A monophonic tone begins to bleep from the pretty brunette's Blackberry, her thinly plucks brows shooting up in awe. Immediately, she picks herself up from her desk and rushes down the gray corridors as fast as her heels can carry her. By policy, and courtesy, hands were to knock before entering Mycroft Holmes' office door. Though when she did furiously graze her knuckles, there was no answer.
With a huff of impatience, she begins stabbing a number into her phone and puts it to her ear. It takes a number of rings.
"This is my private number, I hope this is important."
The woman begins to pace as she speaks, one hand on her hip. "I'm sorry, sir. But I urgently needed to contact you and you weren't in your office."
"Indeed. What happens to be the problem?"
"Sir, I've just received word from our hand at the Baker Street street camera. Your brother and his flatmate haven't been home for almost five days, their landlady was approached but she didn't know a thing of use."
"Yes, I'm aware."
She stops pacing. "I'm sorry, sir. You're aware?"
"My brother is in a critical condition at St Thomas'. John Watson had a lucky escape after falling into pool water." His voice, though monofied by the phone transmission, saddens. "It appears curiosity has finally killed the cat."
"Is there anything I can do?"
A beat. "Contact our people at the NPL."
"The laboratory? With respect, Mr Holmes, we agreed that their funding has made them far too adventurous. And they told us not to contact them unless ... "
Her boss interrupts her. " .. Unless we had them a subject participant."
"A willing participant, sir."
"I would rather he hated me for the rest of his life than have it end prematurely." These stronger words cease her hinted protesting immediately, dipping her head in compliance though he is not there to see it. He continues. "Contact them immediately about the GADGET project. That's all."
There is a click, and the line goes dead.