Vanessa arrived at 221B Baker Street in the soft grey light of early morning. She exited a little black taxi carrying everything she owned in two small suitcases, waving off the cabbies' offer to help. Her hair was a mess and she dressed in comfortable clothing, no make up gracing her features. She walked to the stoop and took a moment to ready herself. Mycroft had already given her the flat keys and assured her the top floor would be move-in ready upon arrival. A familiar twist at the top of her spine raced down to the pit of her stomach and she immediately scanned the upper windows, expecting to find unwelcoming blue eyes bearing down at her. But all the curtains were drawn and remained still in the morning light, so she shook away her nerves and opened the front door, taking care not to displace the crooked knocker. Vanessa climbed the stairs silently, not wanting to disturb the other two tenants on her way to highest flat.

"Merde!" She gasped upon opening her new door. Mycroft had promised it would be move in ready, but Vanessa had never expected something like this. The apartment was immaculate; all black and beige and crème, decorated with the finest mahogany, velvet, and crystal. Vanessa wandered into the salon and felt an overwhelming sense of smallness. She didn't belong in this flat, with her travel ragged body and her shoddy old suitcases. She stood in messy, stark contrast with the surrounding expensive brilliance. A fresh black credit card gleamed at her from the modest kitchen counter, along with a single piece of stationary with Her Majesty's Credentialsprinted at the bottom.

This is your personal card. Welcome to London.

– Mycroft Holmes

She scuttled off to the bedroom, hoping it would be a little less formidable but found it just as highly spiced. The large bed was a welcome sight to her but she knew sleep would have to wait. She set the luggage on the floor and opened them both, finding comfort in her familiar things.

Vanessa spent the next two hours running around the most central hub of London, memorizing every street, alley, and tunnel that she came across. It took her a bit longer to get her daily 10k but it was still mid morning when she returned to 221B and her three story ascent was met with no resistance. She took a moment at her front door to look around the apartment again, hoping her body would eventually get used to the decadence. Of course she could always ask Mycroft to redecorate more to her simple tastes, but she felt that would seem ungrateful.

And Vanessa would always be grateful to Mycroft Holmes.

They were taking her somewhere different. The bag over her head blocked out the sights and sounds, but she could still feel her body moving. Right, straight, up, left, straight. Cool air against her ragged skin. It felt good. Must be night time, otherwise she would be burning in agony. Maybe today was the day they would finally kill her. Oh God, she hoped. A sharp needle pierced her skin and everything fell away. Even her mind quieted as the drugs swept through her body, putting her in a most exquisite sleep.

She awoke in a brilliant white room and immediately cried for joy. Vanessa had made it to heaven. It was real and she made it. Everything was finally over.

Later she awoke to find an unfamiliar gentleman sitting next to her. He was chic and smart, handsome to a point and wore a kind smile. An angel, she thought, come to take me to paradise.

"I'm afraid not," He smiled kindly, "Just an ordinary man in an ordinary hospital room."

A knock came at the door, pulling Vanessa from her distracted state of mind.

"Woo-hoo!" Vanessa straightened herself and reached for the doorknob, taking a moment to reengage with the present. "Miss Pedrad, are you in?" Mrs. Hudson called again, more determined this time. Vanessa took a breath and plastered on a smile before opening the door and allowing Mrs. Hudson room for entry. "Morning Dear! I was just taking Sherlock some tea and thought you might like some as well." Mrs. Hudson set down the china tray at the counter and looked around the room quickly, little noises of appreciation twittering in the stale air. "Oh it's just lovely! I've never seen this place look so absolutely gorgeous. That explains all the traffic over the past couple of weeks." She turned to the awkward looking Vanessa, stuck standing in her doorway surrounded the finest London had to offer. "Oh darling, you sit down and I'll pour you a nice cuppa."

Vanessa liked Mrs. Hudson straight away. She was kind and motherly with just a hint of mischief. She talked a lot, that was for sure, but Vanessa didn't mind. She liked listening, it kept her focused. Mrs. Hundson told her about all the crazy things that went on at 221B Bakers Street, how glad she was for Sherlock to be back home, and how she couldn't wait for the wedding.

"Sherlock was in a frightful mood last night, but I'm sure he and John will patch things up quick as..." There was a ring from downstairs and Mrs. Hudson faltered, debating whether or not to cut things short and get the door or continue rambling to Vanessa. "That'll be Mr. Silverson..." Mrs. Hudson glanced at Vanessa, then to the tray of tea.

"Everything alright Mrs. Hudson?"

"Oh yes dear, fine. It's just... I always bring Sherlock tea in the morning, but today Mr. Silverson is calling on me about some thing or another. Could you possibly bring it to him for me?" Another ring sounded up the stairs and Vanessa felt like a contestant on a game show. On one hand she would love to help Mrs. Hudson; who could say no to that sweet face. On the other hand she wasn't exactly keen on finding herself in Sherlock's flat, just as he wasn't exactly keen on her in the first place. "Vanessa?"

"Oh sorry, Mrs. Hudson." Another ring, bringing Vanessa back from Russia, "Yes, I'll take the tray to him. Of course." The elder woman clapped in appreciation and gently patted Vanessa's hands before scuttling out of the apartment. Vanessa grabbed the try and carefully went down a flight. She knocked on Sherlock's door politely but heard no response. To her left stood another door, slightly ajar. She quietly peeked through and found what could be considered a kitchen, though the myriad of test tubes read more chemistry lab. Vanessa tried to find a flat surface for the tea and seeing none, she entered the salon. Her eyes drank the clutter in like a fine wine, swimming in the unfamiliar. The walls and windows, the webbing of loose papers and books, hundreds and hundreds of books.

"Looking for something?" Vanessa spun around to find Sherlock standing in the kitchen, a narrowed look on his face.

"Sorry Mr. Holmes, I don't mean to intrude. Mrs. Hudson asked me to bring this to you." She held out the tea tray expecting him to take it but he didn't move.

"In the future I would try to avoid doing favors for Mrs. Hudson. Gives her a sense of false authority." She gave him a queer look before turning to place the tea on the coffee table in front of the couch.

"Will you need anything else?" Vanessa asked, tone sounding bizarre even to her own ears.

"I hope this isn't what Mycroft hired you for; bringing tea, asking stupid questions. I have Mrs. Hudson for that."

"Your brother hired me to protect you, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock cringed at the title and closed the distance between them, circling her like a bird of prey. Vanessa kept her eyes forward, not wanting to enter the obvious power play.

"Yes but why... Why you? Why you specifically?" He strode away from her, fingers pressed together in prayer, resting on his mumbling lips. "You aren't English-born judging by the shape of your eyes and mouth and based on the perfect way in which you speak, English isn't your native language either. Received pronunciation, popularized in 1926 though the study went back further into the 1800's, is used by very diverse but specialized groups of people: the Rich and royal, media personalities, and actors. Your English is a little too perfect Miss Pedrad, suggesting quite a lot of practice." She followed him with focused eyes, completely taken by his frenzied monologue. Sherlock spoke quickly, tone rising ever so steadily as his excitement grew. "So not native English means not originally MI-6. Your bone structure reads middle-eastern, as does your complexion, though it's a little too light at the moment, suggesting you haven't been there in some time. So how did Mycroft find you?" He turned to face her, offering a pointed look before lowering himself into his chair. "Or, more importantly, why did Mycroft find you? Your training began at a very young age, as is evident in the way your shoulders stand. Your musculature and balance suggest special forces, but your grip on language and character lends itself to covert operations. So what we have is an undercover middle-eastern secret agent suddenly extradited from her country and granted instant English citizenship. These facts offer us two possible solutions; either you are a defecting agent, traitor to your own country in order to gain privileges and protection, or you are retired from the game as it were, brought back only for personal favors owed." Sherlock paused to look Vanessa dead in the eyes, "Which is it Miss Pedrad?"

"All of it." She whispered, still completely shocked at what had just transpired. "None of it. Sort of a jumble I guess." She looked down at herself, trying to find the words scrawled across her body, but finding only her sweats. Some of his deductions had been absolutely spot on, where others had her enraged at the suggestion. "How do you figure... retirement and all?" Sherlock smirked, still high from his brilliant deductions. He loved the first time; the initial shock and hidden doubt, held tightly over suspicions until he would prove his superiority with superior intelligence and scientific fact.

"It's obvious really," She tilted her head, growing disturbed at how much of her life he had been able to recreate by just looking at her. "Your skin is dark, but its faded, meaning you've been spending a lot of time away from the sun recently. Your right hand, the ring finger which in some cultures, India to be specific, is reserved for a wedding band." She blanched, mind spinning into overtime, eager to absorb. "Something happened to your ring." Vanessa brought her hands together, left over right as if to shield her fingers from Sherlock's prying blue eyes. "You have a callous on your palm, under the finger. Formed by cupping your ringed hand around all sorts of thing over a long period of time: cleaning pots and pans, gardening tools, your hand around the base of a weapon, intense physical combat. Daily what-have-you. But there is no indentation on the skin, meaning the ring has been unworn for at least a couple months." Sherlock leaned back and crossed his legs, staring at the rug while thinking of his deduction. "So you are a retired, ex-secret agent from the middle east, who has worn a ring habitually until now, hired by the most literal representation of the British Government conceivable to exclusively protect his little brother from non-existent threat from now until the foreseeable future." Silence applauded Sherlock's absolute magnificence. Vanessa struggled to find words.

"Incredible."

"Yes, I am rather good." He was definitely showing off, but Sherlock liked to think of it as marking his territory. "Did I manage everything?" Vanessa looked into his eyes deeply, absently fiddling with her right ring-finger.

"You are correct in some of your deductions."

"I know that." He rolled his eyes, not expecting such a highly recommended agent to be so slow. "But what did I get wrong?" Vanessa looked down, eyes glued to the rug, just as Sherlock had done. She took a breath, trying to maneuver around his question.

"I was born in India but taken to Iran when I was still quite young. I lost my parents at a very young age."

"India." He repeated, "That's tricky... Your facial features aren't that obvious. You must be mixed with something else?" Listening to him speaking about her as if trying to analyze the pedigree of a show dog... It made her sick.

"My mother was an Indian actress. My father was French." Sherlock chuckled at some unapparent joke.

"I can see it now. Yes. And the training? At what age did you learn to kill?"

"We all have the ability to kill. Even you, Sherlock."

"I'm not asking for a philosophy lesson. When did you begin your training?"

"I was 4 years old." Her tone made it obvious that she wanted to stop, but that wasn't enough for Sherlock, not when it was just starting to get interesting.

"And the ring? Your retirement?" Her dark eyes snapped to his, a warning.

"I would rather not talk about that at this moment."

"Oh come on! We're all friends here," He looked around his dusty apartment, slightly shocked to be missing one John Watson. "Well, we're neighbors at least. You don't think I deserve a little enlightening about my new, what do you call it? Body guard?"

"Mr. Holmes, you don't want enlightenment. You want confirmation on what you've already figured out." She tilted her head, looking over him quite slowly. "You want to use your shallow deductions to paint me as the villain you already see in your head. Your Using my past as an intellectual playground, a puzzle for you to unravel. I'm beginning to understand how you work and I cannot afford to let you work on me."

"Really now? And how do I work Vanessa?" His tone was snide but he couldn't deny the intrigue that slowly bubbled within him. Normally he could read people like books, the whole of what they are in a matter of seconds. But her? He must have caught her off guard earlier. She had been so easy to read then and now she was collapsing in front of him, blocking herself away from his prying eyes.

"You read people, in their pain and in their circumstances. A splash of skin here, a dash of fabric there, and suddenly you know them. Or you think you do. And certainly to a point you must." She looked past him and he leaned forward, raking his eyes over her ever-distant body. She seemed to be falling further and further away, yet stood merely feet in front of him. "But it's not enough to know, is it? You must understand." Sherlock watched closely, waiting for Vanessa to return to the conversation, to make sense of her scolding, but she simply turned and walked away. He rose, anxious to follow her but she turned back with a tight-lipped smile. "If you have any questions about me or my credentials please do not hesitate to ask. I understand that you are wary of secrecy Mr. Holmes and for good reason. I am not purposely trying to appear withholding, but you must recognize that some subjects are extremely sensitive. I promise to never lie to you and will work very hard to answer all the questions you may have. So long as you ask the right questions..."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, curiosity growing in leaps and bounds. Her brown eyes shifted over his body, reading him carefully and for a moment Sherlock wondered if this is what if felt like on the other side of his deductions.

"Good morning Miss Pedrad," Mycroft called on his way up the stairs, effectively ending the mind games between her and Sherlock. Vanessa turned to the elder Holmes brother with a polite smile as he reached the landing.

"Good morning Mr. Holmes." Her voice was mirroring his in respect and curtness. Sherlock gathered they spoke often with each other.

"I do hope my little brother isn't giving you any trouble."

"Nothing of the sort. I was just on my way upstairs from surveying the area."

"Excellent. And how do you find your new home? I pray it's to your liking."

"Oh, it's absolutely gorgeous, thank you." Mycroft smiled, obviously pleased with himself. He walked past her into the cluttered flat, sending his brother a 'you best behave' eyebrow raise. "If you'll excuse me gentlemen, I need to finish settling in. Please don't hesitate to call me should you desire my assistance." Mycroft nodded before taking his place in John's old chair, leaving Sherlock to watch Vanessa disappear.

"I've got a couple of minutes to spare, little brother. What shall we do?"