It's so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.

-John Steinbeck

-/-

"Alright give me a week and I'll have everything sorted out for you." The woman in front of Sarah Braxton smiled widely, tears brimming in her hazel eyes as she blubbered her thanks. As soon as the door shut behind her latest client Sarah let the fake smile fall from her face immediately.

Throwing her pen down she decided to call it a night. The news was playing on the telly in the main room, some story about a series of murders that had stumped Scotland Yard, as usual. She contemplated picking up the phone and calling the DI but she knew better. As she picked up to remote to turn it off the screen changed to a picture of Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and a ghost of someone's past, all posing in front of 221 Baker Street.

It was the 2 year anniversary.

The remote collided with the wall in front of her in a fit of rage. Two years. Two bloody years and it still felt like it had just happened. She sat on the edge of the couch and held her head in her hands as she tried to keep her breathing steady. "Two years have passed since the tragic death of Sherlock Holmes and the world continues to grieve the loss of the brilliant Consulting Detective…" Sarah laughed through tears, it was a bitter and forced sound. Dead men always gets listened to when it's too late.

Once she was sure her legs would support her she stood and shut off the telly, silence falling over the sparsely furnished cabin. She follows protocol and dials her latest employer as she packs her things into her bag. She frowns when she receives no answer and tries again but still is unable to get in touch. Slinging her bag over her shoulder she heads towards town, her German Shepard Arrow is at her heels the moment she steps outside. The woman she met with earlier spoke of an abandoned barn on the outskirts of town and after a few miles of walking she spots the dilapidated building. Seeking refuge from the howling winds in one of the stalls she decides to wait until morning to talk to the locals. Unlike Sarah the men she are looking for can't speak the language so she predicts by tomorrow night she'll have her reassignment orders.

The wind picked up outside and she almost missed the creak of the barn door opening, mistaking it for the gale outside. It was the sound of voices that sent her burrowing under a hay stack a few yards away, her loyal companion pressed against her side. Unless someone came during the middle of a storm to lay hay she was safe. She could pick out three distinctive voices but it wasn't until she realized that they were speaking English that she knew who they were.

"I told you there were no animals!" The voice was nasally and high pitched. She was positive she had heard that voice somewhere before. "It was better than the place in town. I swear they know we're the one who've been taking the food." This voice had an Irish accent and sounded very irritated. "It could've been anybody!" The first one argued. "We're the only strangers around here you bloody git."

"Enough," This deeper voice silence the others. "Let's look around." She could hear them moving around and couldn't help but roll her eyes. She burrowed further back and settled in. "Hey did you hear what's going on in London?" The nasally voice asked, sounding distant. "It's gotten pretty bad over there, yeah?" The Irishman was closer now. "It should be over," The nasally voice continued. "Smythe killed John Watson."

She felt a jolt like lightning go through her. That's impossible…no…Mycroft would've called her…it can't be true. Beside her the dog nudged her sympathetically. "Are you sure?"

"It had to be him. The brother was a useless snob and no one else seemed to know anything."

"I thought he had police protection?"

"Not after the DI was fired. Smythe got'em in a crowded shop but at least he got it done."

"Did you two find anything?" The deeper voice was back.

"No, you?"

"Nothing. Let's get back to the cabin before the storm hits."

The barn door slammed shut but she barely heard it. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. John wasn't dead. He couldn't be. She scrambled out from her spot in the hay, tears running down her face and her breaths coming in short, shallow gasps. It takes her three tries to dial Mycroft's number and it takes five rings for him to answer. "There's a car waiting for you 5 miles west of your current location. I'm sorry, Syn."

-/-

It's sunny and warm when she arrives in Britain. She's taken to a safe house in Plymouth first where she showers and her now raven hair is dyed blonde again and the matted ends are cut off. Her wounds are properly treated and her soiled boots are switched out with a new pair. She's given a pair of tightfitting jeans, a white t-shirt, and a grey scarf that makes her begin to question things. They even wash Arrow and feed and trim him. She doesn't understand why they're going to all this trouble to clean her up.

Mycroft is nowhere in sight and his assistant, Anthea proves to be useless on the ride into London. The car stops long enough for her and Arrow to get out before it zooms off, leaving her in front of the Diogenes Club. Keeping her head down she maneuvers through the silent club until she's sitting in front of Mycroft, Arrow laying across her feet. Wordlessly she's handed a case file and she's expecting to see the corpse of her best friend inside but instead she finds a detailed report of a terrorist cell.

"You bastard!" She shoots up from her chair, Arrow bearing his teeth and growling, sensing his master's unease. "That entire assassination was a bloody set up to bring me back to London to do your dirty work! Do you have any idea how scared I was! I thought John was dead you fucking prick!" Mycroft takes her anger in with a smile. "We both know you wouldn't have come back if I called you." She's absolutely seething. "You know how dangerous it is for me to be out in the open like this, Mycroft! What good was it to fake my death if you're just going to dangle me out in the open like this?"

Mycroft steeples his fingers under his chin. "London needs you, Syn. It was important that you came home immediately."

"I don't have a home," she shoots back. "I don't put that much sentiment into a place. It useless." She begins flipping through the detailed reports, absorbing and storing all of the information in its rightful place. "If London needed me so badly why bring back Syn and not The Ghost?" He stands from his chair and pours himself a glass of scotch. "The Ghost is unable to make the personal connections that are needed for this case. Syn, however, is able to." She narrows her eyes at the elder Holmes suspiciously. "I don't particularly like where this is going."

Mycroft smiled widely and she was positive she wouldn't like whatever he was about to say. "You're going to be working with a partner."

-/-

2 years, 5 days, 8 hours, and 19 seconds.

That's how long it's been since she's set foot in London.

There are things she needs to do, things she should've done a very, very, long time ago but she can't bring herself to do it. She probably never will. She does know that ever second she's out in the open, every second she continues to be Syn and play Mycroft's little game, that she is putting people lives in danger. The streets buzz with energy and life as she walks and there was a time where she would've reveled in the feeling of it. But now she feels nothing, living in a constant state of disconnection. Walls had been built and repaired and all feeling had been locked away in the deepest crevices of her mind.

Her feet stop and looking up a pang of guilt shot through her.

Feeling was locked away but there were those pesky times over the years where she hadn't been able to contain it. Feeling was the reason she was back in London, risking everything because the thought of John being dead brought every wall crumbling down. Feeling was the reason why her feet brought her within a few yards of a life she tried so hard to forget.

In gold letters against a black stone read Sherlock Holmes.

She remembers people telling her about the five stages of grief: denial and isolation then anger, bargaining, depression, and finally acceptance. Looking at the black stone in front of her she disconnects again and leaves because she is The Ghost; cold and manipulating. She's a killer-a highly skilled assassin as Mycroft likes to put it-and she's not supposed to feel. She's not supposed to care. It's not an advantage.

-/-

Angelo's is practically empty when she arrives and she wastes no time sitting down in the furthest corner, Arrow laying his head in her lap. No matter how many times Mycroft reassures her that she can trust him she refuses to let her guard down. Not again. Not ever. She pulls her scarf away from her face as she waits. Why he chose for her to meet her partner here she hasn't a clue but it doesn't sit well with her.

"What can I get for you today ma'am?" The accent is thickly Italian but she doesn't comment. "I'll have the special, please." She says without looking up from the particularly ropey scar on her hand. The waiter lingers for a moment before disappearing. She looks up occasionally, her eyes scanning the crowd but she finds nothing of interest.

The waiter returns rather quickly, setting a steaming plate of food in front of her without a word. She picks at the food in front of her, not even sure what is, for a few minutes before she decided this whole 'partner' thing is absolutely ridiculous. Since when has she needed a partner to do a job? With an irritated sigh she slaps a few bills down on the table and covers her face as she leaves. It takes two rings for Mycroft to answer. "I can't take a liability but considering I was almost 20 minutes late and there was no one remotely interesting I'm beginning to think there never was one to begin with." There's a brief pause before he replies. "You'll thank me for this one day." The line falls silent with a click and she's left standing in the street completely enraged and somewhat confused.

She looks down at Arrow who is sitting patiently beside her, shaking her head she sighs. "What am I supposed to do now boy?" He looks at her almost sympathetically as she runs her fingers through his thick black fur. "Ma'am! Excuse me ma'am!" Waiter. She contemplates running, it would be easy enough to do and most likely the best choice. She didn't want people seeing her face for fear they may recognize her. But something nagged at the back of her mind to turn around.

Thunder boomed overhead and raindrops began to fall.

She turned, gunmetal grey eyes and dark curls against alabaster skin make a gasp fall from her lips. Her ears ring. Her mouth goes dry. The surroundings slip away until it is just her and him. Sherlock. "No, please, you're only supposed to be in my nightmares. You're not supposed to be real." His smile faltered as he took a step forward. Falling, falling, falling, dead. "Syn, I'm alive. It's really me." He baritone voice is almost pleading and she's sure then that she's lost her mind because he isn't supposed to sound like that. He reaches out and gently squeezes the hand that's hanging limply by her side to prove his point.

She blinks away the tears and focuses on his hand still gripping hers. "I watched you fall," She sounds so small and childlike she almost doesn't recognize her own voice. "You saw what I needed you to see." She shook her head, the shock slowly being replaced by anger. "I was the one who identified your body. You were dead, Sherlock." He squeezes her hand again. "I'm here, Syn. I promise."

"You've been alive this entire time," She furious now. Two years, two fucking years. "Come here," he steps forward and they're so close she can see the scar John put on Sherlock's left cheek and the flecks of gold in his blue eyes. "It's m-"

Her fist connected with the side of Sherlock's face before he could finish. "You ass! You utter piece of shit! You can't come back after all this time and tell me you're alive! Did you really think you could come back from being 'dead' and everything be perfectly fine?!" "Syn-" Her chest hurts and her heart is racing and she can't take a full breath. "Stop! Please, just stop it!" She backs away and does the only thing she seems to know how to do. She runs.

Rain begins to fall harder, the drops of water stinging her face.

It's happening again, she can feel it creeping up and taking a hold of her. She stumbles and catches herself on the edge of a building. The world spins and for a moment her throat becomes so tight she can't breathe. This can't be happening. This isn't real! You can't let coming back to London get to you! You are better than this! No you aren't. You are weak. You always have been. She can't stop that tears when they begin to fall.

How is she supposed to cope with him being torn from her life and then thrown back in two years later?

She doesn't run again when he catches up, in all honesty she didn't want to run in the first place. She hadn't known what else to do. "Syn, I'm sorry. Moriarty had snipers on John, and Ms. Hudson, and Lestrade, and you. I-I had no other choice. I was almost in contact so many times but I was afraid you would come looking for me. Look at what you've done. It's all your fault. Everyone thinks Sherlock is dead because of you. You didn't know when to leave you greedy bitch. There's so many things she wants to say, a string of curses to throw at him particularly, but here he is, standing in front of her, alive.

"I thought…I thought I lost you, Sherlock."

She doesn't fight back when he gather's her into his arms and murmurs apologies over and over again. He pulls away and cups her cheek, his thumb gently brushing away the tears. She leans into his touch, the first welcomed touch in two years. "Moriarty's network has been destroyed. It's over."

-/-

She wanted to tell John and Lestrade and Sherlock together. They deserved the whole truth about what had happened. Getting out of the cab with Sherlock and walking into Speedy's and seeing both John and Lestrade again lifts this huge invisible weight off her shoulders. For the first time in two years she feels like she can breathe again. Lestrade hugs her first, welcoming her back but John isn't as happy. "You ran off with him didn't you? You knew he was faking it all long didn't you?"

"No I thought Sherlock was dead just as much as you did. Please, just let me explain what happened."

Leading up to Moriarty's suicide he managed to obtain all of her information and leak it to the FBI, CIA, Homeland Security, and anyone else who was willing to read it. It had been a handful of days after Sherlock's fall that Mycroft and a British General informed her of what Moriarty had done. Of course that wasn't the only reason they had come. General Marcus Pike wanted to offer Syn a clean slate.

A few years prior there was an idea, an idea that a group of highly skilled individuals could be brought together to form a team that would be able to complete any task set in front of them. The catch?

Syn had to die.

She sat in Mycroft's office and listened intently to her planned suicide with a stoic face. She knew if she didn't accept John and Lestrade and Molly and Ms. Hudson and Mycroft could potentially be arrested for housing a fugitive. Even though she was given a day to think it over she chose right then in Mycroft's office. She had done enough damage.

She left John a note the next day saying she needed to get away from Baker Street for a while to think about what she wanted to do next with her life. By the time he found it in the afternoon she was already halfway across the world. A month later a young, blonde woman was found floating in the Thames wearing the same clothes Syn had when she left. There was no way to identify the woman, her fingertips had been burnt off and there was no record of anyone matching her description going missing. Molly confirmed that the blood sample matched Syn's but with the body being in the river for nearly a month it was possible that it was another one of the Queen's failures.

Kitty Riley however thought different.

She wrote that a reliable source had confirmed the body discovered in the Thames was in fact the woman behind the scarf. Sarah Braxton was born after that but it was very rare that anyone called her that, only those that she had to give a name to. When she arrived at her new home with General Pike she was introduced to the other 5 members of the Suicide Squad as The Ghost.

She looked around the table, carefully gauging everyone's expression and finding each expression similar to the ones she received at the hospital when she finally told the truth about who she was. "I didn't know about the article until a few days ago and I had every intent of reaching out to you John, but Mycroft's idea of bringing me back to London involved making me think you were dead-" She fell silent as a bell chimed announcing the arrival of a customer. The way John's face softened peaked her curiosity enough to make her turn around. Oh my god.

John stood beside the woman, a loving smile across his face. Look at what you let happen. "Syn this is my fiancé, Mary Morstan. Mary, this is Syn." Only child, linguist, clever, part-time nurse, shortsighted, guardian, bakes own bread, disillusioned, cat lover, romantic, appendix scar, lib dem, secret tattoo, size 12, liar. Mary smiled warmly as if she had no idea who Syn was. Of course her ability to lie was always her strongest trait. "Hello Syn, it's good to finally meet you. John's told me so much about you." Mary opened her arms and Syn had no choice but to accept. Sherlock knew she was a liar no doubt but no one else did. She hugged the woman and whispered, "Hurt ho a zomries," just loud enough for her to hear. Hurt him and you die. "Viem, ze," She replied as she pulled away. I know.

She watches Mary interact with John and John with Mary and bloody hell they're so in love. Syn glances over at Sherlock, his eyes darting over to Mary in silent confirmation to her question. He knows she's hiding something and she knows what it is.

A.G.R.A.

Annabel Gwen Rhea Adams.

International Assassin.

Previous employer: Jim Moriarty.