A private jet landed into the strangely empty airport. Once the plane came to a complete stop and the stairway emitted, the personality who would be stepping out onto the Westminster concrete would scare the wits of most people. But not Mycroft Holmes, who himself had called this storm to London from New York. He felt that someone like Arkadia Markus would be someone to surpass the psychology and wits of Jim Moriarty.

Now obviously she needed a place to stay, it was said about her that she despised all formalities and unnecessary glamour, except when to show off. Sherlock's flat seemed to be the perfect place; there was entertainment and serenity at the same time. Depended what time of the day it was.

Arkadia stepped out of the plane and every living soul there had their jaws mentally drop. She had scarred skin, chapped lips, kohl-rimmed dark brown eyes, and long, brown dreadlocks. A thick, silver nose ring hung in between her nostrils, granting her the aura of a raging bull. No other jewellery was worn, neither any makeup to conceal all the blemishes and scars she had, which made her more dangerous. Why you ask? If one spends so much time with murder on their mind, why would they care for something so trivial as appearance?

For someone so intimidating, she wore the most simplest of clothes. Old jeans and a sweater. A hoodie hung loosely from her frame, which people would mistake its donner for a hobo.

A servant behind her had a giant bag slung over his back that suspiciously smelled like gunpowder and had a slit hole from where the tip of a sharp blade was peaking through.

"Yeah, just put those in the car. I don't want to shoot the customs manager for accidentally discovering these," she said. Her accent was American, and she hoped it would stay that way during her visit.

"I hope your flight wasn't much of a bother" Mycroft shook her hand. She politely returned it.

"Oh no, it wasn't. Though the flight attendant screamed really loud when I threw her off the plane. She had a parachute for Christ's sake!" She jokingly complained, and laughed. Mycroft nervously laughed along with her. "Anyway, where will I be staying?"

"With my brother,"

"Cherlock Holmes, right?" She asked. "The dude running Science Of Deduction?"

Mycroft was quiet and a smirk came over him. "Yes, him. Shall we?" He held out a hand for her, which she ignored and jumped over the ramp's banister, and landed on her feet on the runway.

"Yes, we shall"