It had barely been an hour since the first slivers of daylight broke through the cloudy dark. The neatly manicured lawns of the colossal suburban homes were veiled in droplets from the rain shower the night before. Amongst the vast expanse of greenery stood these large monuments of wealth that appeared to have been freshly painted in snowy white everyday. The bright facades hid dark interiors, where men and women were far too busy to remain for prolonged periods of time. The three story residences therefore remained mostly uninhabited, making the kilometers of land these few estates lay upon as quiet as a room in the Diogenes Club.
This is why Mycroft Holmes chose this particular remote region to occupy most of all despite owning a residence within walking distance to the Secret Intelligence Service building, where his work often found him. The loud sirens and honking, the smog-filled air, the chattering of the populace of the city – none of these appealed to him and only served as a distraction from his critical work. Although the travel distance was far greater, he thought it worth the time to be able to be left alone with his thoughts.
While the neighborhood stood as still as if nobody occupied these houses at all, one in particular usually experienced its initial activity around this time. This particular manor towered in the middle of open fields surrounded by every security measure known to man. A high stone fence marked off the area that no one dared intrude upon unless their lives meant nothing to them.
A lone figure, dressed in a grey three-piece suit as refined as the houses were, stood in one of the highest rooms of estate looking out upon the lawn, his mind dwelling on the one day when someone had had dared to risk everything to venture across it.
It was barely more than ten years ago that a lithe silhouette dropped down from the stone and iron fencing. As soon as it landed, it knew it had to be quick since the security system had already activated. It pulled out a small black laptop from the bag over its shoulder and immediately began furiously typing away, bypassing program after program. This was by far the most advanced one it had seen, but the issue at hand here was accuracy and speed. Luckily, prior practice served well and the systems were reset almost too easily, allowing the shadow to continue as if this home was where it naturally dwelt.
The next obstacle was infiltrating the building. The following tool to come out of the bag was a grappling hook, which was thrown onto the balcony that loomed above twin Doric pillars in the front of the manor. Climbing up the rope was less of a problem than bypassing the security of this place. With that job done, a small glasscutter was used to create a square next to the balcony lock before the shadow reached in, unlatched the lock, and stepped in with a sigh of relief, the first semi-audible sound to come from it yet.
This room clearly served to be a waiting room of some sort. There were chairs along the walls with a main reception desk next to a door embellished with royal filigree. The wallpaper was gold lined with red, clearly a recurring theme throughout the room judging by the cushions, curtains, etc.
No time was wasted as the mysterious individual quietly treaded forward, opening the main door to lead into the private office. A large window as tall as the room was to the left and sets of filing cabinets to the right. The grand prize above all though lay on the desk, in highly protected data files on a hard drive on the desktop at the center of the room.
The thief sat down immediately, inserted a USB flash drive into the computer, and began the coding process once more. This task was far more difficult than circumventing the security system outside. What this security system was protecting was far more valuable than any physical object inside any of these homes.
When the breach was complete, a data transfer was underway to the thief's personal cache. As the files worked their way across platforms, the criminal browsed through certain classified files, surprise and fury growing with each passing second. The transfer completion came as a relief as some of the archives were too nauseating to handle at that precise moment.
Just as the thief looked away from the room for one second to place the thumb drive back into the bag though, an iron bar came out from nowhere, pressing against its throat as the bandit's back was pulled into the front of the attacker. An elbow crashed into the side of the attacker making him falter as the metal bar, revealed as an umbrella, fell to the ground with a large clang, but this only delayed the attacker for a millisecond as he reached out and grabbed the intruder by the waist, slamming its body into the filing cabinet next to them, earning a crack from the bone followed by a loud scream.
The criminal lay almost paralyzed on the floor, clutching their right shoulder. A click of a handgun followed. "Kick the bag over here," a deep voice breathed. Mycroft's silhouette loomed over the figure dressed in tight-fitting black attire. He wore a navy blue dressing gown atop of a blue and white striped nightgown. The scene would almost have been comical if someone had not just tried to steal a decade's worth of military secrets from his home.
The thief obeyed. He opened the bag up with his toe so as to scan the contents.
"There aren't any weapons in there, if you're looking. I'm a burglar, not a murderer. Wouldn't want to steal all of the governments jobs, now would we?" The voice tried to sound as confident and unafraid as possible, but still ended up sounding rather shaky, most likely from the shoulder injury. But what first caught his attention was the pitch of the voice.
He leaned down and pulled the black ski mask off of the face, revealing a young, alluring woman. Short black hair cascaded down to frame her face. Her dark brown eyes, still looking as furious as if it had been he who broke into her home, glared back into his.
"What's your name?" he asked, his gun hand still steady and unmoving as he stood back up.
"Alexandria."
He scoffed. "Well, I suppose real names don't matter at the moment anyway." He picked up the thumb drive from the bag and crushed it beneath the sole of his slippers. "I've phoned the police so-"
"No, you haven't," she interrupted. He raised his eyebrows at her. She already noted that there were no phone lines connecting this house. The home had just been moved into and security measures against wire-tapping were not yet taken. She also noted that he had not touched his mobile yet as he came here the second he heard a sound. Looking at his screen would have made his eyes adjust to the light and here they were – in this dark room, his eyes working just fine.
He suppressed a shocked look on his face.
"Besides, you're clearly aching to find out who hired me."
"Well?" was the question that followed.
She smiled, masking the pain from what he now saw was a dislocated shoulder. "You're not getting a word out of me," she spat back.
"Such loyalty to someone who paid you to bring down a whole nation. I suppose you're no use to me then. And since I assume you already know too much…" He pointed the gun directly between her eyes.
"Ever the murderer. But I suppose that's what villains do." She closed her eyes, somehow still looking as defiant as ever.
A quiet but urgent knock on the door brought him back to the present. The visitor wasted no time opening the door and letting herself in.
"Files ascertained," she announced, dropping them down on top of the handcrafted mahogany desk.
"Were there any complications?" He walked over to the desk and sat down behind it, facing her while still in a slightly distracted state.
"Your brother himself is a complication." He noticed a slight twitch of annoyance on her face but it faded almost immediately. He returned the look with a modest smile.
"The result of growing up with me, I'm afraid."
"I'm sure you were an excellent brother."
He leaned his head upon his hand on the table and glanced over at a table and two chairs in the corner. They were far less bedecked than anything else in the room. Two simple wooden chairs and a table, upon which was a glass chess set, pieces perfectly in place as if ready for a game with any one at any time. "Perhaps," he responded in a distracted voice.
She followed his gaze. It was indeed curious that Mycroft was being so nostalgic on this day but the two of them were not the type to get personal. She kept quiet and waited for him to be ready for business once more.
"Is everything in order for your new mission?" he asked, bringing his gaze back to her. "Appointments made, facts gathered, plans fully thought out?"
"Have I ever disappointed you, sir?" He gazed at her and suppressed the urge to smile. She had never, in fact, disappointed him. She exceeded every expectation and became a fast, eager learner. He could have not have asked to have a better mentee. "We will need to plan to communicate as discreetly as possible from hence forth. I'll talk to Anthea about precautions we can take. I'll keep you informed."
"Please do. Just one problem to address: Sherlock."
She hardly batted an eye before responding, clearly showing that she herself thought of him as a problem to her mission also. "I plan to call Scotland Yard this evening and arrange for him to have a more…demanding schedule."
He nodded, hoping it would be enough to distract his brother, but keeping his concerns silent. "I certainly hope you enjoy being back in a first world country," he remarked, getting up and slowly walking over to the chess table.
She smiled, glancing at the walls that surrounded her. "It's good to be back." With that, she turned around and left the room, leaving faint scent of nightshade and incense in her wake.
Mycroft was not worried for her fate one bit. She was a brilliant warrior who had served on the front lines of private, delicate battles, but most of all, she believed she was on the good side of the war.
He gazed at the cheeseboard in front of him, running his fingers against the edge of the glass. It had been a gift from his dearest brother some years ago. They had, of course, since then discontinued the exchange of gifts. This one was his favorite though. Chess had always been their bonding tool, especially at a young age when he would teach his little brother the best strategies.
Yet another quiet room to make Mycroft feel at home. Then again, this had been his home not too long ago. He had just recently gone off to university, leaving behind his younger brother to be cared for by his loving parents. He didn't approve though. They didn't challenge him enough. How was he to improve without pushing himself? This is why Mycroft put it upon himself to teach his brother as much as he possibly could. It was easy when he was home but things were different now. He had classes to attend, research to partake in, assignments to complete. His brother was left in the monotony of country life as a twelve-year old, the prime of his learning absorption.
He was home for Christmas break. He debated whether or not he wanted to stay back there to help with additional research, but ultimately decided he did, in fact, want to spend some time with his brother.
Mother Holmes was currently in the kitchen cooking what smelled to be a roasted ham with her usual seasonings – the classic Christmas meal. Their father sat at the kitchen table reading one of his mystery novels. They both sat on the family room's floor of their cramped country cottage in front of a blazing fire, a serving tray of tea and biscuits on a side table for them. Sitting across from one another with an aged chessboard in between them, they were in their own little world with nothing existing but the board and the pieces.
Not much talking would occur, but occasionally young curious Sherlock would ask Mycroft why he chose a specific move.
"What was that for?"
"You should occupy the middle of the board as much as you can. You have the most options from there."
"Why haven't you moved that bishop?"
"It's too important. You should work the knights around first."
"Why?"
"They're vital to defend the middle spaces."
They had played dozens of times, but Sherlock was still young and Mycroft had to remind him of certain simple strategies when he blundered. But as they both got better and better, their strategies starting differing.
Sherlock furrowed his brow as he carefully studied the board. "Your pawns are all gone," he observed. They were many moves in and Mycroft could think of at least four different ways his could defeat his brother, but he was still in the teaching phase so he went easy on him, although he would never to admit to such a thing.
"They have no value. Sometimes you must sacrifice little to gain a lot."
"But isn't it far more impressive to win and still have the most pieces on the board?"
"Yes, but it isn't always the easiest way. It's far riskier." He studied his brother, who didn't look fully convinced with his explanation and tried to think of a better analogy. He found one within his own school focus – politics. "You have to think of it this way: the opponent is the villain that threatens Britain. Would you not sacrifice a few to save an entire nation?"
"Of course not," he replied almost immediately, a fiery passion in his eyes as if almost offended by the question. "What's the difference then, between you and the villain?"
Mycroft let the memory slowly drift away as he returned to the window, looking out just as the sleek black car drove out of his driveway and out the gates toward London, looming in the distance as if always reminding you that it was still there and still needed protecting.
He and his brother had not spoken for weeks after that comment. Neither of them was particularly happy about the implications – that Mycroft was a villain, or that he was attempting to turn Sherlock into one also. Just the word villain had repeated itself in his head quite often since the encounter. He had a few years of solace from the memory though, until that night he had his first and only break-in.
He was going to kill her. It would have been far too risky for the government to let her live. She was a professional hacker, one with quite a bit of physical skill, which was impressive but dangerous on the wrong side, and now she knew a fraction of secrets that were meant for few eyes only. There was no doubt in his mind. Except for one.
Villain.
Had she used any other word, uttered any other sentence, he would have had quite a mess on his hands, but nothing he couldn't take care of. Her records would be erased or she would put in as a missing person if she had any close family or friends, which was not usually the case among the hacker community. Her body could easily have been disposed of. Such an insignificant death was but a minor sacrifice.
Instead, the memory of his brother's first disappointment in him came rushing back as if to haunt the emotions out. He felt guilt, disappointment in himself. The confidence he usually maintained regarding his life shattered as he felt as if he were looking at his baby brother once more.
He had set the gun down that night and vowed to give this one a chance. Perhaps he just needed affirmation that Sherlock was wrong. Perhaps he wanted to turn her into what Sherlock could have been. Either way, his words won her over and she hadn't turned back since. He had found his self-affirmation, his new mentee. It turned out Sherlock was right on one matter that day: sacrifices, while easy to make, weren't always necessary.
