THE PLAN (or as I like to call it: Operation Mystrade)

2

It all started with The Idea. Yes, that is capitalized, and for a reason. You see, this wasn't just any old idea, some run-of-the-mill thought. This was a masterpiece. If normal, non-capitalized ideas are the finger-paintings done by my seven-year-old niece, then this idea was Leonardo da Vinci's The Mona Lisa. Van Gogh's Starry Night. The finest sculpture in all of ancient Greece, natures sunset, the... well, I'm sure you get the gist of it. I tend to wax poetic when I'm overtaken with a bout of nostalgia.

Anyways, where was I? Oh yes, The Idea. Now that I've properly... ahem, explained... the significance of The Idea, it is time I explained what exactly The Idea is. Which may seem like an idiotic thing to do, seeing as it is quite obvious that The Idea is just that; an idea. Of what though, is the imperative question here, I believe. Now, I hope you're sitting down somewhere comfortable, because this could take me a while.

The Idea, to be perfectly precise, was something that came to me on a warm, sunny July afternoon, while I was walking along the streets of California...Okay, no, you've got me. It was the streets of London, and it was anything but warm and sunny. As is often the case, the sky was a roiling mass of grey and grayer, clouds splitting open to allow the downpour the weather man had somehow failed to predict to fall upon the unsuspecting citizen's heads. Not mine, thank goodness, as I was safely ensconced inside a black Government sanctioned vehicle, holding my trusty Blackberry in my hands. Because it was rush hour, the car was moving forwards at a pace a snail could outrun, which wasn't putting my traveling companion in any better a mood.

"Charles, if you don't find a way through this infernal traffic, I will personally see to it that your next check gets lost in transition." Mycroft Holmes's scowl was something to be reckoned with, and had often times put fear into the hardest of hearts. Thankfully, those who had worked with Mycroft for a sufficient number of years (meaning anywhere 4+) had become used to his tactics and immune to his threats.

"Mr. Holmes, with all due respect sir, that will not be possible." The voice of Charles, the driver, floated through the grate in the glass partition which separated the compartments in the car, and I snorted. Mycroft of course glared at me, his left hand tapping restlessly against his left thigh. He was, remarkably, without his umbrella for once. Actually, that was the entire purpose of our journey; he had left his favourite umbrella at his brother's flat, and we were on our way to retrieve it.

"I will refrain from saying I told you so." I said cheekily, ignoring the glare completely and curling my legs up under me as I glanced out of the tinted windows.

"Anthea, now is not the time." Mycroft Holmes growled lowly at me, and I smirked.

"If it makes you feel any better, sir, it seems as if half of London listens to the same weather station as you, and got it wrong as well."

"Decidedly unhelpful, Anthea."

I shrugged. "As you say. Just trying to help, sir."

Mr. Holmes eyes me warily before sighing and shaking his head. "Despite this weather mishap, I am not actually stupid, you know." His eyes show the slightest bit of amusement, and I cheer inwardly, doing a mental victory dance since it would be unseemly to do one in my current curled up position on the seat of the car, and I am nothing if not seemly.