It was a thud at the front door that woke Sherlock this time, and he went to investigate. There was a paper wrapped package just outside. He brought it in and was closing the door behind him when he noticed the woman "watching" him from the hall.

"Good morning. That's for you, I take it?"

"Correct. I had...an associate drop off some clothes."

"Mmm. Probably a good thing since I tossed yours in the bin. There was no saving them. You want any breakfast?" she asked, and without waiting for an answer went to the kitchen and brought out a loaf of bread and popped a few slices into the toaster. She turned back to him just as he was pulling on his new pair of pants and said, "I never asked how you knew I was an immigrant."

"Simple. You have an accent."

"No I don't."

"Well, to anyone who cares to listen or is not an idiot, you do. You hide it well, and your English is fluent, if a bit uncultured, but the signs are there."

She rolled her eyes at "uncultured" and said, "Where'd I come from, then?"

"Russia. Could have been any Slavic language, but statistically speaking, your accent is far more likely to be Russian," he said, slightly muffled due to the shirt he was tugging over his head, and sat at the kitchen table.

She nodded. "That's pretty impressive. You said this is what you do; you just go around telling people where their accents are from and how lonely they are, or is there more to it than that?"

Sherlock snorted. "Of course there's more."

The toast popped up. "Show me," the woman said, and spread some jam on a slice. She slid it across the table towards him and got one for herself.

"You haven't been blind all your life, in fact it's only been within the last...ten years that you've lost your sight. You carry yourself well in here and only rely on the cane outdoors, but even though you've been in this flat awhile you're still unsure of the stairs leading outside. There could be medical reasons for your blindness; stroke would be one, but you're far too young for that. That leaves trauma. Surviving major trauma to the visual cortex of the brain is exceedingly unlikely, so that leaves damage to the eyes themselves. You came to this country after the blindness, otherwise you would have less of an accent. You don't have any family. If you did, you would be with them so they could assist you, but you're here on your own, so that tells me whatever lead to your blindness happened in Russia. You were already fluent in English, so Britain was a logical choice. Allowing a strange man to spend the night after he broke in to your home shows me that you care little for your own safety."

"Spot on, for the most part," she said around a mouthful of toast.

"What did I get wrong?"

"It's been twelve years."

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "Minor detail."

"And I was shot."

"That's-"

"Improbable, yeah," she said, cutting him off. "And it's not that I don't care; I just have nothing left to lose,"

"The odds of surviving, let alone being functional, after being shot in the head is less than three percent."

"So I've been told."

The conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. Sherlock stood to answer it.

"Sit down! Don't answer my door!" the woman snapped.

She jerked the door open a bit angrily and let in a blast of air that smelled of cigars, brandy and what she assumed was a very expensive wool suit. "Ah yes. I'm looking for my recalcitrant younger brother. I do believe he's taken up temporary residence here," said an extremely posh and proper sounding voice from the door.

The woman recoiled a bit and said "Oh God, there's two of you," as he let himself in.

"What do you want, Mycroft? I'm in hiding."

"Not very well. You texted me the address." He turned to the woman, deliberately ignoring her furrowed brow and confused expression as she mouthed his name. "Thank you for looking out for him. I'll take it from here."

"I'm not going anywhere, Mycroft. This is perfect. Besides, we haven't been able to track him down yet."

"Wait, what's perfect? You're not planning on staying here, are you?" the woman asked, her head comically jerking back and forth between the two men.

"Well, yes. Why not?" Sherlock asked, as if it should have been obvious.

"Why not? Why not? You don't live here, we've known each other for less than twenty-four hours, and, no offense, but you're kind of weird."

Mycroft blew a breath out through his nose.

"Shut up, Mycroft."

"We don't even know each others' names!" She was shouting now, and her arms were spread wide in an incredulous gesture.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. You may have heard of me. I've been out of the country for a while, and I need a place to continue my work in dismantling a vast crime syndicate. There, now you know 'who' and 'why'. Mycroft, if you would be so kind as to send over some essentials."

"You don't know me. I could be a murderer!" She was still shouting.

"I already know what I need to know. You're not a murderer."

"I used to be!"

Sherlock's head snapped to the woman, then to Mycroft, who shrugged. "I haven't had the time to do a formal background check on your new landlady. I only know her name and that she is here legally."

"You don't know everything. Hah!" she crowed as Mycroft fired off a text.

"I shudder to think what kind of security threats your people are letting in to the country," Sherlock said.

Mycroft ignored Sherlock as his mobile beeped. "Ah. Here we are. Major Liolya Anatolyevna Verednikov of an Alpha Group division based in Krasnodar, veteran of the second Chechen war. Discharged on 14th October, 2003 after being shot during a mission which killed three of her teammates. Awarded...quite a few medals."

Liolya whistled. "Damn that was fast. Don't let the medals fool you. The Russians hand them out like vodka. You get medals for parenting if you've got enough kids."

"Are you certain you want to stay with this woman, Sherlock?"

"Quite," he said, and crossed his arms over his chest.

Mycroft sighed. "I see. Very well." He turned to Liolya. "Do keep an eye on him for me," he said without irony, and headed for the door. Just before leaving he called to Sherlock, "I'll have some clothes and other necessities sent over as soon as I am able."

"So, am I to call you 'Major' now?" Sherlock asked sarcastically, after the door closed behind Mycroft.

Ignoring his tone, she replied, "Nah, 'Lio' is fine. You can't tell me you're completely surprised by that. By the way you've figured out everything else about me, I would've thought something like 'special forces training' would've been a flashing sign."

"It was...unexpected. Your recklessness makes a little more sense, knowing your former abilities."

"'Former?' I can still kill a man bare handed. I just need to be pointed in the right direction and he needs to stay still while I feel for him."

"Self-deprecating humor is your defense mechanism."

"Don't start that deduction shit again. So what do you plan on doing here? My life's pretty boring."

"As soon as I locate the last agent, I will leave."

"And you expect that to be any second now? Because honestly, I don't think you're in any shape to do much of anything. You've probably still got a low fever, and your injuries haven't magically disappeared overnight. You should rest," she said.

"I can't do anything until Mycroft brings me a computer anyway," Sherlock said, with a huff of annoyance.