"We've arrived at Barts, Sir," Anthea announced without looking up from her blackberry.

"I didn't bring the change of clothes," A baritone voice drawled next to Mycroft Holmes' PA. The man sitting next to her grinned, "I guess I can't go back yet."

Anthea allowed a small smile to form, eyes still glued to the glowing screen, as she reached under the seat to hand the man a pile of clothing. Black slacks, purple shirt, black blazer, dress shoes.

The man scowled and snatched the clothes with deep disdain. Neither of the pair cared when the man stripped down to his boxers as he changed.

"I don't like purple."

"He does."

"Like a restraining jacket," The man pulled at the buttoned down shirt; the buttons were clearly straining against his broad chest. His sleeves could barely contain his muscled arms; he couldn't flex or move his arms too fast without fear of ripping the material. "This shirt is too tight."

"It won't be in a second." Anthea pocketed her blackberry for a second to give the man a once over. Satisfied, she took out her phone once more. "Anything he should know?"

The man was thoughtful for a moment, "We're out of milk." The man exited the car swiftly and slammed the door. The car started to pull away and Anthea watched the man trot leisurely with his hands in his pockets.

"Goodnight, Khan."

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"Have a good day, Sherlock," Molly Hooper smiled as she left the consulting detective to himself in one of the labs. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her head and bit her lip.

"Bye Molly," Sherlock responded without looking up from his microscope. The sound of the door closing didn't even register in his ears; he was too busy picking at his shirt cuffs. They felt too loose around his wrists, in fact, his entire favorite shirt felt a bit stretched. Odd, Sherlock frowned slightly, how can it be stretched my body is too slender. Did Mrs. Hudson use different detergent? Really, that woman—

"A bit different from my day."

The consulting detective snapped out of his thoughts and slightly turned his gaze away from his microscope at the sound of a new voice that wasn't Molly Hooper. He took one glimpse at the man.

Army doctor. Returned from Afghanistan, shot so invalided. Limp—no, psychosomatic limp. Interesting. Need to gather more data. Phone. Mike keeps his phone in his coat pocket, but he is not wearing coat. Perhaps…

"Here use mine." The man offered politely.

Perfect, Sherlock thought.

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"How is he, Sir?" Anthea asked as she walked up to her employer.

"Fine. Khan is asleep and Sherlock is awake. And Sherlock non-the-wiser." Mycroft Holmes lifted his chin and twirled his favorite umbrella. "How was his mission?"

"No problems. Khan was quick and efficient as always." Anthea informed her boss with a quick smile. Her fingers itched for her phone.

"Soon," Mycroft said softly and looked down at his immaculately polished dress shoes. "I'll tell him soon."

"Sir?"

"I will tell Sherlock the truth about the chip in his brain."

"You will tell him about Khan?" Anthea gasped, eyebrows rising to her hairline. "But Sir, Sherlock doesn't even have the faintest idea—"

"Oh, but he will. I cannot hide it from him any longer. And Khan is getting restless, and if he gets bored enough he will do something drastic which I won't be able to clean up," Mycroft sighed and looked away. "This double life has gone on long enough. I will tell Sherlock Holmes that he has been sharing his body with Khan, a dangerous assassin, for most of his adult life."