A/N: This just popped into my head while I was re-watching the Empty Hearse. It's my first time exploring the Anthea/Mycroft relationship.
Update 2/15/15: Thanks to the talents and kindness of Blackie-Noir, this story has now been translated into Spanish. You can find a link to it in my favorite stories or check out their profile page.
Chapter 1: Anthea
She's always hated her given name. So plain, so boring.
Although her parents never told her, and she never asked, she knows without a doubt that her mother chose it for her.
It would have been important to her mother, to choose the name of her first child, her only daughter, and her father would have been happy to let her. It would never have occurred to him to intercede, knowing how much pleasure his wife took in such matters.
But if her father had chosen her name, he would never have picked something so dull, so common. He would have given her a name that was unique and striking and meaningful.
A name like Anthea. A name fit for a goddess.
And that's why, when she met Mycroft Holmes for the first time and he asked her name, she lied.
He had to have known that Anthea wasn't her real name. And yet, when she said it, he simply smiled and remarked, "What a lovely name."
They never speak of it—the lie that began their relationship.
Even after he hired her—a task which involved filling out paperwork and performing background checks and other miscellaneous bureaucratic hurdles—he never said a word.
Anthea. That is the name that Mycroft Holmes uses when he speaks to her.
And that is one of the many reasons why she loves him.
She knows she's beautiful. If she ever needs to be reminded, all she has to do is read it in the eyes of the men who watch her walk through the halls.
They always think they're being discrete, but they might as well be shouting at her from the rooftops. And she knows, no matter how far her career progresses, the first thing any of them will see when they look at her is a beautiful face.
Except Mycroft Holmes. She could tell, from the moment they first met, that when he looks at her, he's doesn't see a beautiful women.
When she walks into the room, and he looks up, he sees her, not the shell.
He sees her best self. The side she shows to him, and only him.
He sees Anthea.
That is yet another reason why she loves him.
He is the most brilliant man she's ever met.
She had once thought no one could be more brilliant than her father—until she met Mycroft Holmes. With him, they shattered the mold.
Of course, his younger brother comes a close second. And, as her friends never hesitate to point out, there is no doubt which of the two is more attractive.
But that doesn't matter to her.
Why should she care about the attractiveness of the object of her affections? After all, she can be beautiful enough for the both of them.
But intelligence, well—she knows she's clever and competent, a very hard worker—but she will never be brilliant.
Not like her father, and certainly not like Mycroft Homes.
She misses her father terribly, but in a way, she's glad he's not here to see her like this.
She loves her job, and she's content with her place in the world. Her place in his world. True, it's not where she imagined she'd be, but very few people get to live the life they dreamt for themselves.
Sometimes she feels that maybe something is missing, but most of the time she's content, and it never amounts to anything more than a dull ache in the back of her mind.
But her father would know, when she came over for dinner on Sundays, when they opened presents on Christmas day—he would see, and it would break his heart to watch her settle for anything less than everything.
Then again, maybe her father would understand. After all, his future was limitless until he fell in love, started a family, and settled for a life that would always be beneath him.
But it was worth it. (So he always told her.)
He had been happy. (So he always made her believe.)
And she's happy, too.
Her mother, well—her mother's only concern is that she settles down soon to begin the business of raising a family.
That's never going to happen, but it would break her mother's heart to know the truth, so she lies instead.
Periodically, she drops hints about a man that she's seeing, because some day soon her mother will pass on—like her father already has—and she doesn't want her mother to go to her death believing her daughter is alone in the world.
Because, although she lives in a one bedroom flat and rarely has visitors, she's not alone, not really. After all, she has her job. And she has Mycroft.
That's enough for her.
But that's not a truth that her mother would understand.
She could never explain to her mother that there is only one man that she could give herself to—fully, and without reservations—and that even if she offered, he would never accept.
And—just maybe—that is another reason why she loves him.
Welcome back, Mr. Holmes.
It's not that she was pleased to see Sherlock Holmes disappear for two years to the far reaches of the globe—because she wasn't—and it's not she's disappointed to see him return once again—of course she isn't.
It's just that, while he was gone, she suddenly found herself allowed access into the world of Mycroft Holmes in ways that she never had been before.
It's not that he was lonely. A man like Mycroft Holmes would never know the true depth of loneliness—but Sherlock's absence left a space in his life, and it was a space that she was more than happy to fill.
Sometimes they would just sit together, at night in his office. He would look into the fire, pensively, and she would stare at her blackberry, tapping on the keys—quietly, so as not to disturb his concentration.
And other times they would have dinner together. To discuss work—it was always about the work.
But still, it was the two of them, just talking and eating, and when it was like this—just them—he would let his mask slip, only a little—and she would begin to glimpse the many depths that make up Mycroft Holmes.
(Mycroft, he would say to her. Call me Mycroft.)
And that is why she could never stop loving him, no matter how hard she tried.
Sherlock Holmes has returned, and she has faded once again into the shadows.
And that's okay. She's willing to settle for things the way they are, the way they always have been.
But she would have given Mycroft Holmes any and every part of herself, if only he would ask.
But he hasn't—and he won't.
If he were any other man—but he's not, he's not like any of the rest.
And that's why she loves him, from a distance.
Because it's the only way she can.
Sometimes, she thinks, maybe they could have more than this. She could make him happy; she knows that she could.
She could be beautiful, and he could be brilliant.
She feels it most strongly on days like this, as they ride in silence, side by side.
And she wonders, despite herself, why he can't see it, when it seems so clear to her. After all, Mycroft Holmes is the man who sees everything.
But she already knows the answer.
Mycroft Holmes is the most brilliant man she's ever known, and yet, when it comes to matters of the heart, he is completely blind.
A/N Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought of the story if you have a few moments to leave a review.