Apologies for updating a day late... Chapters will be uploaded every Sunday from now on!
Just to ensure that everyone is on the same page, Faylinn is five years younger than Sherlock and therefore twelve years younger than Mycroft.
Enjoy!
The cool London air snapped at her nose and bare arms as she surveyed the scene from the doorstep. Cars were scattered along Baker Street, a couple of which were crowned with royal blue flashing lights.
Leaving the door shuddering in protest behind her, Faylinn was left with no distraction to replace the nagging sensations encircling her head. With twitching fingers, she immediately sourced the much-needed cigarette. After a rummage through her heaving hand luggage, a lighter was also located. She allowed auto pilot to take over, heading away from the gaggle of police officers that had convened under the red awning of Speedy's.
Her wide, confident gait faltered as she balanced the black leather bag in the crook of her arm and struggled to create a flame; being so close to relief made her desperate, almost frantic.
"Christ, don't tell me you're smoking..."
She stopped, realising that the voice stemmed from the very group she had tried to avoid. Greg Lestrade, his hands tucked in to his coat pockets as a shield from the cold, broke away from the semi circle and bridged the gap between his colleagues and the young woman. The grin worn on his face was evident in his tone.
Resigned , she closed her eyes and drew in the cold air through her nose. She allowed the breath to escape her as she turned, creating small clouds that condensed and curled above her head. Exasperated, she simply nodded her head. There were so many comments that formulated in her mind, ranging from 'Don't pretend you don't want one too. How many patches is it today?' to the incredibly childish but all too satisfying option of simply repeating the statement in a mocking tone. She had to be fair though - Greg was probably only trying to be friendly.
Faylinn waited for Greg's next conversational advance; she was unable to trust herself to say much more without becoming explosive. If she didn't get that cigarette soon there would be even more paperwork to file...
Lestrade, meanwhile, visibly receded. He didn't need his HR training to know when he'd touched a nerve. About to speak again, he was left with his jaw dropped as one of his colleagues approached the pair. The man was in uniform, so was clearly in a lower rank than Greg and carried a small hand held sound recorder - it didn't take the brain of a Holmes to know what he was after.
"Excuse me? There was an incid-"
"No, I didn't see anything so no, I will not be giving you a statement. I suggest you return to your friends, as I would imagine that your cappuccino is going cold. They also seem to be discussing your recent divorce." Faylinn stated, ensuring that her stony expression backed up her words. What? Deductions could have their uses.
The constable looked dejected, but realisation washed over him as he properly absorbed the young woman's words.
"How do y-" he stuttered, now intrigued, if not a tiny bit scared.
"Just go." Lestrade intercepted. He pinched the bridge of his nose, waving off the man next to him.
Greg showed his disapproval with a series of facial expressions, all of which were very familiar to the youngest Holmes, yet this particular offering seemed rather dilute compared to what Mycroft had dished up in the past.
With a continued nonchalance, she proceeded to light the cigarette that had been fidgeting in between her fingertips. The detective inspector couldn't help but smirk at this - for a copper he really wasn't the most effective disciplinarian. He had a perhaps unrequited desire to go down as the 'fun parent' or the 'fun uncle' and this seemed to extend to a certain member of Sherlock's family.
The young woman smiled back at him as she took her first drag; the original intention of staging a dramatic exit was floundering in the fumes that inhabited her lungs. This particular nicotine fix was one to be savoured. It was becoming increasingly difficult to dislike Lestrade. His disturbance, which now appeared to be light hearted, had considerably reduced the impact of her departure, yet somehow it didn't matter.
Mycroft would have been organising a firing squad by now, so Greg seemed to be a happy middle. Not too oppressive, but he cared enough to make the smoking seem naughty. He put on a look of mock distain.
"You're bloody hard work, you are."
The palm of his hand ran over his facial features. He jammed the phone in to his cheek bones, drumming his fingers on the banister as he waited. He failed to wait for a greeting...
"Mycroft?"
"Sherlock. What do you want this time?" Offence tainted the younger brother's features as he recalled the last time he had asked for a favour. Having established that it was more than 24 hours ago, Sherlock came to the conclusion that Mycroft was simply having trouble with that funny little power complex of his.
"Our darling sister has made an appearance at Baker Street." he replied, pacing and advancing up the stairs.
"Yes. Please do try to keep up, brother mine. I am already dealing with it."
On hearing this, Sherlock hung up. He reached the landing, encountering John, who seemed to have an infinite number of questions. One that particularly stood out in Sherlock's mind was about the 'woman with the long black hair'.
The crowd of hi-visibility jackets and body armour erupted with laughter. Greg spun around in a desperate attempt to catch up on the joke . The laughter somehow caught her off guard, unbalancing and irritating her skin - it wasn't that she was against the humour, more opposed to the fact that she was alienated from the punch line. A deer in headlights, she briefly considered the irresistibly simple option of running. That was until the odd gathering outside Speedy's fell silent. Every member stared down at one individual's iPhone as if it were an alien being until one brave soul looked across to Faylinn, saying "Excuse me? I...I think it's for you..."
Mycroft Holmes entered his office to find that his visitor had taken a few liberties to make themselves at home: his decanter was left without a top, books on the bookcase had evidently been picked up, flicked through and then replaced; there was strong evidence of high heeled shoes having walked on his rug.
"I can't believe you kidnapped me."
Mycroft half-smiled as he strode around to the opposite side of the desk. from here, he could get a good look at his little sister. Almost able to see Sherlock's smirk, he was forced to censor his immediate thoughts about the lack of ironing that had clearly taken place in South America.
"Kidnapped is rather a strong word, don't you think? I might encourage you to use the word commandeered. Much less sinister." He placed the decorative cap back on to the bottle of whiskey (only after pouring himself some). "Besides, you are free to go at any time."
Confused, Faylinn uncrossed her arms and used the arms of the chair for support. She was hovering half way out of her seat when the man across from her interjected.
"But... I don't think you will..."
Somehow her invitation to leave had been vetoed within seconds, so Faylinn dropped her weight back down. She waited, fixing her gaze straight ahead, finding herself staring in to the eyes of The Queen. It did not surprise Faylinn one bit that Mycroft worked with the monarch watching over his shoulder. How patriotic.
"I am correct in saying that your job is important to you, yes?" Despite posing the question, Mycroft pretty much knew the answer already. His little sister had her career planned out since she could first solve her first Caesar ciphers; she ate, slept and breathed the secret intelligence service. Her presence alone told him a lot.
"Of course."
He cleared his throat. "Both of them?" This time, he looked her directly in the eye - his stare acted as a lie detector test.
Her only response was a nod. This one was not a subtle Holmes gesture, but an overstated one, emphasised by the creased frown on her face. Where was he going with this? She wanted to escape, so the conversation had to progress...
"I am obviously committed to my job. Now, please rush to your preferred conclusions and be done with it." Looking directly in to his eyes, she hoped to end with more venom than she perhaps started with. Even a simple mention of her employment was enough to make her heart race.
"My dear, I have no conclusions to jump to. All I have is advice." Upon noticing the questionable look he was receiving, he cleared his throat. "...Brotherly Advice... I would strongly recommend that you go in there and beg for your job back."
"I haven't even lost it yet!"
"It's only a matter of time."
She attempted to speak over him, succeeding in interrupting him but not in getting her point across: "I was doing what was right!" He simply continued.
"Evidently not! Otherwise, I wouldn't be sitting here trying to cover up the fact that my very own sister has cost the intelligence service millions and possibly even agents their lives!"
Her disgust was evident immediately; there was no denying that she was not in a good position, but the idea that Mycroft of all people was questioning her honest objectives was not an easy one to digest.
"If I was such a liability, then why did you let me go? Gloucester was the perfect solution for you - I couldn't cause many problems when I was doing maths all day could I? " Faylinn was now moving in to dangerous but familiar territory - being babied from a distance was not something that she welcomed at all. She gulped down another mouthful of drink, doing it loudly, knowing that her brother would disprove.
"What reason had I got to deny you a promotion? Just because I hate legwork, it doesn't mean I should inflict paperwork on others. Besides, I was told you were good." The sentiment that he tried so hard to suppress told him that he was being too harsh. His usually impenetrable sense of logic, however, told him that he was being a necessary evil. Again, Faylinn was unable to disguise her offence.
"I am good."
"I have evidence that would prove otherwise. How ever much you might like to protest, even you must accept that you overstepped the mark." Mycroft spoke with an unnerving sense of calm, even if his mind was spinning at one hundred miles an hour.
"I did what thought was necessary. No more, no less. I knew what I was doing, Mycroft." She got up to leave, but was stopped in the doorway by Mycroft's last warning:
"The enquiry. I will have no influence over it. It's up to you to clear up your own mess -you've always said you can do it on your own, so this should be no exception."
