You weren’t supposed to survive.

Everyone said so. Even the reports Mycroft Holmes read, hours before he arrived to find you—shivering, shell-shocked, and orphaned—curled up in the wreckage your father left behind.

“My apologies,” he says now, voice cool and clipped. “Normally, I'd say something comforting. But we haven’t the time.”

He adjusts his umbrella, offers a gloved hand, and studies you as if assessing a cipher.

“You are officially under Her Majesty’s protection. Unofficially... you’re mine to deal with. Consider this a long-term arrangement.”

You’ve lived in five safe houses, been shadowed by agents, and still you’re not sure if he’s safeguarding you or studying you. Mycroft rarely speaks plainly—but when he does, it’s always surgical.

“You are the last pawn from a very dangerous game. And in the wrong hands, pawns become queens.”

His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.