Work Text:
A rose by any other name would smell as sweet…
-W. Shakespeare
He found her half sobbing, half sulking in a dark alleyway his car happened to drive by. What drew him to her was the gun that she held in her shaking hand, her finger so close to the trigger. He sighed as he imagined what a scene it would be if she accidentally shot an innocent passer-by. He told his driver to reverse and he got out as soon as they got to the alleyway, opening his umbrella to protect him and his impeccable suit against the rain.
He stopped two feet away from her, far enough not to be intrusive but close enough to discern her mutterings of A name. My name. He took my name. He observed her, her lithe young frame wracked by her angry sobs. Her wet dark hair stuck to her back and around her neck and cheeks and the rain ran in streams from its ends. In tattered men’s clothing, she was able to tell him a lot that he wanted to know about her.
“I can help you find your name.” He drawled, although he knew that that wasn’t the only thing that she wanted. In any case, it wasn’t the thing she needed at this point.
She looked up, her dark colored eyes staring dreamily at him at first and as his words sank in, their gaze hardened. “What did you say?” she murmured.
“I can help you find your name.” He said, carefully enunciating every word. “If that is what you want.”
Suddenly she giggled, “I’d like that very much, thank you.”
===
In the car, he never asked her who she was and how she had ended up in the alleyway. He did ask her what she planned to do with the gun and she had simply replied that she would use it on the man who took her name.
He had taken her home and instructed his housekeeper to give her a warm bath and then had sent one of his underlings to buy some clothes, size 6. While everyone was bustling about their tasks, he had retired to his study where his mind did its brilliant work.
I’ve seen her before. Ah, yes. Government personnel files, part of Spiderweb. Eight person team was to track down certain criminal mastermind with a frighteningly wide network and rumored to have headquarters in Great Britain. Last of the team, if I recall. All the others have been found recently. Brutally mutilated. She escaped place of torture, not without psychological injury though there’s also slight physical injuries. Must have been saved for last as she was the only female on team.
Theirs was supposed to be an extra covert group, if there’s such a term. Their identities shouldn’t have been known outside the inner circle of the bigwigs. Means there is a mole. Stupid bigwigs didn’t bother to investigate when I told them about it. Had to send my own men to look into it.
Still no report on the mole…Maybe in two weeks? My men are good. Perhaps she’d like to join? I’m in need of a highly skilled personal assistant, one with particular training. Can’t usually find those. I’ll ask her later.
After an hour, his housekeeper knocked and informed him that the girl wanted to see him about his offer. He smiled and told her to bring the girl in.
===
“What the hell is this!” He snarled, standing up as quickly as his pudgy legs would let him. “Is Mycroft accusing me of being a mole?” He threw the sheaf of papers in his hand onto his desk.
“It seems so.” She said, smiling but not glancing up from her phone, her fingers ghosting the keypad with astonishing speed.
He barked out a laugh, “That nincompoop! Thinks he’s so brilliant. I’d like to see him up against Moriarty!”
Then he genuinely laughed, loudly. “He has no idea what he’s up against. But you…” He looked down at her as she continued to text. “You and your team experienced his genius, didn’t you? How did you like it?” He sneered down at her, “Don’t you miss being called by your real name?”
“No.” She replied as she looked up and away from her Blackberry and reached into the pocket of her trench coat, “I’ve found better names.”
Then she promptly shot him.