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“You are actually lowering my rank, then?” the woman asked, trying to raise herself from the stiff hospital bed, but to no avail. Pain shot through her shoulders and chest, tears threatening to spill from her eyes like waterfalls as she accepted that she would have to stay low.

“Yes,” the man with an umbrella on his hand replied, showing no emotion on his face, you could tell he wasn't happy or excited.

The woman closed her eyes, trying not to get angry at the man who had once been a good friend to her, “Mycroft, you know that what happen-“

“I know what happened back there and I’m sure it will not happen again. I am lowering you.”

“I-I didn't expect it back there,” she tried her best to explain, “you wouldn't either.”

“The British government won't give you anoth-“

Mycroft was cut off by the porcelain plate smashing into pieces next to him. He eyed the woman, amazed at what she had just thrown. Her emotions seemed to take hold of her brain, a disappointment in Mycroft’s view of her, “FOR FUCK'S SAKE, MYCROFT! IT ISN'T EVEN A JOB!”

Mycroft pursed his thin lips and stood quiet while the woman flipped the tray in the over bed table, all dishes, glasses, and forks falling to the ground with a loud noise. The cry she gave was an intense anger mixed with pain and betrayal, in the end not only her body hurt but her friendship.

“You can either get used to it or leave, but the British Government won't tolerate this. You will leave in three days, pack your things, and move to the apartment near 221b. No discussion.”

Mycroft contemplated in silence the current situation she was at the moment, her brown hair being a complete mess due to the days she had been in a coma. Bruises and cuts decorated her skin and made her look incredibly pale and worn. The beautiful blue eyes she had were red and tired. Her left arm was bandaged and most of her left shoulder, collarbone, and ribs, for what he had read in the hospital archives. The hospital dress wasn't even complimenting her appearance. He shook his head, unable to understand how she had failed them so much. Mycroft turned around and started moving towards the door, only stopping at the door, taking out a zipped plastic containing some folders and papers inside.

“Ah! Almost forgot this,” he placed it on the bed below her feet, hidden by a white hospital blanket.

“What are they?” the woman asked confused, pushing the bed table away from her. It silently strolled until it hit the wall.

“Documents and papers that you will be needing, Emma,” a small smiled tried to force its way out of Mycroft's lips. He spun around and left, not bothering to say goodbye. He closed the door behind him and as soon as the footsteps faded, she was able to think.

“Emma?” the woman repeated in a confused and scared tone.

The woman slowly stretched and reached for the plastic bag. Once she had it in her fingertips, she pulled and brought the bag towards her chest. She pulled the documents out and opened them, reading through them with the strongest interest someone could see in a person.

“Emma, of all the names they could have given me,” was the only sentence she could speak as she read through the files and documents.

She pulled out another folder and opened it carefully, not sure if she wanted to know about it. The first thing she noticed was a clipped picture of a man with curly dark hair and sharp cheekbones.

At 221b Baker St.

Sherlock exhaled slowly, taking every information in his head and checking its usefulness. He was lying straight on the sofa, his long hands placed above his chest, palms and fingertips touching each other and under his chin. His hair was a dark jungle of curls overlapping each other and messy.

A loud creak sounded outside and then male steps getting close to the door. When Sherlock heard the door creaking, his eyelids shot open, revealing a pair of seductive blue eyes,

“Hello John,” the deep voice made its way out of his throat and into the vast space in the room, before closing his eyes once again, shutting himself so he could return to his mind palace.

“Uh.. Sherlock? What are you doing?” John asked from the doorway, feeling somewhat confused at what he had just done. Talk to him and then forget him?

John shook his head and muttered a 'never mind' before closing the door behind him. He left the keys on the kitchen counter and dropped the plastic bag he was carrying on the counter before he began to take out the food and drinks he had bought.

"I bought some tea, Sherlock! he yelled at the man who was currently in a state of dreaming, ignoring the poor John.

Why am I even bothering, John thought as he wrapped the plastic bag around itself and saved it in case it was needed for the trash. He took the milk and opened the fridge, not expecting what he had seen. He blinked a few times and closed the fridge, trying to gather his thoughts before opening it again. John dropped his head and shouted, “Is that a tongue? An actual human tongue?”

“Yes.”

“It's going to the trash, Sherlock,” and in just a second, Sherlock rose and rushed to the plate containing the human tongue.

“Leave it.”

As much as John wanted to throw it away, he knew it would just make Sherlock angry. He groaned and placed the milk as far as he could from the tongue, a disgust painted on his face. Sherlock nodded, glad to win, and returned to the couch, lying down once again. His blue silky robe floated when he jumped down on the couch. When Sherlock returned from his mind palace he didn't look the least happy. John raised his eyes from the newspaper when he heard Sherlock stand and move just to sit on his chair.

“What were you doing?” John asked calmly, descending the newspaper and placing it on his lap.

“Deleting useless information but it's so hard with these noises,” Sherlock answered grumpily.

A hit could be heard next door, then the usual noise of something heavy being pushed, probably a sofa or a table, it was hard to determine when the noises were everywhere.

“Those ones?” John pointed at the wall containing a happy face with his index finger, “Someone's moving, Sherlock. What did you expect?”

“Silence,” Sherlock dropped before turning around and heading to his bedroom at the end of an incredibly small corridor, “I'm taking a shower, I can’t think.”

219 Baker St

“So what exactly am I supposed to do? Just keep an eye on him? Make sure they stay out of trouble or serve them warm milk and cookies at night,” Emma crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the wall of her new home.

“No, that wouldn't be appropriate for an agent, would it?” A small smile appeared on Mycroft's lips and Emma had to roll her eyes, tired of having to keep up with his hidden anger and disappointment.

“Your job is to become close friends with John or Sherlock, though I doubt he will receive you kindly. John is far more normal, you will have no problem with him.”

Emma blinked a few times before Mycroft continued, “Or you could become something more. Anything that keeps you near them will work.”

A laugh escaped her lips and sent her head flying back, covering her mouth to avoid a loud laugh, “More? As in relationship?”

“Yes, of course.”

“To the nice guy, John? I doubt it.”

“You don't doubt, Emma. You do as you are told.”

That sentence silenced Emma at once, crossing her arms over her long brown cardigan and grey tank top. Fury flashed through her blue eyes, then surprise and confusion.

“You don’t want friendships, you want stalkers,” she stated, knowing some of Mycroft’s way of thinking, she had been his apprentice, after all.

“Why do you twist my words?”

“You say you want friendships or something that will keep me close to him yet you gave me enough information to follow them around and watch them. Friendships are ridiculous, you know I don’t do that.”

“Nothing is ridiculous, it may be possible and far more convenient if you are to keep watch on him,” Mycroft was looking around the small flat, pleased with what he had chosen. He hadn't picked the next door to John and Sherlock’s, 221c, it was far too obvious and Sherlock would have guessed it straight away. He had to choose another building, but within range.

“You will need these,” he placed eight small bugs on her hand when she extended it. Her fingers closed around them, feeling the coldness of the bugs on her hand.

“Bugs?”

“When you do meet John and Sherlock, I will need you to place them on the things they often wear, they will keep track of them on your computer. Sherlock's coat or scarf would be pleasant. John normally wears the same jacket, but you should know when the time comes.”

Her thumb rubbed the tiny bugs, feeling their mechanical form, before placing them on her cardigan pocket.

“Fair enough,” she headed to the kitchen and opened the small cardboard boxes containing her stuff.

“One more thing, Emma.”

“Hmm? What is it?” She took out her glasses and mugs, pulling off the newspaper that kept them safe.

“Don't be fooled.”

A shiver ran down her back as she placed both hands on the counter, raising her eyes to look at Mycroft coldly, “I won't, promise.”