voice tinged with slight disbelief.

"Yes." Mycroft answered simply. He stood with perfect posture and face completely devoid of emotion. His hands he held behind his back and his eyes never left the redheaded thief.

"Got in and out of Downing Street unscathed," the other one mentioned, "how'd you catch her?"

"She was careless." Mycroft responded with an air of indifference. Though, even he began to wonder.

It was common knowledge among those elite few that Margaret Gladstone was one of the most skilled thieves in Great Britain, never getting caught but always being seen. Of course, the general public had no idea who she was and the Crown opted to keep it that way.

But again, that made Mycroft wonder. What could make her so careless as to get caught? Or was she even being careless, was this all part of some elaborate plan? Mycroft had no idea, and he hated it.

…

It had been many hours of rough handling on Margaret's part when the two brutes finally left the small room. She was lying in a heap on the floor, unmoving and breathing already very shallow.

'Crafty bastards,' she thought to herself, they had been smart enough not to rupture anything important but had still managed to make it painful.

Her wrists were raw with the constant pulling of the shackles and she was sure there was a gash on her head because blood kept pouring into her already swollen eyes.

The iron door screeched open behind her and she visibly flinched, all too sure it was those too gorillas back to take another whack at her. But the sound was not one of boots but a soft click. She knew who it was immediately and she was in no mood for it.

"So Miss Gladstone," he drawled, coming to stand in front of her crumpled body, "I do hope we've persuaded you enough."

Margaret couldn't move but she had enough strength left in her to let a soft, wheezing laugh escape her lips. Mycroft looked down, surprised at the woman.

"Something you find funny, Miss Gladstone?"

Margaret, with any strength she had left, which wasn't much, pushed herself off the cold ground just enough so that she was staring up into the stern face of Mycroft. She laughed again.

"Yeh can beat me, yeh can torture me, yeh can do whatever you like with me, but I assure yeh it is nothin', nothin' compared to what I've got in store if I give yeh that disk."

Mycroft's eyebrows rose in question and Margaret grinned up at him; her teeth still red with blood, making her look like some kind of savage. But there was something else on her face, a spark just behind her eyes which Mycroft had seen many a time. Fear.

"We can offer you protection," he pressed, "whoever this client of yours is, we can-"

"No." her voice was small now, barely audible, "no yeh can't. And even if yeh could, I'm not takin' that chance."

She went silent, ignoring the continued goading from Mycroft. She hung her head and slumped forward somewhat in what, to Mycroft, looked like an incredibly uncomfortable position. Mycroft also fell silent when he noticed she wasn't listening anymore. With a sigh, he shuffled his feet awkwardly before heading back through the door.

…

As the door slammed shut behind her, Margaret let out a loud groan, straightening her body and moving her legs, albeit with great difficulty, into a sitting position. She began to breathe deeply, attempting to block the pain she was feeling over her entire body, as she had been taught.

"And ta think, I coulda been in Bermuda about now."

Sitting on the cold stone floor, Margaret's mind was going a thousand miles an hour, thinking through the situation she had gotten herself into. She never should have taken this job; she should have turned tail and ran as soon as she'd met the mad man who'd employed her.

She should have known better. Her Father had taught her, never work for a man you fear, fear makes you anxious and anxiety makes for a sloppy job. That was why she had gotten caught, she was too distracted. A determined looked flashed over her freckled face. She would not let that happen again.

She needed to regain control, escape this dump, grab the disk and deliver it. Once she did that, she'd get paid and be able to get out of England. It had been a mistake to come back at all.

All of a sudden, a sharp pain shot through her body and her breathing quickened. She doubled over, her teeth bared, trying to make no noise. The last thing she wanted was to be given to a doctor only to receive another beating later. She could ride out the pain, she'd had worse.

With a sharp intake of breath, Margaret straightened, eyes shut tightly and hands clenched into fists. When her eyes finally snapped open again, they were set on the mirror in front of her in a dark glare.

…

Mycroft watched the woman from behind the glass, cellphone in hand, and he spoke into it with a soft voice.

"Yes, of course we'll get it back. It's only a matter of time." His voice held a hint of impatience as he spoke. "I suggest you lower your voice, it was not me who allowed the woman to steal the disk in the first place."

Mycroft let out an exasperated sigh, turning from the window. He began to pace, ear still to the phone, and his frown deepening.

"Yes, well if you are so worried about it going public, I suggest you either find yourself a root cellar to occupy for the next forty years, or you allow me to do my job."

With no small amount of annoyance, Mycroft ended the call, but he continued pacing, his jacket left forgotten on the metal table in the center of the room. It wasn't easy being the entire British Government, not when everyone around you was an idiot.

Taking the pack from his pocket, Mycroft lit another cigarette, inhaling the smoke and breathing it out again, in deep calming breaths.

"Yeh know yeh shouldnae smoke those." The redhead's voice came from the speakers in the room, and Mycroft's head shot up, "Yeh'll end up with the black lung."

With a questioning gaze, Mycroft moved from the table to the door, opening it slightly and leaning against the frame.

"How did you-"

"The glass brightened when yeh lit up." She stated simply but not without a smug smile.

Mycroft took another drag from the cigarette, watching her with scrutiny. He entered the room fully now, meandering slowly around the chained Scot. Her body had been thoroughly searched when she had been unconscious, to make sure of no remaining pins or other means of escape.

Because of this, Mycroft saw no reason to close the door, as well; he enjoyed annoying the woman who had made a fool out of him. And annoy her it did, her face going from disbelieving to irritated in a matter of seconds and it was all directed at his moving form.

"You are making this entirely more difficult than it has to be."

"And here I thought yeh wouldnae notice me efforts." Margaret replied with a simpering smile.

Mycroft grimaced, her harsh voice assaulting his delicate hearing. He leaned back against the wall, fixing her with a hard stare. She stared right back, red hair falling into her face. The British Government smirked as she attempted to blow it away, completely breaking the vision of the tough Scottish mobster.

"If you under the impression that you will be getting out of here anytime soon, you are highly mistaken."

"I am willin' ta stay here as long as you are, boss man."

Mycroft opened his mouth to reply when suddenly, the cellphone in his pocket rang shrilly in the small concrete room. Margaret's eyes followed his hand to his pocket and watched him take out the phone, an amused grin on her face.

"Ya know it's rude ta answer your phone when you're in a conversation."

"This is not a conversation," Mycroft sighed exasperatedly, "it is an interrogation."

Margaret shrugged; her face uncaring, "Whatever you wanna call it, boss man."

"Yes," Mycroft answered the phone, rolling his eyes at the woman.

His blasé attitude fell almost immediately, his eyes widening somewhat and snapping towards Margaret. The woman in question shot him a confused look, leaning forward involuntarily.

"I'm sorry but how did you attain this number?" he asked the person on the line, his voice calm and steady.

Whatever was said next made Mycroft swallow anxiously, "Of course." He lowered the phone and fished in his pocket for something.

Margaret watched him produce a small key and, eyes following him as he walked towards her, was incredibly surprised when he unchained one of her wrists, holding the phone out for her.

"It would appear to be for you."

With a suspicious look, she reached out carefully and took the phone from his waiting hand. Bringing the phone to her ear.

"Aye?" she asked uncertainly.

"Margaret, how are you dear?"

Margaret's face paled and her eyes met Mycroft's furious ones.

"Moriarty."