Jessie lives the life of your typical Londoner. She attends Uni, gets drunk with her friends, fights with her boyfriend, and waits tables at a little café in between it all. She's a good employee. She refills the patrons drinks on time and is rarely late for work. She splits her tips with her coworkers when they've been stiffed and doesn't grumble, much, when she has to come in on her day off.

It's supposed to be her day off today, but here she is, tying her apron on and thinking about the new episode of Doctor Who she's going to miss. Lorie, the cashier, smiles at her as she comes out of the kitchen.

"That couple is back again," she says.

Jessie's eyebrows rise. "May and December?"

The couple in question is sitting at the very back of the café sipping coffee and talking. They're the source of much gossip, the employees creating wild sordid stories about who they are and why they meet here every Tuesday at exactly nine in the morning.

A year they've been doing this and no one is any closer to knowing their names than on the first day they arrived. They do know there's a nice little gap between their ages (hence the nicknames), they stay for exactly forty-five minutes, and the gentleman always, always, pays in cash.

The most popular theory is that she's his mistress, but Jessie thinks they're…plotting something. They just don't act like lovers. Her coworkers can swoon and sigh over the drama, wondering if one day the wife will walk in and make a scene, but there's something just not right about the whole thing. She can feel it.

Lorie tosses a towel at her and gestures to a bottle of cleaner on the counter. "Go see if you can hear anything!"

She rolls her eyes. Tossing the towel over her shoulder she gets to work spraying down the tables and wiping them clean. It's a mindless, meaningless task but it has to get done. She slowly works her way around the café until she's two tables away from the couple.

The woman fiddles with the handle of her cup, "How much longer do you think?" she says.

"A few months. Sherlock chasing Moran through Kabul at the moment," the gentleman stirs his coffee absently. "Once he's dead it should all be over very soon."

Jessie's heart drops do her stomach, but she keeps wiping the tables, forcing herself not to look, not to scream. Don't do anything. Be cool.

"I hope he comes home soon. John is…not so good."

"Ah, yes. How is the good Doctor?"

"About to get fired. He's not been showing up to work."

"I'll take care of it," the man stands and straightens his jacket. The woman follows suit.

"I'll see you next week," she says and then she's gone, disappeared into the morning sun.

The man hooks his umbrella over his wrist and, just when she thinks he's going to leave, he walks up to her.

"I would appreciate it if you did not repeat the conversation you just heard," he looks at her and she feels like he's unraveling her, dissecting her life in the span of two seconds.

That's crazy. Just be cool.

"I'm sorry?" she says.

The man smiles at her, a razor thin, deadly smile. "You have a talent for spying on people. You're rather a natural at it," he says. He reaches in his coat and produces a business card. He presses it into her hand. "Be at that address tomorrow at nine o' clock."

He walks away, umbrella swinging in his hand, and climbs into a black car with tinted windows. Jessie turns the card over in her hands.

Financial Action Task Force

HM Treasury

Mycroft Holmes

International Liaison Officer

One Guard Horse Road, London

SW1A 2HQ United Kingdom

Lorie rushes to her side. "What is it? What is it?"

She looks up at her friend, slightly dazed. "Oh, um, nothing. Modeling agent. Bit of a wanker. Said if I wanted to model I could lost a bit of weight and call him."

"That tosser!"

Jessie tucks the card into her pocket and nods. "Yeah. Well. We get all sorts in here, don't we?"

A/N: Hardcore Bond (007) fans might recognize the details of Mycroft's business card as those of Vesper Lynd in Casino Royale. A minor position in the British Government, indeed.