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So Hard to Find

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Once upon a time, there was a young boy named Mycroft. One day, as he was surveying his domain—Knightsbridge—he realized he had absolutely no minions. This could not stand. Mycroft decided it would be most efficient to put an advertisement in his school paper. Unfortunately, Edgar, the barely literate "editor" of the paper, was hesitant to allow him to do this. Rolling his eyes, he pushed Edgar aside and typed in the text himself, ensuring there wouldn't be any spelling errors or miscommunication. Edgar wouldn't dare tell on him: Mycroft had threatened to inform Olivia that Edgar ate his own boogies.

Four days later, the advert came out. Mycroft was inundated with applicants. A part of him was gratified so many people would want to serve him, as was his due, but he was far more appalled at their inadequacies. Mycroft was certain his infant brother was more capable than these children.

It took Mycroft less than four minutes to dismiss everyone. He sighed, frustrated. Perhaps he could convince Mummy to put an advert in the Times. It would have a much larger readership, greater potential to reach better prospects.

As Mycroft was drafting his next attempt, there was a knock on the door. He waved away their butler and open it himself, certain he would be sending another useless applicant packing. On the front step stood a girl. Mycroft instantly catalogued everything: approximately ten years old, brown hair fashioned in a polished pixie cut, perfectly pristine white dress, and on her feet were black patent leather Mary Janes.

"I read that you're looking for an assistant," she said in a tiny but calm voice, "and you'll want to see me."

Speechless, Mycroft stepped aside. The girl walked past him into the foyer, standing and waiting until he closed the door and joined her.

"I'm sure you're busy, Mr. Holmes, so I'll be brief…" She cleared her throat and continued, "I've been an admirer of yours for quite some time, and I believe I have the skills to enable you to achieve your goals."

He liked that she called him Mr. Holmes. It made him feel grown-up…important. Befitting. Mycroft invited her into the sitting room and ordered tea to be served.

The girl sat primly, hands folded in her lap as the tea was poured. Once they each received a cup and Mycroft had waved the servant away, he asked, "Could you, perhaps, elaborate on your favorable skills?"

"I have excellent penmanship, am an exceptional communicator—fluent in French and Italian, have my own driver (per my mother's request), and can provide protection from bullies, not that you need it."

Mycroft eyebrows rose.

She shrugged. "I'm working toward my blue belt in Krav Maga."

Mycroft nodded, satisfied. She was exactly the kind of minion he needed. "You're hired," he said.

She smiled brilliantly.

"By the way, what's your name?"

"Annie," she answered.

Mycroft shook his head. "That won't do," he mused, "much too common." Luckily, it was a problem easily fixed. "I'm sure we can come up with something more suitable."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft was so pleased he allowed himself an extra scone to celebrate. He saw a wonderful future ahead of him, with…Andromeda? Amalthea? Anthea? his right hand.

They will be unbeatable.