Mycroft's Woman
Feb. 12th, 2012 12:30 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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221_b_baker_streetTitle: Mycroft's Woman
Rating: T
Pairing: Mycroft/OFC
Warnings: Violence, mild swearing, allusions to sex.
Disclaimer: I do no own anything to do with Sherlock. I have posted this on fanfiction.net under the name of Torytigress92
Mycroft's Woman
One of a kind. The One Woman who matters - Mycroft, A Scandal In Belgravia
Jessica Hindley sat, at ease in her seat, while the man in front of her idly flicked through her file.
Although she noticed the intellect behind the movement was anything but idle. No, Mycroft Holmes might not run around London like a maniac on speed, unlike his younger brother Sherlock, but his intellect was far more dangerous.
That of the watcher, the man stood in shadow, the puppeteer, the power behind the throne.
"You do understand this will be a temporary position?" he asked, glancing up at her, dressed in sensible black and her auburn hair pulled back and out of her face. "Miss Cavendish?"
Lara Janine Cavendish, 30, single. 5'5, graduated in 2003 from University of Sydney with a second class degree in Security Studies. Immigrated in 2004. Lives alone, no known terrorist affiliations or sympathies. Two parents, deceased. No siblings.
Jessica knew exactly what was written on the file in front of Mycroft Holmes. She had basically written it herself.
"Yes, sir. But I'm grateful for the opportunity. Jobs aren't easy to come by, nowadays," she replied politely, making sure to let a slight Australian inflection filter into her voice.
Mycroft's eyes narrowed, even while his smile widened. "No, no they're not. Work diligently, and I will be sure to give you an excellent reference when my regular assistant returns from maternity leave."
She thanked him profusely, before leaving to start work in his outer office, a tiny waiting room which belied the power of the man who occupied the next room. The man with a pleasant, if inscrutable face, piercing eyes and a palpable aura of satisfaction which ruffled feathers.
Jessica knew better. Mycroft Holmes might appear insufferably smug to some, but he was far from it. That pompous exterior hid a far more dangerous man, one who would feel nothing ordering her 'mysterious disappearance' should her true purpose and identity be known.
Settling down in front of the computer which was usually occupied by 'Anthea', she smiled and got to work.
"Well hello there."
"Mr Moriarty, I presume?"
"You presume correctly. What may I do for you, Miss Hindley?"
"You know what I want. The question is what do you want for it?"
"Simple. Mycroft Holmes possesses vital information, information I want. Get it for me, and I will give you the man you seek."
"And how do I do that? The Holmes men are infamous for their ability to sniff out a lie."
"Please, Miss Hindley. You're known for your skills. I'm sure you can work something out."
Mycroft Holmes had a fearsome reputation within the criminal underworld, even more so than his younger brother. His skills of perception and observation were honed to the point where they were a weapon, protecting their possessor, ensuring nothing slipped past his nets. Yet for all his detached professionalism, he was staunchly patriotic, a loyal servant of Queen and Country.
Jessica knew what she had to do. She had to completely reinvent herself, erase every trace of Jessica Hindley and become another person entirely. Moriarty arranged her cover story, ensuring there would be a trail for Mycroft Holmes' highly trained nose to follow, or rather for his minions to follow.
Another infamous aspect of Mycroft Holmes was his laziness. Jessica studied him, became his student, dissected every scrap of information there was on him and his history, the better to trick him when the time came. She was obsessed, literally.
And so Lara Cavendish was born.
She changed everything about herself, from her hairstyle, usually worn long and free, to a shoulder-length bob, functional and austere. Even the way she stood, the way she spoke, not difficult when Jessica had lived most of her life in Australia, since the age of six.
A happy life. Left school, went to university where she had indeed studied Security Studies, although she had come away with a 1st, not a 2:1. Joined the police force, drug squad until an undercover op went wrong. Violently wrong.
And Jessica had lost everything.
Now she had one goal left. Find the man who had killed her husband, Adam, and son, Jamie, and kill him. But he was notoriously secretive, and difficult to track down, even for her so she had turned to the consulting criminal.
He would get her access, if she gave him whatever information Mycroft Holmes possessed that he needed. She had been told what, of course. A memory stick containing files upon files of dirt on various political and royal personages across the world, courtesy of the now deceased Irene Adler, downloaded from her phone.
And now it was Jessica's task to get that information.
Mycroft's mind lingered on the young, temporary assistant he had chosen after 'Anthea's' unfortunate timing. Really, he didn't know why he continued employing that girl. Others who didn't know him might say he possessed…tender feelings toward her, beyond those of employer and employee, but of course, those others didn't know him.
Perhaps if Lara Cavendish proved efficient, he would keep her on.
But…there was something not quite right about her, something she was hiding, something hidden deep in her dark blue eyes. Her background checks had come back perfectly fine, with a seal of approval, but…
He would watch her.
Jessica knew he was watching.
When she wasn't on duty, which was rare, she made sure to set herself up a routine. Get up at 5:20 am precisely, shower, breakfast, then pick up a decaffeinated latte from the coffee shop on the corner before the tube station. Work, diligently and professionally, then lunch, then work, for however long he kept her in. Then home, and if she was back early enough, she would go for a run to keep herself in shape. She always made sure to cover up, however. Athletic physique from a life spent on the outer fringes of the law was easily hidden beneath pencil skirts and suits, but in jogging gear it was rather more apparent.
And she watched him.
She noted his habits, always in the office reading reports before she got into work, punctuated by numerous cups of tea, then various appointments throughout the day, followed by a light salad lunch, one she noticed with slight amusement, he wrinkled his nose at, and forced himself to eat.
She quickly deduced that the memory stick was not in the office, anywhere. Certainly not somewhere as obvious as the safe behind the painting of Queen Elizabeth II on the wall.
It could be hidden elsewhere, kept in a vault somewhere in the city, in a high-security facility but she doubted it. Somehow, she felt that the flashes of ego she spotted in him during their limited interaction, meant that he would be hiding the stick personally.
Which meant his home on the outskirts of London.
He couldn't read her. Oh, he looked at her and saw exactly what she wanted him to, of course, he saw Lara Cavendish.
Slender, kept in shape, passably attractive. Intelligent of course, he wouldn't have hired her otherwise. A loner, sociable but not encouraging of any closer liaison with any of her work colleagues. Well-dressed but not expensively so. Diligent, quick but altogether no different from any other personal assistant he had ever had.
She was good.
Mycroft was sure that Miss 'Lara Cavendish' was far more than she appeared. He was intrigued, and oddly exhilarated. Few people had given him a challenge in recent years, and he was looking forward to dissecting the puzzle of her.
It made a change from the monotony of his life. Protecting the country, ensuring it ran smoothly, dealing with his recalcitrant baby brother and his sidekick on a wearily regular basis…
No, she was rather too much fun to be dealt with.
At least not yet.
She was after something, and he needed to deduce what. More than that, he needed to deduce what drove her.
Jessica got her chance to investigate Mycroft's home some weeks after she had started working for him. He called her in the middle of the night, and asked her to bring over some papers from the office that he needed.
So she had dashed to the office in one of the government Jags, then out to the outskirts of London.
Mycroft surprised her by meeting her at the door and inviting her in, leading her into his study.
"Would you like a drink?" he asked. "Call it recompense for my dragging you from your bed."
"Thank you, sir, and not at all. I wasn't asleep anyway," she replied. It was the literal truth, since she rarely slept longer than a few hours, just long enough to recharge her batteries each night.
If she slept too long, she would dream of her son.
While Mycroft's back was turned, she took her chance to glance around at his study. It was a large room, the ceiling high, plain plaster crisscrossed by antique beams in dark mahogany. A log fire crackled in the grate, framed by a mantelpiece of the same wood as the panelling on the walls and the beams on the ceiling. There were three chairs, one at the desk, files and papers in neat piles; then one in front, both functional wooden chairs, while the third one was in front of the fire, angled to the side slightly so the user would be in profile against the flames, the clawed feet of the chair resting on an ornate, Chinese rug. Pictures of course lined the walls, antiques she would have bet, and she placed them on a mental checklist of places to search.
The man himself was the picture of casual, for him at least. No suit jacket, no tie, his shirt undone at the top button, but he still wore his waistcoat and the rest of his usual suit. His reddish-brown hair was, as always, immaculately parted on one side, and there was no sign of tiredness or stress on that inscrutable face.
Jessica repressed a shiver when he turned back to face her, two glasses of whiskey in his hands. She took one gratefully, enjoying the low burn of alcohol as it slipped down her throat.
"You have been…most careful and diligent, during your time in my employ, Lara," he began, making Jessica pause for the slightest moment.
He noted it, noted the pause as she glanced at him, but oh she was good. She hid it very well.
"No more than the job demanded, sir," she replied, and he wanted to chuckle appreciatively. She knew how to play the game.
"You have great potential. I should hate for you to squander it, after you leave me," he continued, standing to place his glass on the sideboard. As he went past, Jessica felt his hand brush the exposed skin of her neck, and was not able to suppress her shiver again.
"I have to work quickly. He knows I'm not who I say I am."
"I don't care, as long as you get me that memory stick."
"Don't worry. I know exactly how."
In the days that followed, Mycroft watched 'Lara' carefully. She continued on as before their revealing conversation, as hard-working and reliable as clockwork, never varying her routine, never doing anything in the slightest bit suspicious.
It was beginning to become frustrating, their game. He longed to end it, but precisely what would that achieve, other than the elimination of a threat? When had 'Lara Cavendish' or whoever she really was, become more than a threat?
Was it because he saw more than just potential there? Was there more to consider?
Unfortunately her trail was clean. He could find no sign of her past identity, no hint. There were indeed two gravestones in a cemetery in Sydney bearing the names 'Lara' had given in her file as her parents. There had been records of her at her schools, her university, even the places she had listed as working at when she came to Britain. Whoever had created this false background was one of the best he had ever seen.
He stared at his right hand, the hand he had used to very lightly brush her skin with, that night she had come to his home.
Unlike Sherlock, he understood baser human emotions like lust, like physical desire, even feeling them himself on a few occasions. Unlike his little brother, he was also not…inexperienced. He had known pleasure from another human body, even if they had been rather detached experiences, every time.
He just had more important things to work on.
A week later, he was just leaving the office when he discovered a note in his briefcase.
Erin Jessica Hindley
Because I want you to know who's beating you at your own game.
Just two lines, in cursive script he knew she didn't use. Her own handwriting.
His phone buzzed, interrupting his thoughts, and he pulled it from his coat pocket.
And smiled.
Break-in at MI6. Operation Kingfisher files taken, Operation Panther files taken. Three agents injured. Thief cornered on roof.
And he just knew it had been 'Lara' or Jessica as she had apparently confessed to him. She had thought she had beaten him, and so she was magnanimous in victory, telling him her true identity.
Pride always came before a fall.
Pride always comes before a fall.
Jessica felt the maxim reverberating in her head as she waited inside Mycroft Holmes' study, awaiting his return. She had disabled all the security alarms and cameras, and had poured herself a drink while she waited.
She had also discovered the safe hidden beneath the rug in front of the fireplace. Oh good God what was she doing there? Of course, she knew what she was doing there, but she should have simply cracked the safe open and gone, not hung around, waiting for him.
She knew why, of course. She was not going to admit it, but thanks to that damn idiot Mycroft Holmes, she knew why.
She should never have taken this job. She should never have gone to Moriarty. She should have just tracked down the bastard who killed her husband and son herself.
Of course, he would know everything about her by now. The note she had left him in his briefcase would have given all he needed to know to close the file on her forever.
After that night, Jessica Hindley would be dead, and she would have to come up with a new name, a new look, and a new place in which to survive. If she survived her revenge at all.
She heard the front door close and open, heard a sigh, then quick footsteps and the sound of a case being set down, then the door opened to reveal Mycroft Holmes, still buttoned up in his coat and gloves, watching her as if not at all surprised to see her.
"Ahh, Miss Erin Jessica Hindley, I presume?" he smiled, as he slid off his coat and gloves, throwing them over his desk chair. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance at last."
"An improvement, dare I ask?" she murmured, glad to be herself again, even if it was only for a short while. He glanced at her, and she didn't miss the slight spark of appreciation in his eyes. If he could admire beauty in art or music, then he could admire a beautiful woman.
Everything about her seemed changed, even down to the way she now reclined in the chair by the fireplace. Her auburn hair shone in the firelight, freely falling around her face in a shining curtain of red and gold, apart from a long mother-of-pearl hairpin. Her skin was leant a more golden tone by the fire, her body, clad in pearly grey trousers and jacket, reclining in the chair with all the coiled grace of a hunting cat. Even the way she watched him as he took in her appearance was different. Her intellect was unshielded then, her true self on show for him to see.
But what was she doing there?
"A vast one," he concurred. "Thank you for your note. I must admit your cover story was iron-clad."
"Of course. I would hardly go up against the notoriously perceptive Mycroft Holmes without sufficient preparation, would I?" she chuckled, a husky sound which felt almost like a caress on his skin. He met her eyes and held the gaze, refusing to let her go.
"Why did you come back? You have what you want?" he asked, as she shrugged.
"I will have, soon," was the evasive reply, making Mycroft frown.
"Erin…may I call you Erin?"
"Jessica. I prefer Jessica, everyone called me that," she murmured, her middling frame uncoiling slightly as she sat up from her reclining position, uncrossing her legs.
"Jessica. I of course know of the deaths of your husband and son during that drugs operation two years ago," he began slowly, but she tensed.
"So you understand why I am doing this? Why I have done what I have done?" she asked in turn. He frowned again, puzzling it over. It was most enjoyable, were it not a frustratingly slow process.
"My supposition is that you steal files, top secret ones of vital importance of course, and your client gives you the whereabouts of your family's killer?"
"You suppose correctly," she said, standing up and stepping close to him. "You know, he told me how to play you, Mycroft Holmes."
"Oh?" he asked, sensing a breakthrough. Her words sounded distinctly familiar.
"The Ice Man he calls you. But even you, Mycroft Holmes, are more a man than you pretend to be," she breathed, stepping around him, her hand drifting across his back, following the contours of his shoulder blades through his expensive suit, enjoying the sharp intake of breath. "What fire lies beneath that cold exterior, I wonder? What fire drives you, even as you deny you feel it?"
"He isn't by chance a mutual acquaintance?" he managed to ask, ignoring her other comments. What on earth was he doing, allowing her to get so close? But the urge, an urge he wasn't entirely sure he knew what to do with, was growing, a physical heaviness in his limbs, a heat in his blood he hadn't known for a very long time.
"A very mutual acquaintance. I understand you tangled with him quite recently, via the infamous Irene Adler," she explained, and he chuckled through his desire.
"Jim Moriarty. Of course," he breathed as she finished the circuit and stood in front of him. "Then I know what you were really doing at the MI6 HQ this evening. Deception and misdirection."
"While what I really want is right here. Naturally you perceived me to have what I wanted, so you didn't raise security on this place, at least not at first." she smiled too, a flush of exhilaration spreading across her skin. "By the way, did you like my escape plan?"
"BASE jumping off the top of the MI6 building. Inventive," he smiled appreciatively. "But using a wing suit to increase the distance of your escape. Ingenious."
"Thank you,"
"Like I have said before, you have potential," he breathed, as she stepped closer. "And you're wasting it, endangering this country, for revenge."
"I couldn't care less about your little war with Moriarty, but even I am not willing to put an entire country at risk. I have a duplicate, loaded with dud information, old, but authentic enough to pass a quick inspection. Moriarty will only find out his mistake after he has given me my reward," Jessica explained. "Well, aren't you going to congratulate me on my cleverness, sir?"
The honorific sent a flash of heat down his spine, even though he knew she was mocking him, but his brain was quickly becoming fogged by lust.
"An audacious plan, certainly," he managed to get out, aware it had come out as more of a growl. "But you have forgotten a very important factor."
"Oh? And if you mean your security systems, I already deactivated those."
"Since I now know you're after the memory stick containing the information that was on Miss Adler's phone, who ever said anything about me letting you go?" he asked, ignoring her quip about his security. At that dark possessiveness filtering into his tone, Jessica shuddered visibly and sank against him. Damn him! She was fast losing control of their little game, and she needed to get the stick and get out.
"I also know who killed your family, and I also know he was executed in a coup by one of his own gang members, so I'm afraid your revenge is too late," he finished, making her still in shock. What? "I'm afraid, Mr Moriarty has been playing you all along."
She stumbled back, against his desk, leaning against its edge, a hand over her mouth betraying her inner turmoil. Everything she had been working toward, for two years. If Mycroft wasn't lying…
"And you have absolutely no reason to tell me the truth," she eventually said. Mycroft watched, aware of the rising desire inside him now. He had just derailed her victory, and he was so close to securing his own. And he wanted her.
She was the one woman who stood apart from any other, from the legions of women who passed by his office windows every day, of 'Anthea', of any woman he had met. She was damaged, but there lurked a potential for brilliance he longed to cultivate, to mould until it was ready to be unleashed, under his guidance of course. He wanted to possess her, physically and mentally, to keep her by his side in every sense of the word.
And Mycroft Holmes was inexorable once he had a goal in sight.
He reached out and very gently placed his hand on her cheek, and she looked at him, a chink appearing in her armour, in her eyes. She looked at him with vulnerable eyes, wanting assurance she wouldn't believe even if he gave it.
She was right, he was a man, beneath his cold mask.
"Admittedly I do have very good reasons for lying, but think about this," he whispered, his hand sliding around the nape of her neck and pulling her into him. "If I was lying, I lose my only chance of catching Moriarty. It would be a far more complicated process without your assistance, and you know how I hate legwork."
"True," she breathed, the word echoing against his lips, which were moving closer to hers.
"And just think," he began to paint a vivid mental picture, his lips travelling to her ear, as her spine arched slightly in response while she listened. "Of what we could achieve, together. I told you, you have potential and this would only be the start. I can give you a new purpose, a new life, by my side."
"As your woman," she whispered, turning her head against his slightly, so her cheek pressed against his. "Tempting. Especially as I want you so much, but then you knew that from the moment you brushed my neck with your fingers, when I was last here."
"We'll take Moriarty down together," he promised her, tilting her head back, with one hand on her neck, his thumb caressing the ridges of her trachea, monitoring her ever-more racing pulse. "You will be extraordinary, and we will be unstoppable."
"Charmer," she gasped, as his lips, ever so lightly, trailed from her ear, up her jaw and to her lips. She opened her eyes, unaware she had ever closed them, and met his, heated, burning and no longer cold. "The Ice Man melts after all…"
"Indeed. Of course, ladies first," he breathed, making her chuckle, her husky laughter shivering against his skin, as she looped her arms around his neck, pulling herself closer. Usually he despised women who clung but he craved the contact with her. It meant she was close to capitulating, to giving in.
"Such a gentleman," she replied, before finally making the wished-for contact between their lips, her mouth pressing a kiss that could have been made of fire against his.
At that precise moment, she pressed the needle of her hairpin into his carotid artery, released the small dose of sedative, from its chamber in the head of the pin, into his bloodstream. He collapsed to the floor, Jessica helping him part of the way, his eyes wide with surprise.
"By the way, my answer to your proposition is yes, my love," she murmured. "In case you're getting any silly, typically male ideas. My late husband was the same. Always jumping to conclusions."
After ensuring he wasn't injured, Jessica quickly crossed to the rug, throwing it back and revealing the floorboard beneath. She searched the floorboard, looking for its pressure point, finding it and springing it open. Beneath, in a small space, sat the safe.
"I didn't just steal files from MI6, you know," she called over to Mycroft. "By the way, they're on your desk. Not interested in them, as you deduced. I also found this snazzy little gadget which can apparently scans the keys of a code-locked safe for fingerprints, even fibres from gloves, not to mention wear and tear on the keys themselves and deciphers the code. Thought it would be easier than trying to get it out of you. We'd be here until the next millennium…" she trailed off, as the slender silver object she had pulled from her jacket pocket flashed green, and the safe door sprang open. She didn't pause to look at the mother load of government secrets inside, just went straight for the memory stick. Sliding it into her pocket, she closed the safe, retrieved the lock scanner and replaced the floorboard and rug. She crawled back over to Mycroft, smoothing back a lock of hair that had fallen over his brow as he slept, the sedative too strong for his system to fight, knocking him out a few seconds before. She kissed him once, before smiling a touch sadly. "If you want me, love, you're going to have to catch me first."
"I take it you have the goods?"
"If you have the information I need, Moriarty?"
"Leave the memory stick in deposit box 27776891 at the Shah Anderson bank in the City. I will call you later with the details of your man."
"Oh I don't think so, Moriarty. I'm not that stupid. You could take the memory stick, and I may never hear from you again."
"Don't do as I say, and the deal is off."
"In which case you don't get the memory stick, and I look for my man on my own."
"I'm sure he would appreciate a heads-up from me."
"I would enjoy the extra challenge. Now, Mr Moriarty, let's talk sensibly. There are a lot of people who would like to have this memory stick, Mr Mycroft Holmes in particular, or I could simply throw it in the Thames…either I hear the information from your lips, or I do as I have threatened. And if you're attempting to have this call traced, I am currently driving around the City of London and bouncing the signal off of several satellites, so good luck tracking me."
"I will be at the Grand Hotel, in the Old Ballroom, at eight' o'clock tomorrow night. Be there with the stick, or rest assured I will skin you alive, and then shoot you."
"Pleasure doing business with you, Mr Moriarty. See you at eight."
"I look forward to it."
The next day, Mycroft sat in his favourite chair, at his London club, glowering at the opposite wall. That blasted woman! Now he knew how Sherlock had felt during that infernal case with the Adler Woman. Not to mention his idiotic baby brother was up to something. He had just got an alert through on his Blackberry, telling him Sherlock had used his identity card to gain access to Baskerville of all places. At least, it took his mind off of Jessica.
When he caught up with her, he would enjoy taking some revenge.
Just then his phone buzzed, and he glanced at it. Not much chance of Sherlock actually replying to his texts asking what he was up to. No, it was….
Her….
The Grand. Old Ballroom. 8 pm. See you soon x
Mycroft wasn't entirely sure he appreciated the kiss at the end, but an anticipatory smile grew on his features anyway. The game was nearly over.
Jessica smoothed down the front of her black evening gown, as she threaded her way through the crowd of guests and diners at the Grand Hotel and Casino. She glanced at a security camera, and could have sworn she saw it follow her. Just in case, she winked at the camera and blew it a kiss from one gloved hand.
She quickly left the guest areas, taking the lift down to the old subterranean ballroom, in the basement which had been out of use for a few years since the renovation of the upstairs one when the casino was added on. It was dark but for a few lit candelabras, and she knew Moriarty would have snipers waiting for her.
He was stood inside the room, in front of one of the long mirrors, covered in a dustsheet and watching her approach with a surly expression on his face.
"Why, Miss Hindley. Looking good," he wolf-whistled. "Now, since you dragged me down here, I assume you have something for me."
Jessica stopped, hoping she was right and that Mycroft would be there, waiting, in the shadows.
"You assume correctly," she murmured, reaching into her purse. Inside were two things: a false memory stick and her gun, a fully loaded Smith and Wesson.
She pulled out the latter, bringing it to bear on Moriarty in one, graceful movement. He clapped, laughing, and Jessica didn't need to look down to realise she had laser sights centred on her body.
At a guess, chest and head.
"Oh, very good! So our dear Mr Holmes got to you first, did he? You know, I can't quite believe how stupid you were really," he shrugged.
"And are you stupid enough to think I couldn't fire before your sniper does?" she asked, her aim unwavering. Moriarty's youthful face darkened and he held out his hand.
"You shouldn't have brought a gun to a battle of wits," he chided her. "Silly girl. Now give me the memory stick…"
Jessica's eyes flickered, as the laser sights jumped from her to Moriarty, and a familiar figure walked through another door behind the consulting criminal.
Mycroft.
"Silly boy. I didn't just bring a gun, I brought a Holmes too," she sighed, as Moriarty turned, to see the approaching Mycroft and his men at his back, and he just chuckled.
He was still chuckling when they handcuffed him and led him away, leaving Jessica alone with two suited agents and Mycroft. She looked to him questioningly.
"Take Miss Hindley to the safe house, while I finish up here," he ordered the two men, who both nodded.
"Oh, hello to you too dear," she called, one brow rising as he glowered at her. He walked up to her, bending his head to her ear, so his lips brushed over it teasingly.
"I do believe you are now caught, Jessica," he whispered. "Game over."
Her eyes could have melted steel when they met his own, but she meekly left with the two agents, and Mycroft watched her go, already anticipating the night to come, and then the long years ahead.
It was two days before Mycroft was able to go to Jessica. And it had been two days of hell.
He had been forced to let Moriarty, possibly the most dangerous criminal mind in decades, go free.
He only hoped Sherlock would be up to the task of stopping him.
Regardless of that, Jessica was now in danger as long as the consulting criminal was alive. He had to keep her safe.
He opened the door of her hotel room, the interior dark except for the light coming in through the open balcony door. He had a sniper trained on that balcony day and night, along with the agents at the door, at every exit and in the street.
Not to mention every security camera in that postcode was now centred on the hotel where Jessica was now staying at her Majesty's leisure. And his.
She was stood out on the balcony, in her wrinkled, two day old evening dress, but he could smell lavender emanating from her skin and hair, so she had showered. He made a mental note to arrange for some more suitable attire to be sent to her, over the coming days, as he stealthily joined her on the balcony.
Jessica felt the heat of his body against her bare back before she heard him. He didn't move to hold, to take her in his arms or anything quite so exhibitionist, but his hand did very gently trail over her hand and up her arm.
"You shouldn't be out here. It's not safe for you," he murmured against her loose hair, as she smirked out at the city at their feet.
"I know, but I needed some air. Bulletproof glass can be very stifling," she breathed, shivering.
"I had to release Moriarty," he told her. She turned to face him, her eyes steady on his. "I can only hope my brother is up to the task of stopping him for good."
"As do I. Although if he possesses half your intellect, I'm sure he'll manage," she smiled, sliding out from between him and the railing of the balcony to go back inside. "And I'm sure you will be watching every step of the way."
Mycroft made sure to lock the balcony doors after they were both back inside, pulling the drapes across to block out any unwanted surveillance.
Jessica wandered to the drinks cabinet, pulling out a good Scotch and two glasses. He stopped her, cornering her against the table, pressing his lips against the curve of her neck, feeling her pulse throbbing against his tongue.
"I do hope you realise that you belong to me now," he whispered, in the semi-darkness, as she shuddered and arched back against him.
"And how do you deduce that?" she asked teasingly. He held her wrist up, where she knew he could feel her pulse racing in anticipation.
"Your pulse alone tells me that. You're mine," he explained quietly, just before their lips met urgently. Jessica knew that was the closest thing she would ever get to an 'I love you' from Mycroft Holmes, and she was content. Somehow she understood that such things were beyond him, that to acknowledge it would allow it to control him. If it remained nebulous, unsaid, it could be controlled.
And Mr Holmes was nothing if not a control freak.
But hell, she liked this crazy relationship, and she loved him even more. She'd manage.
They managed to make it as far as the bedroom, before the desire grew too much, and Mycroft needed to be inside her, then and there. Of course, once he was, he had taken slightly vindictive delight in drawing it out, as slow and lazy as he liked it, and making her beg.
Afterwards, he stroked her hair back from her face as she dozed in his arms, before rising from the bed and dressing quickly. She stirred, missing his warmth already, as he turned back to her.
"I have to go. Duty never sleeps," he told her. "I'll be back in a few hours."
"You'd better," she muttered, pulling herself up enough to kiss him deeply. "Because if I belong to you, you sure as hell belong to me."
Mycroft didn't say anything, just smiled, kissed her forehead and left, a warm feeling he couldn't identify rising in his chest. He'd told Sherlock that caring was a disadvantage, but what he hadn't said was that even they, the Holmes brothers, were not immune from it. It simply didn't allow one a choice in the matter.
That night Jessica slept peacefully, and if she dreamed of her lost husband and child, then for the first time in two years, she didn't know it.
And that was how Jessica Hindley became Mycroft's Woman.
He trained her, challenged her intellect, moulding her into an effective agent, loyal only to him. They lived quite separate lives, Jessica away on assignment much of the time, Mycroft remaining in London with his work.
But when Sherlock disappeared at Reichenbach, she came home, to his arms, soothing the pain of loss he hadn't even known he could feel.
She later supposed it had been inevitable, really. They had not been careful that night, and she was still quite young.
She fell pregnant.
Mycroft had been surprisingly cheery about the whole thing, despite Jessica's certainty that he wasn't a child person. She supposed it had been the prospect of a child with his intellect, someone he could influence from a young age.
The promise of redemption after his failure with Sherlock.
Of course, more surprises came and went. The baby turned into twins, and Sherlock rose from the dead. Jessica stopped working, and the babies were born five months later, healthy and whole.
A boy and a girl. Non-identical twins.
The girl, fondly named Lara by her father after Jessica's former alias, blinked up at her mother with a kind of solemn curiosity. Neither child cried as they were introduced to the world, just looked around with a kind of boredom, which made Jessica laugh. Like father, like offspring.
Mycroft sat in a chair beside her bed, holding his son in his arms. The boy had a mop of curly, reddish-brown hair, piercing blue eyes and an already quite chiselled face. He just knew Sherlock's DNA would rear its head in his own, somewhere. Of course he had been surprised by Jessica's news, after that stormy night when he had come home to find her waiting, and he had allowed himself to lose control, just once, in his pain at Sherlock's apparent death.
Pain which had quickly turned to secretly relieved irritation when he had turned up alive.
But his children, his children. His exceptional wife as well, of course he had married her as soon as she confessed her condition. He wanted his children to bear his name after all. And with the combination of their genes…these children would be extraordinary.
Jessica let the nurse take Lara, and slumped back on her pillows, exhausted. "I am never doing that again. Three is too many," she huffed, stretching painfully.
"You'll recover soon enough," he said dryly.
"I just gave you two children in one go. Don't bloody well tell me I'll recover soon enough," she glared at him. He still hadn't let go of his son. "Now let me hold my son. You've been hogging him long enough."
"I have not been 'hogging' him," Mycroft protested, with a disgusted snort as he handed over his son and heir.
"Sure you haven't," Jessica rolled her eyes, tucking back the little mop of hair tenderly. She had wondered if she had changed too much to be a good mother again. Mycroft and life had taught her to be ruthless and calculating, but as she looked down at her son…from then on, she would be ruthless and calculating to protect her second chance at a family.
Sherlock came to visit, of course, John in tow. Jessica didn't think she had ever seen anything quite so funny as Sherlock staring at baby Lara like she was an alien. Not to mention when he picked her up the wrong way, and then she started tugging his hair.
She glanced at John, then at her husband, and saw her levity was shared. But as Sherlock mumbled something about children and boring nuisances, she sensed Lara and Tom would have a fierce protector for life.
As if they didn't have one already in their father.
Two years later, Mycroft was sat in his study, reading through some papers while the children played upstairs. Jessica had been called away, on some assignment by MI5, and he missed her mysterious ability to stop an argument between the twins with just a look and a word.
He guessed it was some genetic trick that all women possessed, to break up fights with just a look and a word.
He remembered his own mother being the same when he and Sherlock clashed.
He, on the other hand, had no idea. The most powerful man in Britain, THE British Government personified, and he was powerless before his own children. He should employ them as interrogators. Tom, as advanced as he and his brother had been, could talk until someone cracked from exhaustion and as for Lara…she was dangerous. If anyone was capable of making someone spill their deepest secrets by looking at them with her big, blue eyes…it was Lara.
An attribute inherited from her mother, obviously.
He felt a slight breeze flit through the open terrace doors, and sighed. "You do realise the front door is there for a reason?" he called, as a familiar laugh echoed in his ears.
"What would the fun be in that?" Jessica smiled as she rounded his chair and sat on the desk, facing him. Her hair, longer than it had been when they first met, was tied back tightly in a ponytail. Her body, fully recovered from the toils of carrying twins, was clad in black leather and jeans, as she eyed him smilingly. "You know how I enjoy disabling all your sweet little security systems…"
"MAMMA!" came the shout from upstairs, making both adults chuckle.
"As well as serving the dual purpose of telling the twins their mother is home. Tom has been spending too much time with Sherlock," Mycroft said groaningly. "We have approximately five minutes before they come crashing through that door."
"Are they still arguing over who gets through the door first?" she asked.
"They're so much like me and Sherlock at that age, it's almost frightening," he sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. He was approaching fifty, but Jessica had found her desire had never waned. Neither had his.
If anything, their occasional periods of separation helped keep the fire between them alive.
"No. Unlike you and Sherlock, Tom and Lara love one another and aren't incapable of showing it. At least that emotional repression gene seems to have been cancelled out," she muttered, toying with some papers on the desk. "If you were struggling, you should have called John and Mary, or even your brother. I'm sure they'd have been happy to take them for a few days, to preserve your sanity."
Mycroft looked at her, thinking through what he was about to say. "I want you to resign from active service."
"What for? To stay at home with the children? I love them but I need my sanity, Mycroft," she snorted, moving away from her perch. He caught her wrist.
"Your children need their mother. I need their mother…" he trailed off, as her gaze softened. "I was hardly suggesting you become a live-in mother. I need someone I can trust to oversee the Security Services. You're that person."
"So from a field job to a desk job?" Jessica mused. "I must admit being shot at every five minutes has started to become boring."
The sound of running footsteps echoed down the stairs. Mycroft stood from his chair, pulling Jessica into his arms. She kissed him hard, relishing the contact after two months in the field, away from him, away from their children. God, she had missed him.
Not that she would ever tell him that. He likely knew already, and he was a smug enough git as it was.
"Think about it," he pressed, against her lips when they parted, and stepped back as the door opened.
And then Jessica was rather too busy with a pair of rambunctious, hyperactive, two year-old twins to think about anything else.
Later that night, exhausted and mentally ready to collapse, Jessica fell into bed. Mycroft was still downstairs, working, and probably would be all night, so she readied herself to have a night's uninterrupted sleep.
She wasn't sure how long she slept before the feel of fingers gliding up and down her bare arm awoke her. She shifted, moaning, as familiar lips pressed against that tender spot beneath her ear.
"Have you thought more about my proposition?" her husband's husky, soft voice trickled into her awareness as she came fully awake, shifting against his aroused body purposefully, so his breath hitched in her ear.
"Proposition? Not an order?" she asked teasingly. His fingers left her arm, gliding down the contour of her shoulder to her neck, and then down, over her breast and midsection to her stomach, running over the silvery stretch marks from two pregnancies.
"I could make it one," he whispered, making her shiver.
"I'd like to see you try, love," she chuckled, tilting her head around to meet his gaze, in the semi-darkness of their bedroom. She kissed him once, before regarding him seriously for a moment. "Yes. I'll do it."
"Excellent," he smiled before lowering his mouth back to hers, and kissing her hotly, pulling her body into his. With her working with him behind the scenes, his loyal wife and helpmate, the world was at their feet.
And he didn't have to worry about stray bullets and rogue agents taking away his wife and the mother of his children.
He had always been able to rely on her, his Jessica, the one woman who mattered. The one woman he could say, with no lie or trickery involved, he cared for.
The Woman.
