Requested by: Slytherin_snake15

Prompt: #16

"You're a psychopath."

"I prefer creative."

Warnings: None

Extra:

~*~

Going to Sherlock Holmes was the last thing I wanted to do. Half of the media showed him as an angel, sarcastic and brilliant. The other half showed him as a demon, snarky and brash. It was a fifty-fifty chance to any normal person. But I wasn't a normal person. As a former SVR - Foreign Intelligence Service, Russia's most secret service organization - agent, I was trained to be as suspicious as possible. So when a man could figure out your deepest secrets from a smudge of ink on your thumb, I knew he could unravel my past in an instant.

But I wasn't going to him of my own accord, I was doing it for something much more important than that. I was doing it for my family, my younger sister who'd been missing for three weeks. The first week, I assumed she was on a mission. I left the SVR after dedicating most of my life to it- determined to pursue a sense of normality. My sister stayed. But she always contacted me. Through code or otherwise. This time she didn't.

Week two I tried to look for her myself. I called some old contacts, and they said her mission was supposed to be in Ireland, some soft cover job that should have been done in a few days. They weren't as concerned as I was. They didn't have as much to lose. I took a train to Ireland and attempted to track her movements. She adjusted her appearances on the cameras I could get into, but I would never forget my sister. I knew what a person under disguise was like. Then the trail stopped, and I returned to London at a dead end. It was like she just disappeared.

The third week was when I finally sucked up my pride and decided I would go to Sherlock Holmes. No matter how much he found out, if he could tell my English accent was just a titch off - even if I'd mastered nearly every accent in the world - and pinned me as an ex-Russian spy, I'd do anything to get my sister back.

"Hello, can I help you?" A kindly old woman greeted me at the front door.

"I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes," I requested, clutching the strap of my purse tightly.

The night before I'd went over every inch of my body, covering up anything that would give a hint of my past. Scars were covered with foundation and a tattoo of a hammer and sickle on my hip with a bandage - a ritual for the top agents of the SVR. On my right ring finger was a star, tiny and able to be covered by a ring. But I left that out in the open. My sister had the crescent, and it was the one thing Sherlock Holmes could see.

I bought a new set of clothes straight off the mannequin of a store I never shopped at, putting them through the washer and dryer twice to wear them out a bit. I used soaps and lotions from the department store across town. I wasn't too fond of the scents either, but I could bear them and that was what mattered. I put temporary dye in my hair, washing it thoroughly twice so it'd fade.

I'd stay natural with my accent, be honest from the start about where I was from. A small village in Russia, I moved to the UK to get a fresh start after my parents died. My sister liked to travel, and she was all I had left.

"Sherlock, you have a visitor," the woman knocked on 221B. Moments later, the man I knew to be John Watson answered, giving both me and the woman a tight lipped smile.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Come on in."

I was led into the messy apartment, looking around with a raised brow. Science experiments in the kitchen, business in the living room. Well, business plus a few children's items. A toddler by the looks of it.

"I'm sorry for the mess, we've had our hands full with Rosie lately."

"Children are tricky," I sat down across from the wide backed chair, Sherlock's presumably.

The child was John's, not Sherlock's. His wife had died while they were on a case a year earlier, which had inadvertently reunited the famous pair. Theorists liked to speculate that they were in love with each other. They were, but it was much less eros than it was agape- a love not based on romantics but something much deeper. Like me and my sister.

"Give me just a moment, Sherlock, we have a visitor," John disappeared down the hall, and returned a few seconds later with Sherlock Holmes himself.

He sat across from me, and took only a split second to observe me before he began speaking, "Foreign, Russian. Athletic and fashionable. That outfit is straight off a mannequin. Polite, likely from a small town based on how you've interacted with John and Mrs. Hudson. Your shoes suggest a high paying job, formal. But that doesn't answer the question as to why you're here."

Impressive, albeit slightly inaccurate as per my manipulation. But I wasn't there to continuously fool him. I pulled a picture from my bag. It was of my sister and I on a "vacation" in Tokyo, a dual mission. Both of us had dyed hair, but Sherlock Holmes would be able to discern her in a crowd of people.

"My sister is missing-"

"Pass. Bring it to Scotland Yard, they'll love handling an easy case like that," Sherlock stood, looking to John, "I had so much hope for our first case back."

"She disappeared in Ireland," I continued, ignoring his denial of my case. I wasn't going to give up, "She liked travelling. Changed her hair color before she left, didn't contact me after the first week. The second I went to her hotel, no sign of her. The third, I came here. She fell off the map, Mr. Holmes. How common is that in this age of technology?"

Common enough for a pair of spies, but it drew Sherlock's attention again. His head snapped back to me, and he sat down again.

"Lover?"

"Asexual. No interest in love. She wanted to travel, which is why she was in Ireland in the first place."

"Perhaps she's just forgotten to contact you."

Shaking my head, I wrapped my arms around myself- scared, nervous, concerned for my sister, the perfect part, "She's all I have left. Our parents died when we were young from a robbery. We've been inseparable all our lives. Mr. Holmes, if it is an interesting case you are looking for, my sister will present it."

Leaning forward, he placed his elbows on his thighs and assumed a steeple position, "And why is that?"

"Both of us got into less than desirable circumstances to survive. We know how to disappear, how to become a face in the void. If someone from our past came back..."

"We'll take it," Sherlock jumped up, clapping once.

Smiling in relief, I felt a flutter in my chest- suspicion. He was a little too quick to draw, and didn't ask any questions about what it was we got into when we were younger. I was prepared to tell him we were smugglers, but he didn't seem to care. In a split second decision, I knew it'd have to be a hands on investigation on my part.

"Mr. Holmes, I want to work this case with you. I know my sister better than anyone. If there's a sign of her, I'll know it."

"I'll allow it," John gave Sherlock a look when he said that. Sherlock was onto me, and asking to watch over the investigation didn't help, but I was going to find my sister no matter the cost, "Come round again tomorrow morning. We'll start then."

~*~

Working with Sherlock Holmes was what I considered to be the hardest mission of my life. No matter how many times I washed new pairs of clothes or kept my new mannerisms in check, he could pick up on things that no normal human could. I had a kill count that would make the worst murderers cower in fear, and Sherlock Holmes was pulling my walls down.

He was rude, snarky, messy, and-

"Are you a psychopath?" I yelled when he tried to light the picture of me and my sister on fire, snatching it from his hands.

"I prefer creative," Sherlock spun the light around his finger, "I wanted to see what material it was made out of."

"How would that help you find my sister?" I shoved the photo into my pocket, more concerned with properly punishing Sherlock since John was out with Rosie for the day.

Ignoring my question, Sherlock picked up a page with contents I could see, and hummed, "Very interesting tattoo you have."

Brows furrowing in feigned confusion, I mumbled, "My parents said we were their moon and stars. She has the moon."

Scoffing, Sherlock flipped around the piece of paper and my face paled. I got cocky at some point, slipped up, was much too comfortable around one of the smartest men in the world. If it was a mission, I'd likely be dead. The SVR would have disposed of me, or my mark would have. I prided myself on being the perfect operative, but retirement had softened my instincts.

"Red ink on your hip, peeking out from under your shirt in the photograph. The pixels in the picture almost couldn't form it, it was so small." The page held in an extremely zoomed in version of the photo, stuck on my hip, "Another star? Or the Russian coat of arms?"

"What does my tattoo have to do with finding my sister?"

"I'd date the first photo a year and a half old based on the phone quality and the phone you have now. The buildings around you were Yakuza grounds. Were. Because they were wiped out by unknown assailants a year and a half ago. So, tell me (Y/n), how long did you think you could hide from me?"

Weighing my options, I knew there was no getting past it. Sherlock was unlikely to turn me in to the police because he was enjoying my sister's case too much, "SVR." Was all I said.

Nodding once, Sherlock recited, "Russia's most top secret, elite secret service force. I've worked with them before, deadly. That was what you and your sister got into after your parents died. You got out, she didn't?"

"She chose to stay, I chose to leave. She always contacts me during her missions somehow, but not this one. And now we are nearing four weeks of her being missing."

"Successful mission count?"

"For me or her?"

"Both."

"I've never failed. She called in assistance twice. But she's a fighter. She's not dead, I know she isn't."

Wandering into the living room, I heard Sherlock rustling around a bit before he came rushing back in with his coat on. Sensing that we were about to solve the case and find my sister, I put my coat on as well.

"What did you figure out? Do you know where she is?"

"London. From her hotel in Ireland she went into the subway, finding an error in the cameras and changing her appearance in that area. She went back up to the surface while following the line of error within the cameras. She got into a cab, the records from the company say a trip from Dublin to Ireland."

"But why would she leave?"

"Because her target was moving as well," Sherlock said it as if it was obvious, hailing a cab and barking out an address, "I contacted George at the Yard and he sent me the CCTV footage from the very same department store you've been getting your clothes at. Another wig, a fake nose, but the same tattoo as you on her finger. She got into an altercation with someone next to the store, a very intense fight between two people that were obviously skilled, but she lost and they took her somewhere- alive."

"Holy shit," I marveled at his brilliance. I could get high off of listening to him list off facts that no one else could pick up on, not even my trained mind, "That was brilliant."

"Yes, well, it was also the work of a creative psychopath," he sent me a wink, "Tell me that you're armed."

Not missing a beat, I asked, "What kind of weapon are you looking for? I have a gun in my inner coat pocket and escrima sticks in my boots."

"I'll take the gun, thanks."

We stopped at an average looking business, but when I looked at the sign a bit closer, I saw the Irish name. Exchanging looks, Sherlock and I stepped inside. It was an antique store, classic cover.

"If you distract the worker I can knock them out," I motioned to the old lady that was supposed to seem innocent. From the way she hovered at the desk when we entered, she had a weapon under there.

In a shocking move, Sherlock wrapped his arm around my waist, "Excuse me. We just moved into a flat together and we're looking for some cute decorations."

Catching on, I cleared my throat and announced in a perfectly British accent, "We absolutely love dogs, if you have any little figurines-"

"Oh, yes of course," the old woman smiled and hobbled over to us, leading us over to a display case, "Each of these is on sale for today. Their age ranges from five to fifty years old."

Seperating from Sherlock, I stepped behind the woman and found the Stomach Nine nerve on her neck, grabbing and twisting. She fell to the floor, unconscious and possibly dead. Unconcerned with her health, I flipped the "Open" sign on the door to "Closed".

"If John were here he'd be impressed," Sherlock hummed.

Stepping to the back desk, I unhooked the gun from under it and tossed it to Sherlock. Motioning for him to follow me, I pulled my escrima sticks from my boots and stepped into the back. It was a normal storage area, but a quick scan of the room revealed a tile on the floor that didn't match the others. Stepping on it, a panel in the wall unhooked and slid to the side.

It opened up to a staircase, which in turn led to a comically large auditorium that shouldn't have fit under an antique store. It was completely empty except for a single chair in the middle.

"Sestra!" I cried, practically falling down the steps to get to her. When I was at the bottom I was a lot more cautious, scanning the room. No hidden bombs, triggers, or men. They left her completely alone, "Ty v poryadke?"

"Da, nichego meshka," she said, and she was right. Besides some bruises and smaller cuts, she didn't have any major injuries.

Coming up behind me, Sherlock said, "This case is going to be quite a fun one!"

"We found her, what are you talking about?" Looking up, brows furrowed, my eyes widened, "Oh no."

DID YOU MISS ME? Was written on the ceiling in red paint. Though I'd never had the misfortune of working for or against Jim Moriarty, I knew how dangerous he was.

"How would you like to join me in this, (Y/n)?"

"It would be my pleasure."

The normal life wasn't for me, anyway.