Chapter Text
Regina "Queenie" Emily Watson was the youngest of the Watson siblings.
She felt crushed with the pressure of having an older brother and sister constantly weighed on her, she thought, even as she grew older, it was no question to her why she had been drawn to crime.
Nothing severe, no murder, no breaking and entering, just running, climbing and a lot of weed. The feeling of her feet pounding on the rooftop of a building and the rush of jumping between two buildings. She had become a skilled free-runner by the time she was due to sit her A-level examinations.
Called into an office on one of the few days she attended her classes, she had met him for the first time. A young man stood when she entered, tall, well dressed in a three-piece suit and holding an umbrella.
"Regina. Please sit.” She did as she was asked, used to teachers calling her into offices and being told she’d go nowhere. “My name is Mycroft Holmes, do you know who I am?" He asked. She adorned a hoodie - three sizes too big for her in a faded teal green colour - a t-shirt she had been sleeping in and a pair of torn jeans, along with her scuffed trainers, she felt slobbish in comparison to the suited man.
She looked him up and down, “No. But you look like a tory cunt.” His serious face flickered briefly, a smile almost slipped through his mask.
"Here," he passed a file to the eighteen-year-old she took in her scarred and battle-worn hands, from being scraped up against walls, metal and concrete over several years, "this is your brief, you are expected to take it."
She flicked through the file, there were pages upon pages of information on her small gang, all-female, some older than her, yet she, of all eight of them, was the most talented.
“Why?” She tossed it back to him.
“Because you are incredibly useful to us.” He told her, “You’re a natural at ‘free-running’ and have shown his levels of intellect. With the right training and skills, you’ll have a wonderful career.”
“But?”
“Sorry?”
“What’s the ‘but?’ There’s always something.” She expected predicted grades.
“But you have cut ties with your family. We would handle everything legally and I believe you’ve been suggested for the Venetian training camp.”
“That’s it?” She laughed, “You handle everything and I get to fuck off to Venice? Sign me up.”
A scribble on a contract was made.
Queenie Watson was last seen the day she finished her A-Levels.
Mycroft kept an eye on the young woman. Venice treated her well, she spoke the language within a month and excelled in her training, joint top of the class, she made her mind palace powerful and her talents deadly. He was pleased. Especially when given the odd opportunity to work with her, she was a fountain of information and happy to do leg work.
It made her happy. Someone believed in her, even when everything crashed down around her, standing in Mycroft’s office, covered in blood and gasping for air as she sobbed. There was no other place she’d rather be.