TO BE CALLED in Mycroft Holmes' office was one thing. To be called in Mycroft Holmes' office by Mycroft Holmes, well . . .

　That was another.

　It depends, actually. Mycroft Holmes is a man who likes to keep his regimen religiously. He begins his morning at his lodgings at Pall Mall, then he proceeds to kill some time at the Diogenes Club before tending to what was simply known as his 'government work.'

　That government work could lead him anywhere ─ the Secret Intelligence, the Scotland Yard, or in some cases, at the Queen's disposal. Most of the time, it could be dropped off at his arm's length at the Diogenes Club or at his office at Vauxhall Cross for him to solve because that's exactly what he was hired for: to solve the country's problem when they're at their wit's end.

　(Which was all the time.)

　Afterwards, he takes a stroll around Whitehall to clear his mind off of things. Then, he ends his day back at his Pall Mall lodgings with the last few calls with the Prime Minister and a glass of cold cocoa before going to bed.

　That's about it.

　At first, it seems to be a plain cycle that Holmes has for himself. However, it's an unspoken truth within the walls of the British government that interrupting the routine of the British government meant that one has just managed to start the end of all things.

　There were two ways of how terrible you've disturbed Holmes' habits. The first one is where you get discreetly told by one of his people to come with them or else and proceed to take you to him to talk over tea. The second one is where you get told by a man called Holmes over the telecommunications system to come with his people or else and proceed to take you to talk to him over tea. It could mean a dream or a nightmare to some people ─ in most cases, it was both. Or neither. Either way, they wouldn't have much choice.

　To Agent 007, however, for her to be summoned by the man in one way or another meant only one thing: business.

　Don't get 007 wrong. The job was worth all the bullet wounds and unwanted one-night stands. The pay was more than adequate for her hedonistic lifestyle. Her finesse and perfectionism at her job prevented her to become the laughingstock of the agency just because she was synonymous with a certain inaccurate movie figure portrayed by, so far, five actors already. That earned her something her co-workers considered to be the greatest: the trust of their strict and iron-fisted boss, Mycroft Holmes.

　It had pros and cons. Sure, she was known to be the finest spy the Secret Service had in decades, but that also meant you were the first on the frontline of whatever high-profile mission Holmes had in store of his 00 agents. She appreciated how he saw the successes that his agent had, but at times, it just gets tiring to be called over and over to avert an international crisis.

　It gets boring, too.

　Christ Almighty, there are nine of us in the lineup, couldn't he pick another one?

　007 watched Holmes pace back and forth seven feet away from him with wary steel-blue eyes. The agent stood firm across Holmes ─ chin up, back straight, with the fingers of her right hand circling her left wrist ─ while waiting for her boss to at least say what he needed her to do.

　She looked around the office. It was dimly lit, the rays of white sunlight coming from the ceiling's square holes and the orange glow of the lamps hanging in inverted arches as the room's only source of light. The concrete-coloured walls made the woman wonder whether the walls were painted at all, or if Holmes was that minimalistic to even bothering asking it to be painted. Mirrors stood on either side of the wall and in between, them was a mahogany desk, where a neatly arranged clutter of papers and notebooks surround his laptop and several files placed on top of it. A good half metre from across the desk was where the uniform-clad woman and a metal armchair stood, keeping their required distance away from Holmes. Behind it was his leather swivel chair that waited for the man to occupy. On the wall in front of 007 was an aged painting of someone she assumed to be an inspiration of Holmes' ─ a predecessor, perhaps, and a very old one too. She was going to have to write this office's description all down in a notebook when this discussion was over, just for reference in her unfinished novel.

　When Holmes sighed heavily, 007 knew he was about to begin. He retreated to his chair and faced her sternly, resting his hands in his knuckles while keeping his gaze fixed on the exasperated blonde standing in front of him.

　"Tell me, 007─"

　"I have a name, Sir."

　Holmes leaned back into his chair with his eyes narrowing at the agent.

　"Very well then," Holmes redid reluctantly. He was itching to get this matter off of his hands as quickly as possible.

　"Tell me, Watson: how far can you put up with a show?"

　"Well," Watson's crisp pink lips hummed to a tune of thought, "you know my methods."

　Holmes leaned back in his chair and let his hands fall to the armrests. There was a smirk that curled on his face and wrinkled it into an unimpressed expression, though Watson knew better.

　"Of course I do," Holmes scoffed indifferently, "if playing pretend was an occupation, you'd be a veteran."

　"I won't take that as an insult, Sir."

　"I assume you won't take that as a compliment either," Holmes guessed bluntly.

　Watson laughed in a dry fashion. "We both know I'm better than you at that field, Sir."

　"Really?"

　"Really."

　Holmes arched an eyebrow, "Why do you say so?"

　 The agent finally sat on the armchair that waited to serve its purpose. Holmes knew she was about to begin.

　"You're a man of many things, but mostly of three," Watson said, "your word, your country, and your family. You lie every time you say you don't care because you do. You constantly look after your siblings especially when they're in trouble. You still follow the proverbs your parents repeat to you. Your loyalty lies with the Queen even if you know she's on the losing side of the war."

　A sly titter came out of Watson's lips, "What else?" she hummed in thought, ". . . oh, yes. You don't do well with failure, Sir."

　The words sent a dagger straight into Holmes' pride.

　"Every step and move you do must be right. So when it isn't, you try to cover up your true sentiments though you're being eaten up by that guilt inside."

　"Hmh," Holmes faced 007 sternly. "You are better at that field."

　"I should be," Watson agreed. "It's a part of my job, Sir."

　Holmes shook his head. He pulled out the topmost case file from the stack of papers on the far left side of his desk. He handed it out to Watson, which she humbly took and waited to be granted permission to open it.

　A troubled look loomed over his face, the one that only appeared when he was in the state of desperation. Watson realised that whatever he called her for, he was in dire need of help.

　"I have a mission for you, Watson," Holmes sat back on his leather swivel chair, "it's not as big as the ones you're used to, but it's important. I need you to do what you do best in this . . . favour."

　"Name it, Sir."

　"Watch over him," Holmes said instantly with hesitance, "study him, take care of him for me. You will see everything you need to know about him in that case file," he paused and leaned further back into his chair.

　Watson opened the thick brown file in her hands and arched an eyebrow at the picture of a well-known detective clipped to a bio-data sheet.

　"You want me to be his Watson?"

　Holmes bit his lip.

　"But he's already got one."

　"You know what happened."

　Watson nodded and continued reading.

　"It's my last resort, Watson," he stood up and faced the wall behind him in an attempt to hide the fear crawling onto his face, "you said it yourself. I don't do well with failure. I have failed at trying to look after him many times before, I simply don't want another one. What happened to him left his emotions in disarray and I have to act now."

　"And you trust me with this?"

　Holmes didn't trust anyone completely, but he liked Watson more than his other employees. Watson is one of his best agents. She was competent when the others . . . weren't. Perhaps this was some kind of test for that.

　"I asked you how long you could put up with a show. You gave me an answer."

　"Sir, I'm well aware of my abilities," she replied without looking up from the papers, "but I don't want to take the blame when you end up shooting yourself in the foot once this little plan of yours goes awry."

　Watson closed the file and tucked it under her arm. She stood up and saluted at Holmes, who did it in return.

　"One more thing, Watson," Holmes said.

　"Yes, Sir?"

　"Don't become another one of his pressure points, sentiment, or whatever you call those things. He's being like this again because of losing them and I do not want that to happen again."

　"You just don't think we'd make a good couple," she snickered.

　The man rolled his eyes. "This is merely a temporary solution. Once he's back to his old ways, you will follow suit. Succeed and you'll be rewarded handsomely, Watson. You know what the consequences will be when you don't. Are we clear?"

　"Very."

　"Close the door on your way out."

　Watson bowed and made her way for the exit. When she disappeared behind the door, Holmes ran his hands through the hair he has left.

　Oh, dear God, what have I done? he thought. Sherlock's not going to like this.