Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Sherlock Holmes; the honour belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, as well as Warner Bros. and Village Road Show. The following story occurs after the second film (SHaGoS) and won't take the third or the next films into account.

June 1st, 1901
Mycroft Holmes' Country Home, 09:05 a.m.

Sherlock Holmes was undoubtedly the most peculiar and indecent man I have ever known, and I came to this conclusion as he began undressing inside the carriage... in front of me. Oh my Lord. My heart raced violently the same to a horse race, thundering and trampling. I had approximately ten seconds to decide either turn my face away from the sight or keep staring at the madman undressing. My decision fell on none of these points of view. Merely closed my eyes tensely and bit the inside of my cheek while my palms whose knuckles turned white, clutched tightly the red coat at my knees. Putting money on the notion my colourless cheeks had changed not only one not even two, but three darker shades of red!

I heard the sound of matches when set on fire and then the blown when to kill it, opening one eye checking, Holmes had changed his appearance once again. Sherlock Holmes crossed his legs and a long pipe hung from his mouth. He wore a short-sleeved undershirt in an alabaster greying white colour hugging his lean figure, with the suspenders slipped up. His skin has warmed compared to the early January, still looking hard and rough. Dark ebony hair filled with richness and glory were dishevelled and unruly sticking out in possible impossible angles. Hygiene appeared to be one of his enemies. Above all, he looked tired, nearly bored with the gravelly silent ride, and curious brown eyes looked out the window and then back to me.

"It is very unbecoming to stare, Miss Fairchild."

"I apologize, sir," flushing vehemently turning my gaze elsewhere. "However," looking back more confident, "impropriety lies to the man who unperturbed changed his attire inside a carriage ride in front of two people, one of them being an unmarried woman," was that a curl in attempted smile on his face? If it was, it died instantly.

"You are mistaken, madam," he rationalised, "I did not change my entire attire. I simply got rid of the clergy's clothing, bald cap, prosthetic nose, spectacles, and the cover of my book: Max Planck's Zur Theorie des Gesetzes der Energieverteilung im Normalspectrum" shifting with no difficulty in the new language - his German accent was pleasing to listen unlike his Welsh, "es ist eine Abhandlung über die Quantenmechanik. Aber Sie wissen es schon, Fräulein Fairchild, wissen Sie es nicht?"

Two can play this game!

"Ihre Bibel, Herr Holmes, enthält wissenschaftliche Fakten über die physische Welt."

"Wir leben in einer physischen Welt. Alles andere, wie die spirituelle Welt, sind schlechte Denkanstöße und Verschwendung wertvoller Zeit."

"Das würde ein engstirniger Mann behaupten." Carruthers observed – his eyes set on each speaker at the time, aloof the little game the mad detective and I were participating, as if we were two opponents on a tennis match.

"Es gibt einen großen Unterschied zwischen Intoleranz und Dummheit," did he call me a fool? "Der Glaube an Geister und übernatürliche Phänomene kann Individuen manövrieren. Es ist eine Folge von Angst und Schuld. Ein Trick eines Menschen führt zur Desertion von reiner Rationalität und Logik. Schuld für den Tod eines nahen Familienangehörigen..."

"Mr. Carruthers," snapping my gaze and gracing the tall valet with a tight smile, "you said previously that Mr. Mycroft Holmes is looking forward to meet me," he nodded. "Has he said anything about me at all?"

"The older Mr. Holmes has spoken nothing else of you, Miss," oh! I thought, " he…"

"- my brother will find you the most frustrating and amusing woman, I assure." My eyes lit and met his own eyes, an unknown feeling warming my chest; it was an electricity of less than seconds, and then, both casting our gazes elsewhere but the eyes of one another.

The carriage had stopped in front of an attractive three-stored mansion among a field of several acres, doubtlessly all these belonged to Mycroft Holmes. He ran the family's farmlands, a well-known squire family in Chichester, Sussex, and being at the same time a government official. Terribly a busy bee must be the man! The estate reminded me of classical Romanesque architecture with large windows, surely the morning sun, especially during summertime, would shower with warmth and with light the rooms. There was asymmetry; certainly I wasn't able to view all the property. In the veranda I could only imagine the older Holmes brother sitting to drink his Earl Grey and read his newspaper… or perhaps not, he'd probably ride his horses in these large fields feeling the air lifting his spirits up and exciting him in the lust of a new adventure.

"Miss Fairchild," I returned back to the reality and was left astonished as Sherlock Holmes held out a tanned hand in front of me. It took me several seconds to adjust my gaze at the half-mad half-rational detective who did not draw his hand back, but still waited for me to take it, "we better go inside my brother's home. It will eventually pour again."

"Yes."

Placing my frigid naked palm on his bare calloused one forced a hiss to slip out under my breath. It wasn't an unpleasant connection, rather the exact opposite. The same to wires the electricity between the two of us rushed rapidly in my own veins bringing warmth and light and energy. As if the electrons on the exterior energy layer of my atoms, had all rebelled and squirted out in unknown to me directions with raging speed. My breath caught in my throat, his hand was obviously warmer than mine. The tension had grown even more as nothing and no cloth separated the skin of our palms. Did he feel this electric rush as I did? I had no idea, nor did I dare to ask him.

"Thank you," certainly I did not plan to sound this feebly defenceless.

I blame my lack of sleep.

Sherlock Holmes following Carruthers, led me in the house of his older brother, as we entered the main building, life burst into the halls. Servants were coming and going, greeting the main valet and Holmes, like busy bees working nonstop as if important guests were about to arrive soon. Many faces were rushing and the least of them bothered to greet me, in return I curtsied giving them a tight smile returning the wishes. Being sickeningly polite was one of the many lessons I was taught in Boarding School. My ears caught some of them referring to the mad misanthrope as the Younger Mr. Holmes, who has returned with a woman beside him. We stood in the lounge, preferably to say I did, looking at everyone and everything around me.

Mother calls it my little game.

"Mr. Holmes is in his study room," Carruthers returned and informed us.

"Come along, madam," Holmes' tone was over the top, "time is very important and we cannot lose any minute!" Then, turning to Carruthers, "thank you for your services, I can lead Miss Fairchild to my brother's study room myself."

Following him in the staircase, "your brother lives alone in this house?"

"Yes, it is in fact an investment of our paternal house. Mycroft uses it as his country home, as I had already told you. Not only does he own the land here, but also, two buildings in Blackheath, London – from which he takes an incredibly high rental from five couples, and a penthouse in Belgravia, while every time he arrives in London he stays at the Hotel Royal!"

"He really strikes me as a person who does thrift," my half-Scottish blood throbbed proudly in my veins; Holmes lifted his shoulders in boredom.

"Mycroft is a government official, his position is one of the most important in the British Government. They cannot do their jobs properly without him; this is his purpose in our society. To be honest, my brother is the British Government."

"Like your relationship with the Scotland Yard," a genuine smile ghosted his features for few seconds, "if only you could invest your earnings in anything to structure your life, perchance you would have been brought back from the dead a decade ago."

Turning around to me, as if I had hit his Achilles' heel, his face hard like stone in a stoic grimace, "settling down is definitely not in my repertoire, Miss Roxanne Fairchild," oh dear, had I unintentionally angered him? "Not to mention, these kind of responsibilities my brother has, are not in my plans in the nearest nor the furthest future. Holding me in one place would be a dreadful nightmare, madam. This flat routine. And this is one of the many reasons why I travelled the East during my great hiatus. Hello, Stanley!"

My eyes shifted on the person Holmes greeted and referred to as Stanley. He was notably older than Nana, with curved spine, noticeably shorter, and white balding hair with mutton chops. His being was withering with wrinkles and in absolute killing slowness. "Stanley!" Holmes repeated once again, the elder man did not turned to face us – perchance his hearing abilities had begun retreating. "Stanley has been faithful to our family for more than six decades," I hummed in response. "After all these years the man looks nothing but the same!" In his trembling hands the poor manservant held a silver tray witch china, tea and biscuits, assuming Mycroft Holmes was meant to take his breakfast.

Holmes opened the door entering the study room while in wearing slowness tried hard the man named Stanley and my feet rooted on the first step on the top of the staircase. I was anxious about meeting Mycroft. Holmes told me his brother was even more brilliant than him, and if Sherlock Holmes, who's self-righteous pompous egomaniac, said someone's cleverer than him, he truly is! In the distance, I've heard the two brothers exchanging pleasantries, in earnest I did not expect a cheerful brotherly reunion – they did not strike me as such. Courage combined with anxiety clutched on my heart forcing my legs to walk towards the opened door.

I can do this!

Holding my chin high with straight posture and tight smile, "pleased to meet you, Mr. Mycroft Holmes! My name's Roxanne Fair- aaah!" The shriek escaped my lips as the older man was stark naked, as the day he was born, holding only his newspaper on hand, completely aloof. In an instant my heel turned eighty and one hundred degrees around, Stanley walking terribly slowly inside. Wallowing in self-pity, "I terribly apologize, Mr. Holmes, I did not expect you to be naked in your study, uhm… I do truly respectfully earnestly apologize for entering without permission, the door was open and your brother had previously entered and I hadn't thought…"

Holmes bit down a chuckle forcing me to shoot him from the corner of my plain eyes a turbulent glare, "Myckie," clearing his throat, "do me the favour and put on a robe. Miss Fairchild is not familiar with your habits."

A deep sight blew in the study room and heavier steps than mine bored on the floor, "ah! Miss Fairchild," a rich tenor voice breathed boringly on the top of my head. "You should redeem yourself from society's restrictions and hindrances." Passing by me, while my eyes shut tightly, "where are you going Stanley?" The elder man huffed – probably tired of Mycroft Holmes' incomprehensible activities. "Serve my brother and the Miss, and go ask Margaret to prepare us sandwiches! We cannot discuss only with Earl Grey and biscuits!"

Disappearing from my visual and hearing view, I stormed in the nearest chair groaning in the most unladylike frustration due to what I had witnessed. The only cloth-less men I had ever seen in my life were my late father – rest in peace, and my brothers. All of them were partially dressed, not as nude as new-borns. Not a man I met right that moment. Said man being the older brother of my boss. Will this affect my job? I just saw Mycroft Blasted Holmes stark nude! If that was some kind of test to see the possibility of me getting through this to earn my position as the mad consulting detective's assistant, that was brute, and, I'd totally pass!

"Oh! Mock my misery, Holmes!"

"Do not worry your own self with these, Miss Fairchild," opening an eyelid at the madman who sat on the chair opposed me, elbows on knees, fingers laced and chin rested on them, "Mycroft has a little outlandish activities: one of these is his physical and sexual liberation."

"You should have warned me, Mr. Holmes."

"Ah!" He drawled, "I repeat myself, Miss Fairchild, I prefer to be called as Holmes, simply. But, you are free to use the term Mr. Holmes to my brother."

"Yes, sir."

"And we should get rid of these restrictive formalities."

"You should pay me for all these," a sardonic smile pinched on his face, "I mean it, Holmes! I saw Mycroft Holmes naked! Can this morning get any better?"

"You do need to break free from society's boundaries, Miss Fairchild," the government official re-entered the study after a whole quarter passing, barking.

My eyes fell discreetly on the now dressed Mycroft Holmes and the phrase polar opposite rang a church bell on my mind. He was taller than the madman, perhaps more than half a foot than his younger brother, and portly. I assume he fancies food; Mother is perchance, the greatest cook I've known. The large belly of his was hidden underneath the brown velvet cloth of his robe. He had double chin, and more aquiline nose than his brother. Perchance in his early to middle fifties. Salt and pepper hair begun taking place of ebony locks, was perfectly combed and his face was freshly and smoothly shaven. He had a thin mouth quivering in a dying yet bored smirk. Unlike his brother, Mycroft's skin was pale and could easily burn under the sun, such as myself. He looked to be a good friend of hygiene. Chocolate brown eyes betrayed his constant fatigue and had no spark in them as I had convinced myself an hour ago before meeting him.

One thing that I know is…

Mycroft Holmes is the utterly, completely and unequivocally opposite of Sherlock Holmes.

"I do not think you are here for social visit," the older Holmes breathed heavily as he walked towards his desk, definitely not the type to fancy walking.

"I need to go to San Francisco," the detective sat properly and took a sip of his tea.

"Ah yes," taking a bite from his biscuit, "the gold mine scandal of Senator Cornelius Guest. It's very pleasing to hear you get in action once again, dear brother."

"Of course," I whispered holding the china right in front of my mouth, "it must be terribly boring to pretend to be dead for almost a decade."

"Did you say something, Miss Fairchild?" Hooded brown eyes stirred on me narrowing.

"I am simply stating your hiatus was terribly long, Mr. Holmes," blowing lightly. The Earl Grey was pleasantly warm.

"Then it is time to return back from the Dead!" I nodded.

"Come in," Mycroft called as the door was knocked. Instead of the ill elder man appeared a fresh-faced young girl, probably in her early twenties – around my youngest brother's age. "Wonderfully!" Exclaimed he, the girl left, and took a mouthful of toast.

Holmes mimicking him, "the sandwiches are delicious, Myckie!"

"They truly are, Sherly!" Nodding, "do not be shy," turned he to me, "you are my guest! Eat a biscuit! Eat a sandwich!"

Giving him a tight smile I peered on the half slice of toast I was offered, then put it down, inhaled a biscuit and then turned it down as well, "allergic," explaining to my host.

"Ah," in a bored apathetic tone. "I do not believe you are taking your assistant with you, younger brother."

"No," he shook his head negatively. I've never been to US; I'd love to travel there. "I am taking with me Watson."

"You've told the doctor!" My tone was filled with shock. Holmes did not strike me as a man who would confirm he's alive this easily and not turn into a boxing sack with bruises and cuts.

"No, I haven't… yet," I hummed, "but I plan to reveal myself in the week."

"Watson has put himself in danger with your biographies, criticizing the system, searching crimes; the criminals in simple words want to see him dead."

"Moran…"

"I beg your pardon?" Another pair of brown eyes was fixed on me and my colourless cheeks burned in shame.

"In my younger years, at finishing school, I took very interest in Hercule Poirot's and your brother's detective adventures. Greater turmoil happened for months after your brother's death, Mr. Holmes. I remember," sipping my tea, "Dr. Watson had given names and dates, spoke to interviewers of a Col. Sebastian Moran," the man committed crimes in Afghanistan War – I remember my Late Father telling us – rest in peace, "who killed Dr. Karl Hoffmanstahl and a Rene Heron and, was involved with the death of the American former soprano Ir-"

"- alright, Miss Fairchild!" I shut my mouth, "Moran and his men are tracking down to kill Watson, Mary and their family." Then in a neutral tone and absolute rationality, "they focus on Watson, once the doctor is away from London, Mary and their children are safe, it is that simple. Moran wants revenge from Watson, he will hit on his weak spot, his family. On the contrary, his need for revenge is that strong that the moment he knows Watson's out of Europe, he and his men will focus their target on us and leave Mary and the children in peace." Sherlock Holmes spoke incredibly quickly.

"And to achieve this you will take Watson with you while Miss Fairchild will be in London." Holmes smirked at his older brother, "and she will do some tasks in capital, won't she, Sherly?"

"I have few tasks for the Miss, as I want everything to be on proper place when I return back officially alive. Not to mention I want, when I return, to revive my habits and live in good old places."

"What if you are wrong? What if taking the doctor with you results into leaving the missus and the children without their bulwark? Your enemies are not that stupid."

"And that is another reason why you stay in London."

Blowing once again my Earl Grey murmured underneath my breath, "oh yes, you'll have all the fun in United States, while me in the capital being the jack of all trades."

"Did you say anything, Miss Fairchild?" Was that a smirk on his first? Mad bastard…

"And what will I do in London, Mr. Holmes?"

"I'm so glad you're asking, Miss Fairchild."

Sherlock Holmes explained to me what my task in London was, an extremely long list should I add! It's of grave's importance to rent the first floor of Mrs. Martha Hudson's 221B Baker Street immediately. There are two rooms, both of them do not include a bed, have fireplace and are connected with an interior door – the only ones in the whole house with these characteristics. The room which is the largest of them is meant for him to use. Second, in Mayfair there's this pub with the cheeky name Punch Bowl, where I should rent as well the top floor in which most of his experiments will take place. Third, the orphans of Baker Street will reconnect together in the new generation of the Irregulars and I should find Wiggins who is now a married man of age thirty to help me in this specific task. Fourth, I should keep a track on everything that happens in Scotland Yard and create a list of possible and non-possible cases, keep an eye on few inspectors and their doings. And many other things.

But most important.

I should keep an eye on Dr. John H. Watson's family.

By all means, my task in London, UK was anything but a doddle. Never have I ever rejected nor backed a good a challenge! I can do this! I'm Roxanne Fairchild! I've been stabbed by a lunatic mother serial killer in Plymouth, Devonshire; I've been almost thrown out of the top of La Scala by a crime lord father who abducted his own child from his ex-lover in hopes to earn her back… not to mention my memorable seven years of proper catholic woman education in Corcaigh. I can and I will!

SHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRF

June, 12th 1901
around 08:12 a.m.

"Come in!" I called as someone knocked on my hotel room's door while I sat at the vanity putting on my earrings and checking for the last time my upswept chocolate waves in case another hairpin was needed.

"A telegram for you, madam, has been received."

"Oh," my brows were drawn together. I could not suspect of someone who would send me, "thank you, Nancy," giving her a hint of a smile as the maid handed it to me.

ROXANNE FAIRCHILD, STRAND, LONDON WC2R 0EZ, LONDON, ENGLAND

DO NOT BEGIN YOUR TASKS RIGHT AFTER STOP YOU HAVE MORE THAN A WEEK STOP
WE WILL BE BACK NEXT MONTH STOP

SHERLOCK HOLMES

Mycroft Holmes had the decency to inform me about the little game he and his younger brother played ever since they were boys when they sent messages to one another with hidden meanings.

"Buggery!" Cursing I exclaimed, "I have to do his tasks in less than a week! And he'll be here next week!"

I can do this. I can do this. I can't…

Authoress Note:

Hello, my lovely detectives!

We met Mycroft Holmes! Hooray! We will eventually see more of him and other characters. To let you know, in the end of each chapter I will put some important detail of the current story, for example the translation of the non-English words, phrases, etc. etc. etc. I am, unfortunately not familiar with many languages such as Irish and French, so Google Translate has come to my aid. Also, my dearest aunt has come to my aid for German:

"es ist eine Abhandlung über die Quantenmechanik. Aber Sie wissen es schon, Fräulein Fairchild, wissen Sie es nicht?"
"it is a treatise on quantum mechanics. But you already know this, Miss Fairchild, don't you?"

"Ihre Bibel, Herr Holmes, enthält wissenschaftliche Fakten über die physische Welt."
"Your Bible, Mr. Holmes, contains scientific facts about the physical world."

"Wir leben in einer physischen Welt. Alles andere, wie die spirituelle Welt, sind schlechte Denkanstöße und Verschwendung wertvoller Zeit."
"We live in a physical world. Anything else, such us the spiritual world, is a false food for thought and a waste of valuable time. "

"Das würde ein engstirniger Mann behaupten."
"That's what a narrow-minded man would have said."

"Es gibt einen großen Unterschied zwischen Intoleranz und Dummheit. Der Glaube an Geister und übernatürliche Phänomene kann Individuen manövrieren. Es ist eine Folge von Angst und Schuld. Ein Trick eines Menschen führt zur Desertion von reiner Rationalität und Logik. Schuld für den Tod eines nahen Familienangehörigen..."
"There is a great difference between intolerance and foolery. Believing in ghosts and supernatural phenomena can maneuver individuals. It is the consequence of fear and guilt. (It is the) mind's trick which leads to the desertion of pure rationality and logic. It is the blame for the death of a close family member ... "

I do hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it and pretty please, support my work!

Spreading Mental Positivity,

H.D.