A/N: Ok so here's Chapter 2. I ended up changing some things that you'll never see that take place in later chpts, to make the story (hopefully) tighter. I'm also really mad at myself – I try really hard to check facts & hate it when I make a mistake. I'm very nearsighted & even though we have a T.V. that's way too big I didn't notice until I was watching The Great Game on the ipad (& right up to my face! – not quite kissing the screen) that Martin Freeman's eyes are a lovely dark blue not brown. So for the sake of continuity, for this story, John's eyes are brown. Shutting up now! Oh yeah-there's swearing – I swear a lot, so…

Chapter 2 – 1 month after TRF

She sat back in the taxi, relaxing into the seat. It had been a long flight from Toronto to London and even though she had spent a week changing her sleeping patterns so she wouldn't be completely jet lagged when she arrived, she was still tired. She thought about the last few weeks and came to the conclusion that a lot of her fatigue was sadness. She frowned that thought away. She didn't get sad. Not any more. She wasn't a machine, that wasn't it. She just didn't have anyone in her life that she cared about that much any more. Especially now.

She hadn't heard the news right away. Living in Toronto there were more Canadian things to hear about on the news. Things like this wouldn't make the international news segment. No, those stories would be about the economy overseas and wars and stories like that. When she got the second package of information and sat there staring at the contents of the envelope on her lap for a longer time than was really necessary, she realized she was in denial. This couldn't have happened. Not really. It couldn't be true. She went on the internet and found additional stories and headlines about what had happened. Not just the one newspaper clipping that had been sent to her along with detailed instructions of who she was meeting, how they were setting the job up and an open ticket to England.

She sighed. She would have to suppress the emotions before she started working. They would interfere and she was, if anything, professional and took pride in a job well done. Emotions clouded the issue and made you do things that might (maybe) make you regret your choices. Or change the course of your life. That's what happened five years ago and had lead her to sitting in a taxi in London on her way to a hotel to meet someone she didn't like very much and was quite frankly scared of. Deep cleansing breath. Clamp it down. Take out the emotions, look at them later when the job was finished and she was back safely in Canada.

The taxi pulled up in front of a small, modest but clean looking hotel. She really didn't care where she stayed as long as there was a decent bed, internet connection and a hot shower. She pulled her suitcase out with her. It wasn't big. She didn't need much. She hadn't been able to bring her own equipment, because it wouldn't have cleared security in any country, not with out the proper paper work and she didn't have time for that. Her contact would provide her with everything she needed anyway.

Check-in was normal. She stopped at a vending machine on her floor (ground floor, easier to escape from if one needed to do that) and grabbed a bottle of water. Used the key card to access the room and flipped on the light switch inside the door. She quickly checked the room and cleared it. Old habits died hard and old habits would hopefully keep you alive. The room contained a small but serviceable bathroom, one double bed, television, a small desk and chair and internet connection. She grabbed a luggage stand from out of the closet and placed her suitcase on top of it. She opened it and grabbed her toiletries bag and went into the bathroom to have a quick shower to clear the last of the fatigue. She was thinking she probably wouldn't have much time to do this before she was contacted. Knowing her handler, he would have been aware the moment she left Toronto. He would show up soon to brief her. He would show as soon as possible. He would do it to try to unsettle her. He liked doing that.

The shower had helped. The water was hot and she felt a little more human afterwards. Fortunately when she came out of the bathroom she had wrapped a towel around herself because there was someone sitting on the room's only chair. Right. Bastard. He did it on purpose and she knew that he would do it and she still yelped a little. Obviously she was more tired that she thought and not in the proper mindset. Stupid. What was it she had been thinking about old habits? Yeah, well that went out the window!

"Jesus Mycroft! What the hell?"

Mycroft Holmes was sitting there, calmly, coolly, his legs crossed, ever present umbrella tapping slightly against his upraised foot. He bestowed her with one of his patented wintery smiles and nodded slightly in her direction.

"Well yes. Good to see you as well. I trust your flight was good? Settling in alright?" He paused looking at his perfectly manicured nails. "I must say I am saddened to observe and slightly disappointed, that you don't appear to be as prepared for this assignment as I was lead to believe. I easily entered your room and you were startled to see me here." He pursed his lips, tucked his chin down and it appeared as if his eye were following the movement of his umbrella. He seemed to come to a decision.

"Well let's put that all behind us and start fresh, shall we?"

She scowled at him, muttered imprecations under her breath, grabbed some clothes and stomped back to the bathroom, slamming the door. What was it about that man that made her feel like she was twelve?

Dressed in cotton exercise pants and a long sleeve cotton shirt she came out of the bathroom. She hadn't bothered drying her hair. It was so short it would dry on its own. She padded barefoot across the room and slumped on the bed.

"Feeling better?" Mycroft asked the hint of scorn still in his voice.

"Mycroft, it's been five years, as you very well know, since I've done anything remotely this covert. I am a bit out of practice, but don't worry," There was a hard glint in her eye, "it's all coming back to me, quickly."

In her head she was thinking I am also trying to remember why I didn't kill you back then.

Her fist tightened slightly and she only loosened them when she became aware that he was watching her like a hawk. His smile widened slightly and she swore. She knew he had read her unspoken thought.

"Well lucky for both of us my brother put a stop to that particular bit of nonsense.' He smirked at her, but then he became quieter as it seemed he was remembering why they were both here. She had never seen this side of Mycroft before, but then she didn't know him as well as she had know Sherlock and that wasn't saying a lot. His eyes were shadowed, but there was something else there. Something she couldn't put her finger on and it made her uneasy. She shoved the thought aside for now, to be taken out later and examined when she was alone.

" Mycroft…about Sherlock," She paused, not sure how to approach this man with these thoughts and getting annoyed with herself at the lump forming in her throat. " I … I am so sorry! I can't believe that he did that." She glanced down at her hands, not manicured, rough and callused, and shook her head back and forth. When she looked up there were tears in her eyes. "It seems, it seems wrong." She bit her lip unable to express why she thought Sherlock jumping off a roof to his death was so far from what she thought she knew about Sherlock.

The shadows in Mycroft's eyes deepened. Maybe she had been wrong, maybe she had misread whatever else it was in his eyes, earlier.

"Yes, well thank you." He cleared his throat. "Yes well let us sit and discuss the reason why you are here, hmm? Although I must say I don't approve of my brother's choice." He looked her up and down, the withering look once again back on his face.

"Sherlock trusted me," she said simply.

Well I do not," he said with a hard edge in his voice. "We both know why."

Why are you agreeing to work with me?" she asked. "You don't trust me. You don't like me. You could do this yourself and probably do a better job of it. Yet here we are. You never do anything without a reason. Sometimes several." She crossed her arms and frowned at him. She felt slightly better saying some of the things that had been bothering her about the whole damned thing.

"I could ask the same of you," he said." Why don't we both just say we are doing a final favour for a dead man. A last request to keep safe a man he cared about and died for."

Her eyebrows lifted at that. She knew she was missing something, but maybe if she let him, Mycroft would explain the last part of that sentence. That information had not been in her notes.

"Shall we get down to business, as they say," Mycroft smiled at her and this time there was a little less frost in it. She shrugged and sat up ready to listen to the plan of action.

oOo

Several hours later Mycroft left the hotel and climbed into the familiar black car. He sat deep in thought, tapping his finger against his lip. He spoke to Not-Anthea, as he still stared straight ahead.

"We will need to let him know that she has arrived in London. He will be most interested in knowing that she is looking after Dr. Watson. Perhaps this will draw him out of hiding."

Not-Anthea turned her head slightly in his direction, ever texting, and raised one perfect eyebrow. She nodded slightly, her fingers never pausing.

A/N: Next chapter is about John. I promise!