****Chapter two****

While on the way out of the building, Mycroft's personal assistant, Anthea she had said, explained what Clea would have resting on her shoulders in her new position. Anthea explained how Mycroft Holmes was a remarkably busy man, and that Clea would be in charge of preparing his morning, evening and anything in between- including any unwanted "situations". Anthea had paused at this, looking up from her texting to ensure that the young agent understood. Furthermore, she had annotated how Mycroft Holmes was most vulnerable at home, and how, as such, her watch must never go down.

"As much as I am his personal assistant, you will be his guard dog. Is that understood?" With her eyes drawn to her phone, Anthea somehow managed to navigate the two through the quiet halls and out to the exit. A sleek black car sat waiting for them, publled up to the curb.

"Yes, I fully understand."

"You're sure?" Anthea continued to speak to her screen.

"Yes, ma'am." Clea stated, then added, " I have taken three bullets for the Queen during my time at Buckingham Palace; I believe I am prepared to take a couple more for Mr. Holmes." The young, pale woman resolved. Thus far, Mr. Holmes had proven to be precisely what she had thought him to be, if that course of reveal was to carry on, then she was ready for a bullet. 'Heart of the English nation', he had called Buckingham Palace, but he was the one with the true pulse of the nation, that was something she knew for certain. Anthea did not respond; that was when Clea learned to stick to what she was asked, as she would not readily receive an answer.

The two slid into the leather seats and the automobile took off without command.

"Where are we heading to, miss Anthea?"

"I'm to take you to your home. I trust you have your belongings packed?"Eyes still glued to the screen in front of her.

"Yes."

"Good." That was all the conversation held for the remaining time of their trip. The rest was silence as Clea Hardell contemplated her near future in Mr. Holmes' service. She had been through employment of the outer workings of the British government, so, at this point, she had deemed it time to be in close quarters with the master pulling the strings.

One month later.

Clea lay, as she had, for the past month, in her bed and in the dark. It was always dark when Clea awoke. If she were to look outside of her window, she would be able to see the start of a blue hue colouring the skies; scattered bird calls sounded in the dark, the faint roar of an engine in the distance.

In the past, Clea had experienced far worse conditions to wake up to. For example; when there was a code R.E.D. breach in Buckingham Palace; those were rather brutal, even to the toughest of soldiers. 32 hour shifts, sometimes more depending on the severity of the breach- also whether it was a hacking, a fault in security or a physical attack.

The room with which Mr. Holmes supplied Clea with, was nothing terribly special, though was just as aristocratic as the rest of the household and a few sights better than what she was used to. However, the room did include a concealed door in one of the wooden panels along the walls which led to numerous rooms in the house. The passageways in said panel were led-lined and sound-proofed. When Clea had first arrived, upon assessing her new home, one thing that she had been pleasantly surprised with, was that Mycroft Holmes was undoubtedly prepared for just about anything.

Her fox-sharp eyes snapped open at 3:59, but then glazed over and relaxed once more. With hazy eyes, Clea stalked to her small, connected washroom. She flicked on the switch, white light stung her eyes as it did each morning. Once she recovered from momentary blindness, she looked in the mirror to size herself up. The first thing she noticed was the mop that seemed to have placed itself on her head, as her short, dark hair was matted and stuck up in places it oughtn't. Have I found a new passion for breakdancing in my time of slumber...or do I wish to resemble a turnip?she pondered. Her big, grey eyes were half closed and there was a distinct shape on her cheek, where she had rested her head, in a vibrant shade of pink.

She was a sight to behold in the wee hours of the morning, as it juxtaposed her usual self. In fact, on the seventeenth night she had spent in her new home, when sleep seemed to have evaded her, it resulted in her padding into the kitchen at 2:15 am. While Clea nearly prided herself on her awareness, it seemed that since working for Mycroft Holmes, she had let her guard down slightly. In her sleeplessness, the shadowed and ever-watching form of Mr. Holmes as he rested against the a counter, cup of tea in hand, had escaped her.

"Does sleep escape you too?"He had inquired with a softness that was resoundingly unusual.

Clea had spun on her heel, almost throwing the cup she had retrieved from the top cupboard at his head. Once she saw him, and registered who he was, her defensive stance lessened and she became well aware that she was in her robe - a short one at that-and in front of her boss, too.

"Hello, Sir," An unfortunate blush had stained her not-so-awake cheeks, and she coughed awkwardly," Yes sir, I cannot find myself able to sleep..."Her voice trailed off, rendering them silent. In truth she had indeed fallen asleep, only to relive a particularly gruesome torture she had to watch...one which one would not readily forget. She fidgeted with her sleeves and then told Mr. Holmes that she had wished to find something to remedy her predicament, to which he had responded,"There is some peppermint tea in the cupboard. Help yourself."

She had made her tea and bid Mr. Holmes a quiet good night. He hadn't said anything in return, only continued to sip his tea. It wasn't until Clea was three steps out of the kitchen that he replied with a whisper, "Goodnight, Clea..."

Little did she know that after he said good night, a small grin stretched across his lips. He had seen the messy haired, burry eyed, delirious girl she became when she thought there was no one to see, and to say that it was endearingly amusing to him was an understatement. But that was a secret Mr. Holmes had chosen to keep to himself.

Clea splashed icy water onto her warm cheeks, the contrast awakening her senses, and looked in to mirror once more. The same classical face she saw everyday stared back at her. She disliked it. Many people would not take her seriously because she didn't have darker, tougher skin and harder muscles nor a terrifying stance. In their places, she had cream and peach skin, leaner, lither muscles and a confident and commanding stance.

Time to wake up 007; the British Government won't survive on a cup of tea and the body in the freezer won't disappear on its own.

Indeed, there was a corpse in the freezer, down in the cellar. An unfortunately persistent paparazzi had managed to find Mycroft Holmes' house, and, being the brother of the now famous Sherlock Holmes, he was a target for questioning. How the reporter had discovered Mycroft's name or address escaped both Clea and he, and so he needed to be dealt with. Now, Clea did not kill him, not at all; she had merely invited him in (for questioning, but of course, he was not aware that he would be interrogated) when he collapsed on the rug. Clea had called in a few favours and gotten his blood checked along with a tissue sample. But it seemed that he had died naturally. He had had a particularly agitating way of speaking- as though no matter how much he moved his mouth to form consonants and obtain proper diction, only slurred mumbles came out.

Padding out of the tiled room, Clea ambled to her dark wood dresser. She slipped from her loose, black night shirt, and plucked an equally black sports bra from her top cupboard and grey sweatpants from the lowest. She tugged both on and hoped to have the sturdy balance which was expected of her as a field agent, but sadly she tripped over her pant leg and fell face first onto her bed.

Once she recovered from her mishap, her muscles stretched and bones popped as she unfurled her stiff limbs in a stretch. She slipped into her runners, and quickly placed her earpiece in, and "earwig" they called it. Knowing the security team would be able to hear her if she so much as whispered, Clea spoke commandingly and loudly.

"Good morning, gentlemen."

To which she received a groggy "Hello to you too." from a voice she new belonged to Gregory Wills. He was her favourite;Agent Wills- to her, he was like the guardian angle she never had. Not last week, there was a shot fired through the kitchen window- it had missed Clea's Frontal Lobe by centimeters, because Wills had 'chosen' that time to make Clea's earpiece to shriek with static 'accidentally', causing her to duck in pain.

She liked him. Quite a lot. He was a bolder of a man who could have either been a boxer, a bouncer or Santa. And he was the only one path ever looked into- never did a background check.

Clea notified Wills that she would be going out as per usual. He secured any path to Mr. Holmes, down- as she would not leave the house without his safety in check.

Clea fled the manor with the silence of a breath and took to the large gardens, feet pounding on the trail. The chilled English air of the morning stung her strong lungs, and tried to freeze her muscles, but try as it might, the cold did nothing; not when Clea was in bliss. The garden was her most favoured place to be in all of Mr. Holmes' manor, more specifically her favoured place to rest her mind. Each morning, she would savour the sheer silence that engulfed the dawn, after all, she had never had the privilege of the quiet contentment she now felt. There were few things Clea held dear, one was time-the trickster that danced to a ticking beat. The next was a new day- the sign that she had cheated the customary early death of an agent once more. Like time, mornings were precious.

After twenty-five laps, Clea let her pursuing run slow to a light jog. She made her way to the more edible section of the garden, rather than strolling along the tiled path through the Rhododendrons and Azaleas. Once she reached said section, her eyes fell upon the familiar sight of a medium sized stainless steel bowl. It sat just beside a batch of Romaine lettuce, just as it did every morning.

Clea tipped her head to Mr. Holmes' window thoughtfully and she grasped her bowl. She thought on what to give him for his morning meal, and resolved that he would endure a fruit salad and fresh pressed juice of cucumber, ginger, grapefruit, apple, beets and kale. Sir was regularly hinting that he was on a diet, and if that was the case, then Clea would show him what health meant.

Clea filled her hands with raspberries and her eye twitched when her skin caught on a thorn. She added strawberries to her mix, along with generous handfuls of red currents. Then, she ventured to the Russet apple tree, not far away, and plucked two of its fruit.

With her bowl full and beads of sweat running down her skin, Clea strolled into the kitchen's glass double doors. She placed the fruit into the cool fridge with a covering of plastic-wrap over the bowl's , with the same amount of quiet amd grace she had exited with, Clea went to the stairs and up to her room.

As she stood under its gentle spray, the soothing warmth of the shower tickled her skin as it's water ran to the tiles, washing away any residual grime that tarnished her. Sadly, that peace only lasted a few moments as even Clea's longest showers were finished before seven minutes. Flicking the nozzle to OFF, Clea slipped from the shower and was dried and dressed in record time.

She stood adjusting her grey, full length, circle skirt in front of her mirror, her stockings wrapped her slender legs in a sheer-black embrace and she tucked her long sleeved blouse in for the twelfth time. Clea bent over to readjust her gun strapped to her right thigh as the holster's material was pinching was the ideal picture of what was expected of her- professional and one final look at herself, Clea went to unarm the paths to which led to her employer.

"Good morning, Clea."

Mr. Holmes' gentle and expectant voice cooed from behind her, as it did each day. She turned from her chopping board to greet him, the man Clea now guarded with every second of her life was leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen. Without fail, Mr. Holmes was dressed to flawless perfection. As per usual, he dawned an impeccable three-piece suit, however, that day's suit was one he had not worn before. The colour of choice was a navy blue pinstripe blazer, waist cost and trousers, along with a crisp white button down, and a scarlet tie with a gold pin.

Much like Clea was in the morning, Mr. Holmes was a sight to be held. Every inch of him practically screamed "I own you.", but that day-that Thursday- Mr. Holmes seemed off. His cooling demeanor remained in place, or course, but it was his stance that gave him away. His deportment told her that a crisis had arisen at his workplace- a look grew on his calm face that spoke volumes, saying that he wanted to explain to Clea what was going on, and if that were the case then the occurrence must be highly critical- then there was the particularly dapper suit he was clad in; he wanted to intimidate today, mark his territory and soundlessly tell all that he was dangerous. He was also meeting with the new Danish ambassador to the United Kingdom- a lovely man with a wife and five children.

"Good morning, Sir. Your breakfast is nearly done."She told him with her usual stoney face, but offered a small grin.

"Good." With that, his pride and regal demeanor swept from the room with him.

As she turned back to the food on the counter, sigh escaped Clea's pink lips. Though she was not technically supposed to be, she grew worried for her employer. He was such a powerful and power-driven man that sometimes Clea felt that his acceptance of potential danger was, in itself, a danger to him. Of course he would never admit those facts, but every so often, Clea saw it in him, and, like him, she would never let in that she was concerned.

"You realize that by depriving me of tea, I could have you killed?"

Oh yes, as much of a man he was, Mr. Holmes also had a rather childish side. That day was the day in which Clea cut out Sir's morning Earl Grey tea. Though she did it for his own good; the fluid did nothing to help his digestion of the light meal she served him that morning. The heaviness of the milk and the earl grey tea would confuse his system while he consumed the fruits. Which is why she had offered him a herbal tea in its stead, but that leads us back to the problem at hand.

Clea had said nothing.

"I could take your life apart, bit by pathetic bit, then leave you while you wail for help."

"Yes sir, but you won't. "

"And why wouldn't I?" He asked in his sweetly murderous tone.

"Because you need me, sir." She responded in her gentle, monotonous voice.

"I have your superior's superior on speed dial, I could call him right now." He purposefully punctuated the last two words with venom.

"But sir, you are my superior's superior. Unless you are going to call yourself, I'm afraid I don't see how that could work?"

"You realize that you could be replaced? That wouldn't bode terribly well for you, would it, my dear?"

"No, sir. It would not. Shall I go pack my belongings, sir?"She asked in jest, but did not let on through her face as it remained calm and questioning.

Her question caught Mr. Holmes off guard. He shut his mouth and looked at her. The majority of the individuals he dealt with would have been shaking where they stood, like the pathetic goldfish they were. But not her. She challenged him- something even his own brother dared not do without ammunition- and she was not afraid to do so. It was much like when he had confronted her about the fact that all of his suits no long fit him as they hung loose on his body; it was due to the complete change she had inflicted upon his eating habits. At the time, Mr. Holmes had expected an immediate apology and a suggestion that she go and purchase him new clothes, all said with a tremor in her voice. However, what he got what this:

After he had asked-albeit rather eerily calm- for her to go and purchase him suitable clothes, she had looked him up and down in a analytical way and said plainly,"Is there anything else you require while I'm out sir?"

"No." He had sneered, agitated.

Clea nodded and was just about to leave, when she turned and asked for her wages.

"Why do you require your wages at this time? You are paid at the end of the month."

"I am to buy you new suits, sir. Each of your suits are at least £700, so I see fit to have my wages of this month to cover the extra cost."

"No, take this. I rarely use it so there should be at least £4000 on it." He handed her a credit card, which she took.

"But sir, it is my doing that has led you to need new clothing, so therefore I ought to pay for it out of my own pocket, oughtn't I?"

He was about to argue back, when he saw the mirth floating in her grey eyes, something he had not seen in a long time. He had decided to play along.

"How much do I owe you?" He asked.

"£2530, sir."

"I shall add £2600 to your card."

"But sir, that is too much."

"Think of the extra as an advancement of your next paycheck."

"I cannot sir."

"Then I shall add £2500."He had huffed.

"Thank you, sir."

She had left without another word. However, known to both of them, she had kept his card, and used it. And she had collected her wages at the end of the month. When she had returned that evening, she brought five complete, three piece suits with her, as well as any more casual wears he may have required. Each of which she had washed, pressed and hung in his closet by that night.

No, he would not replace her. No one else could be a constant know-it-all minx and still receive a "Good morning" from him. They both knew this, one of them simply hated to admit it.

"That will be all, thank you, Clea."

A hint of a smile tugged at Clea's lips, "Yessir."

Once Clea was back in the kitchen, she closed her eyes, mentally preparing herself for the day. Hands on waist, she cast her re-opened gaze around the kitchen space, until her eyes landed on her own meal; she had nearly forgotten it. The fruit stared up at her. A rich raspberry was millimeters away from Clea's mouth when she heard the faint click of the door closing quietly; it was never slammed. Another sound of her sigh echoed through the empty house as she begrudgingly finished her meal.

Time to get rid of that body in the freezer...

note: If you are reading this, and if you have an amount of fingers exceeding one, please review...I love reviews and they are what keep me writing. I love for reading my story and hope you have a splendid day:)