***Chapter Three****

~Six months later~

They stopped believing in him- the goldfish of the world. They allowed for the changing of the news to twist their minds, just as easily as the reporters altered the headlines "HERO OF REICHENBACH" and "HAT-MAN AND ROBIN: the web detectives" to "SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS".The well coated, short friended, kin of Mycroft Holmes had been torn apart by the media, by his foe, and by his own mind. It seemed, that every success and experiment he bragged about to his partner in crime, John Watson, had all been a game of smoke and mirrors. Apparently, he had said "The game is on." too many times, and so began to believe it. No one believed in him. No one believed in Sherlock Holmes.

From the apparent suicide of his brother, Mycroft Holmes rarely closed the door to his home at night; he never really returned home anymore. Few knew that he was aware of his brother's true whereabouts, but for those who did not, he remained a better actor than his kin. It seemed that, almost like a child growing too old for fairytales, he grew too cold for the warmth of his home, and what resided there.

His work load had greatly risen, and both his patience and abilities were tried. Apparently even Gregory Lestrade had taken it upon himself to ask for help of the elder Holmes brother. Denied, he had been of course. But regardless of the reasonings behind any of these actions, there still remained a character pushed to the dusty side, so it seemed. Clea Hardell grew restless.

"Sir?"

Whether it was a call of confirmation, a cry for help, or a plea for mercy, the echo of a soft voice rang through the halls of the Holmes manor. One may compare Mycroft Holmes to Charlotte Brontë's Mr. Edward Rochester from her novel Jane Eyre; a brooding, almost untimely man with emotions like a coastal weather and a bipolar sense of right and wrong. So it seemed that her call was a combination of all three.

In the past, she had attempted to converse and discover more of what occupied Mycroft Holmes' mind, but she knew it was in vain. He had taken to leaving before even she awoke, only to return a week later. Silent. Though when he did return, he would often regard her for a moment, as though trying to figure her out, then disappear. And so the cycle continued. As of late, Clea had in fact, felt as though she was dusted under a carpet. She felt unneeded and she almost felt something she had not experienced in a long time. A twinge of fear. The prolonged absences, the rare returns; they began to wear down on Clea's composure.

At times, there was little she could do to hide her growing fatigue. Of course, what Mr. Holmes didn't know, was that her choice of position in his employment was not entirely her doing, and, up until now, we did not know this either. While Clea had indeed begun to tire of the tedious nature of her Palace unit, she had not left on her own volition.

Captain Marcus Greene had been in charge of her squadron. A military man too handsome to be in the government and too manipulative to be considered humane. Upon her consideration of leaving, he had more than subtly alluded to her to pursue a position in Mr. Holmes' security. As it happened, he meant it more literally than she had thought. The nature of why Greene had done this escaped her, seeing as, while she could survey and determine the weakness of any person in a room, she did not dare evaluate her Captain.

When first, she had received her notice of transfer, Clea's instructions were to defend and guard Mr. Holmes until her last heartbeat. Since day one, that had remained the mutual understanding between Mycroft Holmes and Clea Hardell. There was just one thing the Holmes brother was not aware of-and he hated not knowing- and that was the gun held to his guard dog's head. It was a firearm with loaded ammunition of something unknown; ready and waiting to inflict a fate worse than death.

A shudder ran up and down Clea's spine just thinking about it. If anything were too happen to Mycroft Holmes, a glob of gum on the bottom of Captain Greene's shoe would receive a better obituary than she.

Thus far, Mr Holmes had been diligent in letting her know of his whereabouts. However, as the months wore on, the amount of reassurance Clea received grew thin. An odd notification here or there would be what soothed the distress now, making her swallow thickly and slam her lips in a hard line.

For all intents and purposes, this behaviour displayed by Clea was not a laughin

g matter. Some may find it difficult to believe that Mr. Holmes' guard dog could not keep eyes on him, but said people would be the goldfish swimming in the world. The ones who only see what they are shown and eat what they are fed. Not the inquisitors or detectives. Seeing as the issue at hand did not involve anyone but Mycroft Holmes, it was be very difficult for Clea to penetrate his thick walls and see how his wheels turned, and how he moved in the great game of the world. But he remained sincerely his own. He was his own key, which remained the only one to open his own lock, yet it could unlatch every other lock in the vault.

Clea guarded him the best she could, but when one is guarding a man that could charm a sour nun, talk his way in and out of being crowned king at a moment's notice and commit homicide with his eyes, things get unhealthily desperate.

On more than one occasion, she had mused that Mr. Holmes took her for an annoying, worrying housekeeper. Seeing as when he did, in fact, return to his house, she would be nearly statuesque. He remained a good employer-respectable and in the present- but she had also thought she saw a flicker of pity in those cold eyes she had grown to know. Almost like he was peeking into her soul to see what lay there. Though regardless of their distance, when there came no tenor voice to call back in "good morning", a lead weight would fall in her stomach. A pandemonium of her fate would cloud her mind and she would once again swallow thickly and purse her lips.

On that Tuesday morning of October 2013, there rang no response to her inquiry, so she called again.

"Mr. Holmes?"

She waited until her own call came back to her ears, spelling out just how alone she was. Clea sighed as she tried to get her breathing under control, but it seemed to be that most difficult task she had been given as her throat was dryer than paper. That lump was back again. It taunted her throat. It made her angry.

Clea returned to the kitchen, stood there for a moment, them walked to the library. As she walked through the door, she felt air stream down and back up her throat. She felt a bit more at peace among the galaxies of books. Like she had done in the kitchen, Clea stood still, regaining her nearly lost composure.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In- BING

A not so quiet "bing" sounded from her right pocket. Clea took her forgotten phone out from her skirt pocket and stared at it's screen. Well more specifically the message illuminating it.

"He is occupied" it read.

A breath Clea didn't know she had been holding in eased out of her lungs. Another message popped up. It read,

"Stop thinking. Get to work."

Always the direct one. While Anthea was mildly intimidating, Clea had grown to respect her. She did not reply to either messages, instead, she chose to do just as they suggested. She got to work.

She cleaned;she went and spoke with the security team, learning more about the house's protection system; she looked into newer security tech to update the current network she dealt with. Clea Hardell found herself some twelve hours later, head in hands and fingers massaging eyes; brain aching from the hurricane of information circling inside it.

Her fingers slowed to a halt just as an obnoxious "BEEP" resounded from the downstairs; more specifically the kitchen. Inside of the oven which just beeped, lay a well roasted Sockeye Salmon, which she had fought with to debone roughy forty five minutes previous. As she descended the stairs, there was a prickling of the small hairs up the back of her neck. As though something was not quite right. Her head turned to the right, towards the main door. Clea paused. Ever so slowly, she stepped in the same direction in which her head was pointed, barely blinking.

Just as she took one more step, there was a knock on the door. A single knock. At 6:24 p.m.

She whipped her handgun out from her thigh holster, and sprung at the light switch on her left to plunge the entire front of the house in darkness. Poised and ready, she advanced.

The knock came again. Her skin prickled.

She took another cautious step, listening for any change in her environment. There came none. Another, and another, until she took as many steps as she could before she opened the door. Her small hand grasped the handle lightly, before she twisted it and yanked the door open, gun poised. Blood rushing, heart surprisingly steady, she faced what disturbed her that night:

Nothing.

There was no human, nor animal, no note nor scream of tires on pavement.

Knowing the security team had watched what happened, she knew that they would up their watch on the front door. Clea shut it, locked it and slid her weapon into place. The smell of fish reached her nose once more. She bolted to the kitchen, opened the oven and grabbed the pan out from inside; while she expected an overcooked, smoking salmon, it was actually quite perfect.

Clea slipped her watch out, circled her thumb around it's outside, then clicked it open to check the time. 6:34; exactly ten minutes had passed since the knock on the door. It had felt like longer. She sighed once again, slid the pan back into the oven and waited to see if she was preparing a dish for two or one. You see, usually by this time, there's would be some indication as to whether there would be a Mr. Holmes in the house or not. In response, Clea received only quiet.

Just as Clea was about to grab only one plate from the cupboard, there was a shift of cold air against warmth that prickled Clea's skin, forming goosebumps all up her arms and legs. Said shift was followed by the soft click of the front door. She grinned ever so slightly and grasped a second dish. With the plates on the counter, Clea turned to address her employer, but he was already in the doorway. She jumped inside, a bit, but only looked mildly surprised on the outside.

"Good evening, sir."She looked to his cold blue eyes. When he did not respond, she asked if he would be requiring an evening meal.

He remained standing still, never taking his eyes from her. His face, while blank, almost had a confused look to it, but he looked to have been completely content with remaining in that same position for as long as he could.

"Your hands..."

His voice startled her; she hadn't realized how quiet the house was until the silence was snapped. Clea looked to her hands while they remained holding the spoon for the meal's sauce. Seeing what greeted her made an anger begin to bubble inside of her. This was exactly the reason why she became an agent. To be stronger. But still, that little child hid inside her. Making her mind go places she did not want it to go and manipulating her body with strings. That young spirit inside made her hands betray her. They were shaking.

"Sir, I assure you I am fine-"

"I did not ask whether you are fine or not." He snapped. Clea remained stoic. When she did not defend herself, Mycroft clenched his fingers in his coat pocket. It seemed that he wanted to elicit some sort of response he did not know how to ask for. A sigh came from his nose when he saw the look on her face: it was that of a scolded soldier. Flat, but almost dejected underneath. Slowly, Mycroft came forward, reached for her hand, and brought it level with his chest.

"You say you're fine," he looked from her hand to her grey eyes, " but your hands tremor."

"Well, sir, today has been a bit trying. I suppose it's taking it's toll on me."She spoke simply, little emotion as always."My apologies, it won't happen again."

"Perhaps you ought to pace the hours of the day better, hm?"He murmured.

"Yes sir."

He took one final look at Clea's grey eyes, and seemed that he was finished. Defeated. Were these short exchanges silent battles in disguise between the two? Or were they all a game started by Mr. Holmes and always ending with Clea saying "Checkmate"?

"Good."

Clea retracted her hand just as quickly as Mr. Holmes released it. He swept from the kitchen, striding back into the hall where she could hear his footsteps ascending the stairs.

Clea looked at her hands where they shook. Silently cursing them.

Table laid out, dinner plated, Clea swept out of the door connecting kitchen to dining room. She set the plate down at the table head's place,

then stood to the side awaiting Mr. Holmes. She heard him before she saw him- the carful footsteps of his pricy shoes. When he entered, his suit coat was no where to be seen, and dress shirt's sleeves were rolled to his elbows.

A twinge of concern poked at Clea's insides. He took his seat, but before Mycroft began to consume the fuel that would last him another ten hours, he turned to Clea and asked her," Will you join me?"

Clea stared for a moment, unsure how to respond.

"Sir, I hardly think it-"

"Ms. Hardell, join me." There he was. That commanding OCPD man she had analyzed in her interview.

"Of course, sir." She replied after a pause.

A moment later, Clea returned with her own dinner. More times than she cared to admit, Clea stole glances at the mysterious Mr. Holmes while eating. She did so in hopes that he may shed some much needed light on his peculiar behavior. He knew his brother was alive, he had the British nation own his hands and the rest of the world waiting on his beck and call. But still, the peculiar quite stayed, and alas, she had no luck.

The longer she stayed silent, more questions burned the tip of Clea's tongue where she kept them for as long as she could. But as much as she disliked it, she had to ask.

"Sir?"

He paused, almost like he had been anticipating her asking him about his current behaviour.

"Yes?"

"Please, pardon my asking, but what is wrong sir?"

He did his usual small smirk, then looked up at Clea with a straight face.

"Ms. Hardell, must there be something amiss for me to eat with you?"

"Of course not sir."

When Mr. Holmes' eyes returned to the dinner before him, she could tell that the conversation was over.

With the table clear of all dressings, Clea stood in the kitchen once more, at the sink to be exact; her hands deep in hot, soapy water and sleeves rolled up. There was a shift in the air, like someone breathing. Clea whipped her head around, only to see Mr. Holmes toying with a knife she would reach for to wash next. There was something in the slow way his fingers twirled the blade that set Clea on edge: it was hypnotic, disturbing and condescending.

"Sir, was there something you needed?"

He did not answer at first. The knife held his gaze for a moment longer, then he handed it to Clea.

"Have you heard the poem, "Ten little Soldiers" Ms. Hardell?" He asked as he retracted his hand. Clea's brow creased in the middle, seeing as the question caught her off guard.

"Well, yes sir, I have. It's better known under the title "Ten Little Indians, is it not?"

"Yes...yes it is." He mused in a low hum. "You ought to read it once more." Mycroft slowly walked towards her. He tsked, at first Clea was unsure why, but he rose his index finger to the darkening circles around her eyes; not quite touching them but just skimming them like a feather.

"Goodnight, Clea."

It seemed his bid of goodnight hung in the room, even after the tap of his shoes went up the stairs and into his office. Clea was left there to stand confused and concerned.

"Goodnight, Sir." She murmured, but there was no one to hear it. Just the night air.

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