William Scott. Sigerson.
Will Sigerson.
No, no, more of a 'Sigerson' than a 'Sigerson.'
Syygersen.
No, not that much.
Sigerson.
Sigerson.
Siigerson.
"God Dammit."
He had made a point of practicing as he got ready in the morning- it's not like it would come over night, and so far he'd need all the practice he could get.
Well, Hi there.
Elevator.
Can.
Trunk.
Tee-Vee.
Oh, and coffee from here on out.
Becoming William E. Sigerson was going to be difficult.
Four weeks ago, after he'd gotten his folder, he went back up to his room to find a new laptop waiting for him, plugged in and charging.
Funny how things like that work out.
He'd turned it on and plugged in the USB key, thumbing through the documents as he waited for the laptop to turn on- That was when he first met William Sigerson.
William Sigerson is five years older than him but has the same haircut.
His mother had a different maiden named and died four years prior to his own, but they shared a blood type.
William Sigerson was American.
The computer made a noise to let John know that it was ready for him, presenting a login screen with William Sigerson's name on it.
It asked for John's fingerprint and William's password. After a bit of flipping through papers (And there were quite a few of them- birth certificate, social security card, driver's licenses, rent for an apartment that had apparently been in his new name two years ago) he'd found a small leaf sporting a few letters- ie7Hnek221.
Well, if that's not a password, I don't know what is.
A few laborious keystrokes later, he was staring at a clean blue desktop with three icons waiting for him- Computer, Recycle Bin, and WILLIAM SIGERSON.
He opened the folder. Inside, other folders with concise labels like 'Accent Lessons' and 'Notes on American Schooling'.
There was some information on Moriarty, but nothing that John couldn't have already guessed- he had a huge corporation in America, which produced about the same results as that of his in Europe.
The name Moran littered the debriefing documents as Moriarty's man in charge in North America.
Where had John heard that name before?
He kept reading:
Chapters in every major city, at least one in every state;
Deaths scattered across the country and spreading into Canada, starting in New Orleans in 2005;
Revenue for drug cartels steadily rising for the past five years;
A student at the University of Michigan turns in a thesis in 2010 stating in great, unpalatable detail, the mathematical dynamics of an asteroid at the end of the universe but never graduates and, upon further inspection, never attended in the first place;
And somehow this all tied back to Moriarty.
It was after John's shower that he sat down and looked at his files for the first time today- not much had changed, which was in and of itself a little startling. Every time he'd gone back on to the laptop since he'd gotten it one month ago a new folder was waiting for him on the desktop; there was no internet connection (god only knows that he'd checked) but somehow they kept mysteriously popping up.
Well, apparently Mycroft Holmes was better at computers than John.
What a surprise.
He'd read all of these folders- multiple times, usually. Information on Moriarty had been extensive but very pointed- it stuck to the topic of his interests in the United States that, along with his new identity and accent, worried John. He knew that Mycroft wanted him out of the way, and he really did want to be involved, but America was too far for him to be from-
From his work?
From his family, who thought he was dead.
Oh, and from Sherlock, who had apparently been on trial and is now 'okay,' whatever that meant when attributed to that man.
Probably just leaving acid burns in Mrs. Hudson's tables again.
He crossed his legs and adjusted his bathrobe, scrolling despondently through folders that he'd looked through many times before. He was appreciative of this new assignment, as it gave him something other than mindless exploring to fill up his time- but all the same, he was growing restless.
One month's time.
The clock was ticking. Ever so slowly.
The second week in, even the cleaners had taken to calling John Mr. Sigerson. At first it was unnerving, confusing, but now it was just second nature to slip between identities like one would tabs on an internet browser.
A little more easily than that, in John's case.
So when a curt rap on the door startled John, he had no problem answering as Will when his name was called. A familiar voice, with an unfamiliar tone-
"Mr. Sigerson, there's someone here to see you."
Oh?
John looked down at himself, naked and comfortable under his bathrobe and slippers.
"I- I'll be right down, thank you,"
That cuts things a little bit short, then.
He hurried to get dressed before he lumbered down the stairwell, buttoning the last of the buttons on his shirt before he came face to face with the person who requested him-
"Oh, yes. Mr. Sigerson. How are you doing?"
Almost a month of confidently speaking in his new accent had been completely forgotten- He opened his mouth, tilted his head very slightly, gripping the hand rail.
God dammit. Mycroft would send someone like her.
To this, the woman raised an eyebrow.
"Were you not expecting me?"
Do not lose this chance, soldier. It's either talk to this woman or be stuck in this godforsaken house until you rot.
"Oh- I- No, I was expecting you, I just didn't know it was today. Sorry about that."
Perfectly executed.
He finished his travel down the stairwell, standing in front of the woman who was quite obviously looking him up and down with a poorly-hidden air of disappointment. At John's height, you get used to it- when he was younger and less skilled he hated that look, but now he took a special type of enjoyment out of proving people horribly, horribly wrong.
"I'm going to be asking you a few questions about your experience and other useful skills you may contribute to the cause. Is there somewhere we can sit down?"
"Living room's good. Over here."
It was a little daunting, speaking to an American in an American accent- almost as if he was taunting her, but she didn't seem to catch it, which must have meant something good.
As they arranged their seats, one of the cleaners came up and offered them tea or coffee. The woman asked for coffee, and John (begrudgingly) followed suit. When they were both adequately settled in, they started with the interview.
First was William Sigerson's military training- none at all, which had been difficult for John to say after years of proud service for his country. He'd also been a bit worried about the effect that would have on his prospects in this assignment- if he had no military training, why would this group take him in to help fight against Moriarty, when it was obvious that it was an important aspect? The woman seemed very unphased about it, however.
Soon enough it became very clear to John that it didn't quite matter what he said, as long as it abided by Will Sigerson's preordained history. Mycroft had already said he was in, he was in.
"Married once, but got divorced not long after- mutually. We don't talk much anymore, but then again, there's no reason to- we live clear on the other side of the world. It was kind of a rushed thing, anyways; we were young, thought that marriage was some important milestone that just needed to be passed and then you were suddenly an adult. No kids, never wanted any. Went to school for business management; I worked for a long time in advertis- advertisement. That's how I got to be in England. Britain? I don't really know. Still don't."
Okay, he was having a bit of fun with it.
Words of Mycroft's floated into his head- You are sounding more and more like my brother in his absence, Dr. Watson.
It didn't keep him from giving the woman a bit of a hard time. She looked bored, John was trying to keep her entertained.
While he tried to supress any instinct his had (all of them) telling him to flirt with her.
The interview went on for another twenty or so minutes in which he was subtly tested on many things- the status of his knowledge of Moriarty (clueless), American geography (a healthy dose), cultural Americanisms (Hadn't he already passed it when he gave up tea?!), and personal questions to ensure that he was devoted to his new identity.
When it concluded, they stood up opposite each other and shook hands, the woman pulling a new folder and an airline ticket out of her bag and handing it to John.
"Mr. Sigerson. Glad to have you on our team."