The speech Mycroft quotes is from 'The Tempest' and it is one of my very favorite pieces by Shakespeare. Kenneth Branagh quoted it in the Opening Ceremony of the 2012 Olympics in London. Look it up on youtube (there's a recording of his rendition off of someone's tv, that's all there is) by all means while reading along. This is my first official Mycroft/Anthea piece, so forgive if there's any out of character-ness. (side-note it's more pre-Mycroft/Anthea, like they know how they feel about each other but they haven't admitted it yet)
Anthea had just closed her laptop, stifling a yawn. Being Mycroft Holmes personal assistant did have its drawbacks, all-nighters being one of them. But it wasn't all bad. For instance, unless she was out of the country, weekends were spent at his country estate in the Lake District. Sure, most of the time was spent at a desk or on the telephone, but she could live with that. At least there was fresh air, and the opportunity to sleep in. This weekend was a particularly difficult one. Mycroft's father had died. He had sent her a text of Sigurd Holmes passing, and informed her they would proceed to his country home as usual. The funeral would be later in the week if she cared to accompany him. They had ridden (for the first time in a long while) in an uncomfortable silence. He accepted her apologies on his father's passing, but said no more. His answers were short and to the point. He was upset, clearly, and Anthea knew he would not grieve until he was in private. She wished his sister in-law had come. Molly Holmes seemed to be one of the few people in the world to garner true feelings from Mycroft Holmes. She'd been able to help him when his mother passed away. Perhaps it would do some good to invite Sherlock and Molly to the estate. For now, she tackled the next week's workload, wanting to take care of as much as she could do without having to bother him. It was almost dawn when she finally sat back, satisfied that she had managed to take care of a good deal of his schedule. She had just switched off her desk lamp when she heard the doors in the sitting room open. Frowning, she got up from her desk, and on light feet, crept down the hallway. Mycroft's form could be seen through the open doors, heading down the steps to the garden. Shirt-sleeves rolled up at his elbows, he headed out with determined steps, crossing the garden, through the gate in the hedgerow, to the open field.
He reached the top of the low hill, overlooking the fields surrounding. These were mornings his father dearly loved. The air thick with mist, grass dewy, wet enough to soak your shoes. The skies grey and threatening a heavy, warm summer rain. "This! This is weather to speak great speeches!" Sigurd Holmes would say, and launch into one or the other.
He looked at the sky, at the wide expanse around him. Green grass all silvered with dew rippling in the warm air. Clouds rolled overhead, and he felt emotions welling inside him, bitterness on his tongue and in his throat. But here it was quiet, and no one would hear him. Here he could give way to his emotions if he wished. For his family, he would allow himself. As the first drops of rain fell, splattering on his warm skin, he took a shuddering breath, shutting his eyes.
"Be not afeard!"
Anthea stopped where she was, hearing a voice. He spoke again, this time clear and strong, as if he had lifted his head up.
"Be not afeard! The isle is full of noises,
sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not."
A pause then. She stood, transfixed as he paced the crest of the hill, stopping and facing the fields beneath him, chest out, head up, chin level with the horizon as he spoke in tones so clear and strong she felt warmth in her bones:
"Sometimes, a thousand twangling instruments will hum
about mine ears; and sometime voices that if I then had waked after
Long sleep, will make me sleep again; and then in dreaming, the clouds
Methought would open, and show riches ready to drop upon me, that
When I waked I cried to dream again!"
Soaked to the skin, he spoke with arms spread apart to the open fields. Not one oft swayed by fancy speeches or poems, Anthea was startled at the passion and fervor with which he spoke. This was not the power he spoke with when threatening assassins, nor the strength and persuasiveness he used when bringing enemies round to his side of things. Though power in his voice as he spoke now, there was something more, of pride, and a peace, as if he took comfort in these words he so reverently spoke. Breathless, she watched him, he tipped his head back, letting the morning rain wash over him and she was startled to find herself choked by emotions, and unsure as to why she was so caught up in the moment.
Suddenly, horrifyingly, Mycroft became aware of another prescence on the hill. He turned with a start, furious at whoever was spying on him. Arms wrapped around herself, her dark hair clinging to her, Anthea stood. Her eyes were wide, mouth almost agape. But she wasn't laughing at him. Esteem and awe shone in her eyes. The anger melted away almost immediately when he saw who it was. Now he only looked embarrassed, and Anthea found herself floundering for words (how awkward).
"That was beautiful," she said, over the rain. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
"It was my father's favorite speech," Mycroft answered.
"You spoke it very well."
Mycroft was always privately glad that his father was so well-versed, and that the verses of the Bard were often best given by a quiet, bumbling English Professor who was oft-found wrist-deep in fresh-tilled earth who could no better remember where his reading glasses were than Sherlock recalling primary school education regarding the solar system. Anthea felt that in some small way, he was unsure who he related more to, mother or father. Perhaps he wished he had been closer to his father, and that chance was gone now.
Rain pelting down on them, clothes clinging to skin, she reached the crest of the hill, only an arm's length from him. She offered a half-smile, turning to the view, his gaze still upon her.
"It's a good day for Shakespeare," she said after a moment. He frowned at her, unsure if she knew of his father's habit or not. Probably she was.
"He'd be proud of you, if he had the chance to hear you now," she turned back to him, and he could read no pity on her face. He looked back over the fields, quite certain if he studied her any more, he would give way to his feelings, and at a time like this, he could not yet allow himself to. He was about to suggest she go inside and change before she caught cold, the words were on his lips, but then suddenly so were hers, and he forgot about the rain. He forgot to stop caring.
It was brief, he calculated the kiss lasting only five seconds. Or he intended it to last only five seconds. That was a perfectly respectable amount of time for kissing. He never cared for it anyway. At least until now.