Chapter Text
Mycroft Holmes
He woke up to blinding light and the beeping of machines. A hospital. Again. An injury. Again. To be honest, he had promised himself long ago to quit this line of work right after his very first injury, but over time the physical demands placed on him had been softened for his sake.
Lately, Mycroft had hardly been given any fieldwork; most of his assignments were related to his intellectual abilities and not-so-impressive physical condition. Compared to other intelligence agents, his physical indicators were significantly lower, which was also connected to his childhood obesity and his now slender body.
Over the past ten years of working in intelligence, he had ended up in a hospital ward five times. Once, it had even been a kidnapping, but thank God the kidnappers were so stupid that they couldn’t extract a single piece of information from him.
(Service to the Crown, the Queen, the country. That was what Uncle Rudy had repeated since childhood — and where is he now? That’s right, underground, long buried, a perfectly planned murder. Technically, it was the doctors’ fault for failing to stop the bleeding and then perform resuscitation. But those details no longer matter.)
(And what have I achieved in all these years? With an intellect like mine, weak, almost incapable of fieldwork, I am constantly sent on cursed assignments. Idiots — there’s no other word for it. My intellect is far superior to these hens who sit around wiping their asses on leather chairs. Working in MI5 and MI6, they can’t even plan elementary missions with minimal losses, probably using state funds on their mistresses. Oh yes, want a new dress? Here you go — doesn’t matter how much it costs or whether agents need new equipment, anything for you, my dear.)
And yet here he was, in a hospital ward, listening to the doctor’s report, waiting only for a swift return home.
“…there are two fractured ribs, internal organ contusions, and also a gunshot wound to the lung (again — stop trying to shoot me in the heart, as if it still exists there),” the old doctor finished with a worried expression (he looks over sixty, has a wife, two children, lives with them; despite the worried look, he himself is very kind).
“Yes, thank you for the report. As I understand it, you’ll be discharging me?” Mycroft replied, slightly irritated.
“Discharging you? You have serious injuries, you require supervision—” he didn’t manage to finish the sentence.
“Yes, yes, yes, of course. I’ve already heard all this. You patched me up, I’ll go home now and won’t leave my bed. I have a large family, they’ll take care of me (a little lie won’t hurt),” Mycroft said, reaching for a bottle of water. “Ow.” (Seems that movement was unnecessary.)
“Sorry, but I need the signature of your supervisor,” the old man replied calmly.
“I’m not sure whether they’re at work right now or busy. I don’t think they’ll be able to come and sign, but I’ll tell them to drop by a bit later,” he said, trying to sound confident and not give himself away.
“I understand, of course, but—” he didn’t manage to finish, as a young brunette entered the ward (she looks no older than twenty, wearing a dress, a phone in one hand and some papers in the other; she looks like a secretary, but at such a young age — strange).
“Hello, I’m Elise. I’m here on behalf of Mr Smith. You have been instructed to immediately discharge Mr Holmes from the hospital,” she said, handing the papers to the doctor.
Mycroft was somewhat shocked by this statement. Had MI6 decided to pull him out of the hospital? Strange, considering they don’t fund a medical wing and instead send all their agents to public hospitals (as always — if they handled money properly, he wouldn’t have to lie to doctors every time and endure these dreadful places).
“Yes, yes, of course, I’ll discharge him,” the old man muttered quickly and hurried out of the ward.
Elise turned to Mycroft with a smile and said, “Mr Holmes, I’ll bring your belongings now. Get dressed and follow me.”
“You’re from MI6. Why?” he replied calmly.
“Your status has been changed. You’re being transferred to a higher position, and you’ll also be assigned a personal assistant — that would be me. The car is waiting outside,” she said, handing him a suit and leaving the ward.
Holmes calmly took his things and began getting dressed (interesting — a higher position. The head of MI5 and MI6 hasn’t retired yet, so what kind of position is that? Hopefully not a cleaner), he thought while buttoning his shirt and bending down for his tie, suppressing the pain. Though his ribs still ached, after such news he had no desire whatsoever to stay here.
When he was finished, he picked up the bag with his personal belongings and took out his phone. Two missed calls from his mother (damn, I’ll have to call her back — but not now). Slipping the phone into his pocket, he stepped into the corridor and saw the assistant there. She waved at him, gesturing for him to follow.
Stepping outside, he saw a parked black sedan (good choice). She pointed to it and said, “Here, please take a seat, sir.” (Sir? Really?) he thought as he got into the car. The brunette walked around the vehicle and sat in with him.
Inside, she handed him a folder with documents and explained everything. It turned out he was to become Deputy Head of MI5 and MI6 (oh yes, what else did I expect? Of course — the previous deputy was fired after three months in the position, and now this old piece of shit needs a new toy). The problem was that the current head, Carl Anderson, did almost nothing, dumping all his responsibilities onto his deputy, trying to avoid accountability whenever something went wrong. Mycroft and his colleagues had known this for a long time, but there was nothing they could do. Still, he was old — seventy-two years — all that remained was to wait until he drank himself to death.
After carefully listening to all the instructions, Mycroft asked, “And when exactly do I start working?”
“Preferably now,” she said (WHAT?? I just got out of the hospital, for fuck’s sake).
Sighing, he said, “First, take me to Sherlock. I want to see him.”
“Of course, sir. And by the way, I’m not Elise — my name is Eleanor. But I’ll ask you to call me Anthea,” she said, turning on her phone and typing something (most likely the route for the driver).
“Alright, Anthea. No problem,” he replied with a faint smile.
Sherlock Holmes, a drug addict and alcoholic, by the age of twenty-three had already been caught by the police many times for dealing illegal substances, which he most likely produced himself. Mycroft Holmes, the older brother, with a reputation as an excellent agent, constantly asked the police to release Sherlock under his supervision. It had been four months since they had last seen each other. All that remained was to hope the addict was still alive.
HARRIET JOHNSON
Harriet Johnson
She woke up with a terrible headache from a hangover (it seems that last bottle of whiskey was unnecessary). Yesterday she had celebrated her 29th birthday. Holding the status of a respected surgeon and volunteer, Harry had planned to throw a loud party with friends. At first, everything began at a wonderful restaurant, but unfortunately it ended in a dreadful bar with a fight between her friend and some unknown alcoholic.
Stretching, she took her phone from the bedside shelf and checked the time — 13:40. Wonderful. Losing an entire day was something new for her. Usually, she approached her life and career in an organized manner; this was the first time she had celebrated her birthday in such a way.
A new day, a new job. Getting up and putting on a robe, she went to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror (still a brunette, still alive, no bruises — thank God, everything is fine). Harry filled the bathtub, wishing to lie there all day until her head stopped splitting. After spending twenty minutes there, she heard the sound of the doorbell.
With a groan of frustration, she hurriedly got out, dressed, and went to the door (what idiot would come to me on a Sunday at this hour, considering my awful condition). Opening the door, she saw her mother, Anna. Horrified by her daughter’s state, she immediately rushed into the apartment.
“My God, sweetheart, what were you doing???!! I understand it was your birthday, but getting drunk to this extent is not normal!” her mother shouted.
The doctor immediately squinted, trying to endure the already unbearable headache, and replied irritably, “Well, sorry, Mom, that at twenty-nine I can’t properly celebrate my birthday. And by the way, don’t shout — my head is falling apart.”
She and her mother had always had somewhat complicated relationships. Harriet barely kept in touch with her family ever since she moved to London to study. She was rather withdrawn and considered all of this unnecessary nonsense.
“Of course you can celebrate, but not like this. Alright, sorry I couldn’t come yesterday, but I brought you a present,” the older woman said, taking a box out of her handbag.
“You didn’t have to — you know how I feel about this,” Harry replied with a gentle smile, taking the box and placing it on the bedside table (most likely another piece of jewelry; there’s no point in even looking).
“Yes, but once a year won’t hurt. You’re completely pale — come on, I’ll make lunch, although in your case it’ll probably be more like breakfast,” she said with a chuckle, walking into the kitchen.
Harriet smiled in response and followed her mother, watching as she opened the fridge and began making an omelet with bacon. Oh yes, she still remembered her favorite childhood dish — time passes, but habits don’t change. Either way, Harry was still glad her mother had come. Even though she didn’t communicate much with her family, her mother had always been the closest to her.
Then her phone rang, and she immediately answered the call. “Hello?”
“Is this Harriet Johnson?” a male voice asked.
“Yes, this is she. How can I help you?” the young woman replied.
“Sorry to bother you — this is the hospital. New investors have just arrived, they’re looking for volunteers, and we urgently need you here to discuss the details,” the man said.
“Yes, of course. I’ll be there in forty minutes,” she sighed and hung up.
Her mother looked at her and said, “What is it — work again?”
She nodded and replied, “Yes. Ever since I decided to become a volunteer for our hospital, it’s added a lot of new trouble. Now they can call me even in the middle of the night and ask me to come back to work.”
Her mother placed a plate of food on the table, looked at her daughter, and said, “Don’t worry. You’re doing a good thing. The hospital needs this money to treat critically ill patients and purchase new equipment. Now stop thinking about it and eat while I’m here,” the older woman smiled.
Harry nodded and began to eat, wondering whether she should quit this volunteer work altogether. (The state allocates enormous funds for military supplies and intelligence, without even thinking about hospitals and patients who suffer because of it.) Fortunately for her, there would be another conference next year, and as a representative of the hospital and volunteer sector, she would be able to participate and voice her dissatisfaction with this budget distribution.
This year she had already done so, but it brought almost no change. Perhaps this time she would manage to fight for her opinion. (After all, no one takes a young, ambitious doctor seriously compared to those old men who do God knows what in their positions.)
After finishing her meal, she stood up from the table, thanked her mother, and went to get ready. Curl her hair, apply light makeup (to hide the remnants of wrinkles from yesterday), a restrained suit with a perfectly ironed white shirt and a gray blazer, and a pill for the headache — and that was it. No one would ever guess that this woman had been drinking and celebrating the night before.
As she was leaving the apartment, she turned to her mother, who was seeing her off, and asked, “When are you going back home?”
Her mother looked at her and replied, “I think this evening, sweetheart. I only have one request — call more often. I know how much you dislike your Harold, but he’s your father and he also wants to hear your voice.”
Harry immediately bristled at the mention of her father’s name. “Alright, Mom,” she replied and hurried out, rode the elevator down, and reached her car. Only after starting the engine and pulling onto the road did she finally manage to breathe out and relax.
Her father was a horrible man. First, he abandoned them when she was only seven; then he returned five years later and began drinking and beating his daughter. He threw her out of the house, lied to the police, and cheated on her mother. After Harriet left to study, she erased him from her life, promising herself never to see him again or speak to him.