It was still early in the evening, so when she told Mycroft she'd handle the missing files, she didn't rush. She went back to her five-star hotel, took a shower in her suite, and got dressed in another pinstriped pantsuit with a dark purple silk blouse, taking her time as she wished.
It had been two whole hours since Sherlock Holmes had left the Stranger's Room, file in hand without either of their immediate knowledge, so why wasn't she in a rush to get all this classified government information back? If Sherlock was anything like her mentor, he had a photographic memory, which meant he had the entirety of that folder memorized fifteen minutes after he left the apartment (although her mentor would have only needed ten). It had had taken them no more than five minutes to realize Sherlock's theft. Baker Street was only approximately twenty minutes away via cab so, provided Sherlock was waiting to get back to the apartment to properly look at the file, that meant she would have had fifteen minutes to travel a twenty-minute route, provided he was headed straight to back to his apartment. That may have not been likely as he had probably also figured out his chances of being caught and would have not only started reading the case file right away, but had asked the cab driver to drive around London while he took his merry old time flipping through Britain's top secrets. The point was that he was long gone and the secrets already absorbed into his mind. There was no point in rushing to his address.
Twilight had settled by the time she got into the sleek, black car she was lent. Anthea sat next to her doing Mycroft's bidding on her mobile phone as the mysterious driver started up the engine. "221 Baker Street," she ordered, not even bothering to look up from her phone as she addressed the driver who, despite being two feet away from her at least four times a day, she knew almost nothing about. It's not that Anthea wasn't observant; it's that she didn't care to observe. Mycroft had taught Kassandra better though. Her mind was never idle and she didn't care for such distractions as smartphones and tablets unless research was warranted.
She had registered the driver yesterday when he had picked her up from the private hangar. The man was in his mid-forties, two children, one of whom had just started teething judging from the deep indents on his leather watch, given to him by his wife who he no longer held strong feelings for as her gifts held no sentimental value to him and rather stood in as a chew toy for his child, newborn going by the bags under his eyes and that distant gaze on the roadway. Once a handsome man now deteriorated by the monotonous life he chose, driving Anthea and occasionally Mycroft's associates around in silence were the highlight of his day, as could be seen by how he brushed tiny particles of dust off the dashboard occasionally while his own personal objects remained unkempt.
She couldn't often make deductions about Mycroft, but this driver led her to one of her few. This man was starting to become nearsighted judging by how he squinted at some of the road signs he wasn't already familiar with, making his driving somewhat mediocre. Mycroft usually required all of his employees be practically the best in their respective fields (Anthea being an excellent example of someone who remains on top all the information she can gather). He was not a cruel man but merely just. So why would he keep a driver who was currently driving an inch into the shoulder of the street? The answer to that was something that the driver held for this job: sentiment.
If she could easily deduce all this information, Mycroft had already done so and, despite his need for efficiency and practicality, this man was still here. Many thought her mentor to be cold, to know nothing of sentiment and empathy, but here sat a man whose one happiness was driving Mycroft around, however poorly, instead of someone whose skill exceeded that of many qualified applicants. While Mycroft never had to deal with a demanding personal life, he understood the unpleasantness of it, and saw it specifically in his driver. This was his act of kindness – allowing this man an outlet from it all.
The man pulled up to a set of apartment buildings on a steadily quieting street, going slightly over the curb in the process. The vibrancy of the day was all but depleted here as the occupants of the street began to settle in their pajamas.
"Will you be long?" Anthea asked Kassandra as the latter slipped on a pair of leather gloves and reached for the door handle.
"I doubt it," she replied confidently. "But you needn't stay. I'll catch a cab back and meet with Mycroft in the morning with the files."
She waited until the driver steered away before turning to the darkened door labeled "221B" in gold. She straightened the knocker before using it to catch the attention of whoever would answer.
A tiny old woman who beamed at her immediately opened the door. Blonde with short hair and a long pink dress, this was the last type of person she was expecting. "Hello, dear! Sherlock was just expecting you. I've prepared a nice cuppa for the two of you. Ring me if you need anything else!" She stepped aside to reveal a staircase leading upstairs where no doubt Sherlock was waiting for her.
So he was expecting her. This was…odd. Or was it? She had not given an inkling of thought to what she should expect. She was confident the files would most certainly be in her hand by the end of the evening but she thought it would involve something clever. Perhaps discreetly obtaining it like he had in the Stranger's Room. Perhaps even by force. But the fact that he was awaiting her changed the game slightly. She mentally scolded herself for not expecting this.
The room she proceeded to enter was in a complete disarray. There were items such as animal bones and mountain climbing equipment resting atop books about textiles and anatomy on a table you could barely see the surface of. The bookshelves against the wall were filled to the point of books resting horizontally atop the other books. The Aeneid stood next to a text on stem cells. Nothing had rhyme or reason. Unlike Mycroft, who kept everything organized alphabetically, color-coded, and neatly arranged, this man had obviously found comfort in chaos, although she shouldn't have been surprised seeing as how the knocker remained mostly crooked judging by how the surface of the door was exceptionally cleaner where the crooked knocker's silhouette was.
In the middle of all this chaos sat Sherlock reading the paper in front of a fireplace across from an empty chair with two cups of tea in front of each chair. "You're a little later than I expected. I assume Mycroft hasn't fired that clinically depressed driver of his yet? It seems he's gotten himself a little pet. Well-" he looked up from his newspaper at me, "an additional one, I should say." He set the paper next to his cup.
She observed the overstuffed chair in front of them. Recently cleaned. Drag marks on the carpet beneath it to and from this room. Nothing on its side table, also recently cleaned. Half-full boxes scattered around apartment. For anyone else, it would have looked like a one-sided breakup. But she did her research on Sherlock Holmes before arriving tonight, making his erratic behavior during their initial meeting understandable. It was a one-sided breakup, to some extent.
"I see yours has recently run away," she retorted, pulling her eyes away from the mayhem around to finally have a seat. She continued as she spooned some sugar into her tea. "You have the dramatic flair of your brother. It must run in the family."
She looked up from her cup just in time to see a slight twitch of annoyance on his face, telling her all she needed to know about their relationship: resentment from the younger child from always having to be overshadowed by the older, smarter, controlling brother. The fact that he had turned to Mycroft to express himself to earlier today also showed his social habits. How lonely must one be to have to turn to someone he so disdains?
"I only assumed my loan didn't go unmissed," he replied, resuming his calm demeanor.
"Theft. And no, it did not. Now if you'll excuse me…" She held her hand out in between them.
He reached down and pulled the file from among a pile of books by his feet. She noticed a faint indent on his skin just above his cuff. Realizing this had meant that he had done his own research, she let out a frustrated sigh and dropped her hand as he continued to open the file.
"Malcolm Everett, one of Britain's top investors," he read off, half summarizing. "About fifty-fifty rate of his investments paying off, leaving his income to stay steady. But it doesn't, does it? Fifty percent increase two years ago." He flipped the page. "Seventy-five percent increase last year." Yet another page flip. "And finally, a remarkable 300% increase this year. I see why this has gotten Mycroft's attention." He set the file down on the table in front of them. "Tell him I left some notes in there for him."
"I was told-"
"You mean ordered," he interrupted.
She glowered at him. "Asked to make you aware that you are not to get involved under any circumstances. At least not more than you already have," she countered, taking possession of the file once and for all. She downed the cup of tea, craving for something far stronger when she arrived back to her hotel room.
"I would hardly trust the incompetence of the British government for this," he let out with a snort. "More tea?"
She took a deep breath in order to relax herself. She had been told this interaction would prove to be difficult, if not infuriating. She had no idea how Mycroft could be able to put up with such pretentiousness. Or perhaps his behavior stemmed from competing with Mycroft. Either way, she would have felt far more comfortable on a mission rather than conversing with Sherlock Holmes.
"No. I have business to attend to." She stood up, file in hand. "Not all of us have the time to keep an archive of tobacco ash."
His jaw visibly hardened as he stood up to meet her gaze. "He's trained you well, hasn't he? You even have his brashness down precisely. Clearly you look up to him as an idol, despite knowing he holds countless puppet strings, even yours. How do you feel knowing you're just a puppet? That you're only here to do his bidding?" he inquired, getting quieter with every sentence.
She felt her loyalty stir inside her but with loyalty usually came aggression, so she coiled up her fingers tightly into a fist and released it, her way of discipline from unwanted emotion. "Whatever hostility you have towards him, leave national matters out of it. While you and your brother may not see eye to eye on most things, he's the one in the seat of power, not you. Your job is to consult, and we don't need your consultation on this case, but thank you for the offer, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
She walked away from the heated situation, glad to have put her diplomatic skills to use rather than her more aggressive ones. She shut the door on her way out, not even daring to view her adversary even in the corner of eye lest she get drawn in to another hostile situation. The man was not easy to work with and she couldn't imagine how his previous partner had put up with him. Then again, he was known to act more pompously when his brother was involved.
It was an interesting relationship between the Holmes brothers. While she was never one to be social herself, sociology was one of her expertise. The social interactions between the Holmes's was a gold mine, if there ever was one, of social psychology. Each of them clearly had inferiority complexes, reinforced by their abnormally active brains. The younger held a deep resentment for the elder while the latter was merely more protective than anything. These two had a complicated history that was difficult for her to ignore. While she detested every second of her interaction with Sherlock, a small part of her hoped to see him again. While not very important or useful, no relationship had ever interested her more than that of the Holmes brothers.
