A/N: the inspiration from this story came from a lot of things, but mostly from the fact there is one other moriarty/anthea fix and very few mycroft/anthea stories. Other than that, i'm just gonna let you dive in, i like it, i hope you do too. I'd love to hear what you think-Please!

typos=mine

Rating/Warnings: M for future smut, graphic images, graphic deaths, violence, language.

Mulitchaptered

Anthea wasn't her real name, even someone as daft as Mycroft knew that. But if there was one thing her dead beat family taught her, it was that all the best lies are crafted from the truth. Hannah Anthea Moriarty, born outside of Dublin to a mother who spent her life living a lie and a father who made one. She was the youngest of two, but not by much, only 18 months younger than her scrawny older brother James William Moriarty, a boy who was just as right in the head as she was herself. Genius kids, that's what they were known as, the two kids at the end of the long rickety road in an old house with creaky floorboards and a lamp by the porch that doesn't work. James and Hannah Moriarty were the strangest two kids that Ireland had ever seen.

When they were young, James used to hold her under the water until her vision went blurry, and just when she thought she'd pass out he'd lift her from the bath and place her on the tile as she came back to life. She never spluttered of flopped around in the old bathroom on the floor, simply lay still until her breath returned to her and she could point her sharp brown eyes at her brother. Her lithe mouth would curl into a frown and she'd shiver, all cold and wet on the tiles as her brother would grin at her. She'd reach up with cat like reflexes and claw his throat, squeezing it into her palms, nails digging into his neck. Her nostrils would flare, just momentarily before they'd soothe back down as he went rigid. She could feel his veins underneath her grip, running quickly, as quick as it can, avoiding the restriction she offers. And then suddenly she lets go. Five year old Hannah grins deviously at her 6 year old brother before standing up and climbing back into the bathwater, still warm, and waving her brother off as he rubs his neck.

"Bruises?" he says as he stares in the mirror. Hannah grins at him with her eyes closed.

"Always."

She comes up with the name Anthea when she misspells Athena, goddess of War when she was 11. She stared at the page with her beautiful handwriting, scrawled evenly across the page. Anthea, she liked the way it looked. She scribbled it again on the paper, then again and again. James, curious about her writing, glanced over her shoulder at her elegant script, the name Anthea written over and over again. He grinned at her and stroked her hair back, breathing over her shoulder and onto the paper.

"Pretty name isn't it?" he muses in his high voice, his fingers coming to trace the letters.

"I rather like it," she says, "I think I'll keep it."

And she does just that.

She uses the name first, when they've relocated to London, after their mother's lie has run out of steam and their father's life has too. A lonely widow, that's what her mother calls herself as she does her hair and make up, blood red lipstick and dark shadowy eyes. Anthea sits on the bed of her mother's room, cross legged and curious, curlers in her own hair. At 13 she's the prettiest girl in her grade, with long curling dark locks and mysterious almond shaped eyes. She and her brother stick together like glue now, because he's so scrawny and thin and hard to make friends with while she has the easy charm and pretty face. Her mother stands up and leaves the vanity mirror for the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind her. James joins the bedroom party now and climbs up next to her on the bed.

"Call me Anthea now," she demands, not turning to face him. James' mouth curls into a smile.

"Call me Jim then," he said, "I'll be Jim and you be Anthea."

Hannah turns her head to him and grins. "Nice to meet you Jim," she says easily, charmingly. Jim frowns, and at that instant he's tearing at her mouth. She doesn't scream as he tries to slice her lips open further with his fingernails, simply closed her eyes as he tried to claw her eyes out.

"Don't charm me," he hissed at her, "I know the real you, you are not charming-"

Effortlessly, she rolled them and pinned his arms underneath him, a little bit of blood staining her otherwise perfect cheeks. Jim laughed heartily from underneath her, watching as the droplets hit is cheek as well.

"You love the charming me," she taunted him, "You love the way I can manipulate you."

"Always," he said with a grin. Anthea climbs off him, just in time to see her mother come back around.

"Hannah!" she shouted, "Don't play with my lipstick!"

She ushers Anthea over to the mirror and wipes the blood away with a tissue. Anthea lets her believe that is exactly what it is, lipstick, because she know that's not really what's on her mouth at all. She likes the way it tastes in her mouth, the metal taste it leaves on her tongue. She turns to Jim when her mother is done and has retreated into her closet to find a slinky black dress to wear for her clients. Anthea's not stupid, she knows that her mother lives the lie she creates, a woman with many personalities, many husbands, many toys she can play with since her father is gone now. Jim sees it too, but he stays quiet, doesn't comment. Anthea stares at her pretty reflection and sees her mother's features in her own, blood smeared face and dark eyes. Jim looks like father, and she mother.

"Out," her mother says, pushing them both out, "Downstairs, go play." Jim slides off the bed and sticks his hands in his pockets before slinking down the stares. Anthea follows him without a word.

The blood stays smear across her face.

At 18, Anthea learns to shoot her first weapon. Jim does the same. For Anthea this is an arrow, taught to her over the summer in a class she decided she wanted to take. "Guns are so ordinary" she told Jim as she took aim at a practice target one afternoon in the backyard of their country house. Another perfect bullseye, right in the middle of the tree. Jim smiled as she took up another arrow from her quiver and strung it out before letting it slide from the bow, cutting the air with ease and slamming in the tree, next to her last arrow.

"I like precision," she tells him when he asked why she chose an arrow of all weapons.

Jim likes explosions. he likes things over the top. That's why he and his sister get along so well. She is over the top, a tall beautiful woman with a dangerous smile. Which is why Jim likes his Semtax explosives and little firework displays of fun. He likes how it makes such beautiful displays of fire. Sometimes he looks at Anthea and wonders how she would look in the middle of all the flames, her skin becoming blackened by the heat and her eyes burning into nothing, her whole being silent, burning silently. Like an angel of fire. His angel of fire.

"You'd look beautiful on fire," he tells her, taking her by surprise and running his fingers over her shoulders. She smiles coolly and lets fly the arrow, her concentration not wavering.

"I am beautiful," she says without emotion, picking up the last arrow in the quiver.

"An angel of fire," he whispered into her ear, tickling it with the heat, "My angel of fire."

Anthea tucked her head to the side, as if considering it. She grinned and let fly the arrow. "I like the sound of that," she murmured to him, "Say it again."

His teeth nipped at her ear as he whispered it again to her. "My angel of fire, a flame and burning so beautifully."

She shuddered happily under his touch and went to the tree to retrieve her arrows from the wood. Jim watched her go. She pulled the arrows from the wood and turned to him.

They had always been the odd ones, the strange siblings-not right in the head as their grandmother said to their mother. Jim and Anthea had been attached by the hip for their entire lives, together and never apart. In High School they were mistaken as a couple because she enrolled under the name of Anthea Hannan, and he Jim Moriarty. They had never had anyone but themselves in their lives before, and while it did not bother the two of them-it worked to their advantage occasionally-their own family thought it creepy and odd.

It wasn't so odd, that at age 23, while sound asleep in the middle of the night, Jim wanders into their shared flat in London. She's at uni, doing uni things and he's setting the world a blaze with his Hannah bombs, gleefully named after his little angel of fire. He's made quite a name for himself, Moriarty, the most dangerous man the world's ever seen, and she's just a poli sci major with dreams of working right under the nose of the government. Well, that's what she claims. James wants her by his side once his empire is fully established. It'd be nice to see her there, standing next to him and looking out at where his long fingers reach. To see her in awe.

It's cold in her place when he sneaks in, and instantly he finds himself in the shower, heating his icy skin and relaxing his sore muscles. He stares at the simple white tiles and smiles as he thinks of all the times he's tried to drown Anthea in water just like this. It'd been a while since he'd tried, he was long over do to do it again. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand under the hot water. He missed the flat. Being away was nice, setting the world on flame was delightful but he liked the way the water felt on his neck. He stood under the heat of a the water for a few more moment before climbing out and dressing, climbing silently into the over sized bed that she slept in.

When she woke, she knew he was there. Groggily, she opened her eyes to find her brother snuggling the pillow behind her, his eyes wide open and staring at the back of her head. He blinked, the pupils in his eyes completely dilated, completely black. Anthea flipped over to stare at him, looking at the bags under his eyes. Carefully she traced the dark patterns with her warm fingertip.

"What time did you get here?"

"Four in the morning. I took a shower."

"It's 8 now, you should be sleeping," she said, staring at him. His long arm reached out and grabbed her forcefully, dragging her still sleep heavy body closer to him. Her back screamed in protest, but fighting him would be useless. So she looked at him as he brought her closer, inhaling her scent as he lay there, the pillow smashed between them.

"I missed you," he stated coldly, just like he always did. She shrugged.

"It's obvious." She rolled her eyes. "Guess what?"

"I don't like games."

"Ones you don't win," she responded. He grinned wryly at her, his eyes cool. Anthea looked back at him without an expression. "I've got an internship."

Jim looked amused. "Oh? Where?"

"Working for a man called Mycroft Holmes."

And so? please tell me what you think, reviews are the fuel that keeps me writing! Without you guys, I can't do it!