Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or BBC or anything you recognize (unless it's from previous chapters, like, I don't know, Scarlett).
Thanks to my awesome beta reader Expecto-Prongs! Without you, I wouldn't have been able to notice some of the errors I made! I was way too tired to be writing the chapter that late (it was 4 or 5 in the morning my time) but this is the product anyway (slightly revised of course).
Enjoy!
"Get in the car," the man on the other end of the telephone line ordered me.
"Why?" I asked. I didn't see what this man, who followed me with phone calls until I finally picked up, wanted from me. I didn't know who he was. One moment I was walking along the streets of London, wondering what to do, next thing I know phones start ringing wherever I go. It became annoying before I had finally decided to pick up.
"So that we can talk in person. You know as well as I do that phone lines aren't safe." He had a point there, but what I didn't get was why he wanted to talk to me.
I hung up the phone and stepped into the sleek black car. Honestly, I didn't know what brand it was, I've always been bad with cars unless it concerned what type of gas mileage it got.
Inside, a girl waited for me. I glanced wearily at her, but she didn't seem to notice my presence as she was typing away with her thumbs on a Blackberry. She was obviously some kind of personal assistant, but then again, I couldn't be sure. I just went about ignoring her as she ignored me.
Eventually, the car stopped. I couldn't see where I was from inside the car – because the tint on the windows were too dark – but I knew that wherever I was, this place was deserted. Slowly, I exited the vehicle, carefully putting my heel firmly on the ground before fully revealing myself.
I looked around at my surroundings. I was in a large, abandoned warehouse garage. All around me was grey, the weather outside didn't really help the mood to the place, what with it being all stormy and whatnot. A man stood in the middle of the room, leaning on a black umbrella.
"Ah, you've arrived," he said.
"What do you want?" I asked bluntly, slightly annoyed. It wasn't like I was doing anything important before, but I still don't like to be bothered by strange men with a fad for ringing random numbers on a street, following a person.
"I'm going to make you an offer. Please think it through first before rejecting it, unlike John Watson."
"Whatever, just get on with it. I've got better things to do with my life than stand here and make cryptic conversation with you," I replied.
"Do you have any idea who I am?" the man asked incredulously.
"No, should I?" I questioned with a sarcastic tone to my voice.
"I am Mycroft Holmes-" I cut him off.
"Ah, yes, now I remember. I read about you on my uncle's blog. You're the one who kidnapped him and tried bribing him for information on your brother. You're just a politician with a large ego, not very unusual, except for maybe where you hold your meetings at. Next time, it might be easier – and more cost efficient – if you just phone my mobile and ask me to meet you, I don't know, at your office maybe. But, what do you care? You've got money," I exclaimed with a smirked at his dumbfounded expression, eyeing his expensive suit and the very expensive wooden handle on his umbrella. (you should think about replacing one of the 'expensive' s with a different adjective)
Mycroft quickly regained his composure. "Yes, but you've got money too, my dear. You've also got people after that money, my dear. And that's what I'm offering you, protection." (you shouldn't use my dear at the end of both of these sentences)
It was my turn to be shocked. I wasn't sure what he wanted, but I was sure that it was probably nothing good.
"That, and compensation for living with my brother," he finished.
"What is it that you want in turn?" I queried cautiously, testing the waters but also acting – for his sake – like I might take his offer into consideration.
"Simply information."
"Information on what?" I thought about that for a moment before rephrasing. "Or, shall I say, whom?"
"Why, my brother of course. I'd like for you to keep tabs on him for me. Nothing difficult."
"Of course," I replied sarcastically. "From what I've read, as it seems, you don't always see eye to eye with each other. So, naturally, you want to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."
"Essentially."
"Why would I do this for you? You offer money and protection, but I've already got both. I can protect myself, not to mention I'm staying with John for the time being, who is trained in armed combat. Granted, he was a doctor, but I'm sure he had his bad days. Everyone does." :)
Mycroft was starting to see where this conversation was going, and it was not in his favor. With a snap of his fingers, the assistant from the car came and joined us, handing him a file folder that had Scarlett Watson written on the cover. Surprisingly, she never removed her eyes from the phone she was carrying.
"I suggest you rethink the decision you're about to make. I've got everything on you. Now, if I were you, I wouldn't want all of this leaked out to the public, considering it would make your whereabouts known to the people tracking you," Mycroft countered. He handed the folder back to the busy brunette and she set off for the car.
"You've have until next week to make up your mind. My daughter is having her 'sweet sixteen' party that weekend. Bring Sherlock with you, if you don't mind. His niece would like to see him, seeing as how he's the only uncle she's got. You and Sherlock shall receive the details in the mail today," Mycroft finished, walking off, whistling and swinging his umbrella merrily.
"I guess I'll be seeing you then, Mr. Holmes," I shouted after him, rudely and with a smile on my face.
He didn't turn back. I had gotten the last word and that was all that had mattered. Quickly, I got back into the car that had brought me here and sat impatiently as it took me back to 221B Baker Street.
Once back there, I checked the post. Sure enough, there were letters addressed to Scarlett Watson, Sherlock Holmes, and – surprisingly – John Watson, they all had the same envelope.
Curiously, I opened mine and read the delicate script.
To Ms. Scarlett Watson,
You are cordially invited to attend the 16th birthday party of Lillian Holmes. Please come dressed according to the following:
A full length ball gown,
A mask,
And silken gloves
Details for what to wear? That was it? No date or time? Though I suppose with Mycroft, he'd just have a fancy car pull up here and have the driver say, "Get in bitches, you're going to a party."
Okay, well maybe not those exact words, but something similar. This girl must be spoiled, her daddy being a politician and her having a masquerade ball for her sweet sixteen. It was a hell of a lot better than I got for my sixteenth.
I took a deep breath and started marching up the stairs.
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