Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock
When the call came in, he immediately set the best team of people he had on verifying it. He needed to know where it had come from, and, once he did, those responsible would face the consequences – which, rest assured, would be most dire indeed.
It took five minutes to trace the call – far too long, they could have done anything in that time; they could have killed her in that time – and the implications that the news brought with it were less than desirable.
"Sir?" Jenkins called him over to his computer screen. Jenkins was relatively new; he had only been working there for about three months, but he was extremely good at his job. He also wore only yellow ties, and he liked yellow ties.
"Where was the call made?" he asked, in a sharp tone that conveyed the urgency of the matter.
"Um, well, it would seem that it was made at… this address." Jenkins pressed some buttons on his keyboard and clicked on a few things on the screen, until an address in Kensington appeared in big black letters on a grey background.
"Impossible," he breathed. "That's her address." An anger mixed with an almost consuming fear took hold of him. A lesser individual may have panicked at this point, and there seemed to be a part of him that was desperate to do just that, but he squashed it at once and returned to his usual, commanding self.
"Call up the CCTV for the past twelve hours from the front of that address," he told Jenkins, but a flash of uncertainty went through the young man's eyes. He straightened himself up to his full height and stared Jenkins down. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead, a clear sign of the nervousness that he caused within people with relative ease.
"What is it, Jenkins?" he asked, his voice deadly but quiet. Jenkins gulped.
"W-well, sir… isn't it possible that the call was… well… genuine?" he asked, his voice strained with nerves.
He said nothing for a moment, letting his steely stare send shivers down Jenkins' spine. When he spoke, his voice was calm but with an underlying fury. "If that call is genuine," he began, "it must have been made under duress."
"Are you sure?" Jenkins asked. "Isn't it possible that she really did call in sick?"
"Anthea does not call in sick." He tapped his umbrella angrily on the ground, and left swiftly.
~{G}~
Anthea's POV
It was with a sad heart that she realised that she would have to get up. It was not a prospect that she particularly welcomed, for getting up would involve moving, and moving was something she certainly couldn't do at that moment.
Anthea was snoodled up in her bed in her flat in Kensington – a flat that, by all means and purposes was really more of a house – having fashioned a cocoon for herself out of her soft, warm quilt. It was unimaginably comfortable in that bundle, as she lay on her side facing the door of her bedroom, with the quilt scrunched up beneath her chin. She didn't even have the desire to open her eyes just yet. She had already moved once that morning to call in sick to work – Jenkins had been wonderfully understanding when he'd answered the phone – and she felt that that was enough contact with the outside world for her today.
Now, she just wanted to stay wrapped up in her cocoon, and not emerge until she was better.
This illness had struck her most out of the blue. She had no recollection of having felt even slightly under the weather these past few days, yet that morning, when her alarm had gone off, she had known immediately that something was wrong.
Every day, she was woken by her alarm at precisely 6 o' clock; she turned the alarm off, she rose from her bed, and she got dressed. Half an hour after the alarm had drawn her from her slumber, there would be an unmarked black Sedan waiting for her outside the flat that was ready to take her to work.
Today had been different.
She had been woken by her alarm at precisely 6 o' clock in the morning, but she was not as alert as she usually was. The demanding nature of her job had trained her to function perfectly on light sleep that was easily and quickly recovered from, but today she had not recovered so quickly. In fact, she had not recovered at all.
She groped with her hand for the 'off' switch on her alarm clock, silencing the irritating beeping. She sat up in bed, and was assaulted by a wave of pain crashing against the inside of her skull. Her vision was filled with a blinding white light, and she was sure that she had blacked out for a few seconds, for the next thing she knew, she was on her back once more and was staring up at the strangely spinning ceiling.
She couldn't go to work like this.
She hoped Sir wouldn't be too disappointed.
Yet, at this very moment in time, her boss' thoughts on her absence were the least of her worries. For now, there was an odd and irritating scratching at the back of her throat, one that could only be cured with a glass of water.
But that would mean having to get up.
She really didn't want to get up.
Pushing herself up from her impossibly comfortable position in bed, she closed her eyes tightly for a few seconds against the sudden nausea that rushed over her in protest at her movement. When she felt more confident that she could get out of bed without expelling the little food she had in her belly, she swung her legs out from under the quilt and pressed her bare feet into the soft purple carpet covering the floor of her bedroom.
She stood slowly, having to steady herself slightly as the world tilted alarmingly. Mercifully, the effect only lasted a few seconds and she carefully began to pad her way across the carpet to her bedroom door.
Working for the British Government certainly had its advantages, and Anthea had, up to this point, enjoyed all of them without much guilt or regret. She loved that she could get beautiful and outrageously expensive dresses delivered to her front door with the press of a button. She loved that she could change her name every day, assume new identities and new lives and slip smoothly between aliases. She loved the massive flat that she had all to herself in Kensington, that had three bedrooms and four bathrooms and a bloody mile between her bedroom and the kitchen, which was not a journey that she was particularly looking forward to when she felt this rotten, particularly considering that that journey also included a lovely, beautiful, ornate, but incredibly long spiral staircase.
It seemed to take an age to reach the bottom of the staircase, and by the time her foot touched the linoleum – which was considerably colder than the carpet of her bedroom had been – she was incredibly irritated and even more deeply desiring of crawling under her quilt and committing herself to hibernation.
She retrieved the glass of water as quickly as she could when her movements were so sluggish, having been slowed down significantly by this stupid illness; slowness was not something that she was used to. With the glass in hand, she fought her way back up to the first floor – gravity working against her so that her ascent of the spiral staircase was much slower than her descent had been.
Each step that she took that brought her closer to her bedroom – and, more importantly, her bed – also made her feel worse and worse, a strange stabbing pain manifesting behind her eyes, throbbing in time with the beat of her heart.
By the time she reached the doorframe of her bedroom, a sweat had broken out on her brow, and she was leaning against the frame, shivering pathetically. She cursed herself for being greedy with the water, as her tremors caused the liquid to spill over the top of the glass and onto her hand. She was sure that she wouldn't be able to move from that spot, until…
A noise reached her ears from far below: a tapping noise. At first, she thought that she was imagining it, suffering an auditory hallucination, her senses addled by her illness. But as she concentrated harder – a feat that wasn't particularly easy with her head throbbing as it was – she realised that it was a very real tapping, on her front door.
Not only was it very real, it was also very distinct, and very, very familiar.
Sir was at her front door, knocking – as he always did – with his umbrella. Anthea knew that he was waiting for her to come and open the door, but she honestly didn't think she could face going down the stairs again. Or moving at all. He had a key to her flat; if he really wanted to get in, he could use it.
It would seem that he did really want to get in, for a few moments after the knock, the sound of the door opening drifted up the spiral staircase and reached her ears. She listened intently, thankful that she had already spilled enough water that no more could reach the edge and soak her hand.
Sir closed the door softly behind him, and his footsteps wandered around the bottom floor of the flat. He was obviously looking for her. When he had checked all of the rooms, the footsteps changed in sound as his shoes changed from stepping on the linoleum of the floor to the metal of the spiral staircase. His steps were slow and cautious.
The sound of his expensive shoes was dulled by the carpet on the first floor – beige in the corridors as opposed to the purple of the carpet in her bedroom – and she was vaguely aware of him approaching her, but it was almost as though she was detached from her body; she knew that he was approaching someone, but not that that someone was necessarily her. Only when she felt a soft hand on her shoulder was she brought back to reality.
With a great effort, she turned to him, looking up into his face. His expression was creased with concern, his eyes darting around her form, deducing what was wrong with her. When he spoke, his voice was low, a mere rumble in his chest designed to flow smoothly across her sensitive ears.
"I thought something had happened to you," he murmured.
Anthea chuckled, a mere huff of breath, too weak to make a stronger or louder sound.
"Something did happen to me," she explained, speaking for only the second time that day. Her voice was cracked and broken, in some points coming out as a whisper. "I'm ill."
Sir rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched up slightly in a smile. She was probably the only one who was allowed to speak to him so sarcastically, and the unique dynamic of their relationship was one that she enjoyed immensely.
"You do not get ill," he said, keeping his voice low.
"Evidently I do."
Sir smiled sadly, before looking down at her hand, her fingers still clasped around the glass of water from which she had yet to take a sip, and damp from the liquid she had spilled. He reached out to the glass and took it from her, crossing her bedroom in three strides to place it on her bedside table. On his way back, he passed her without a word, and she listened to him heading for the bathroom just down the hallway. He returned a few moments later with a towel and wiped off the water from her hand.
She smiled up at him in thanks, her voice far too weak to be used again. Sir propped his umbrella up against the wall next to the door and offered her his arm. She shook her head; she could make it the few feet to her bed without assistance.
Her steps were slow and careful, each tiny movement sending a fresh wave of nausea washing over her head. She had to stop after every step, to ready herself for the next one. Sir followed her, always by her side. His hand made a strange movement every time she stopped, as though he was ready to steady her if she needed it. For the most part, she didn't, until she reached the space halfway between the door and her bed.
The world lurched alarmingly, and she felt her knees buckle from under her. She forced herself to remember that the carpet was soft, that she wouldn't hurt herself, but such reassurances proved to be unnecessary. A pair of hands grabbed hold of her shoulders and lowered her to her knees slowly. Blinking, she realised that she could no longer see her bed before her; rather, her field of vision was filled with the buttons and material of an expensive grey waistcoat.
She was being pushed backwards, so that she was leaning against the wall, her legs being straightened out in front of her. Then the hands were gone, and she felt cold without the presence of another so close; she shivered, but she wasn't alone for long.
Sir was back, sliding one arm underneath her knees and wrapping the other around her shoulders, and then she was in the air. She was lowered onto her bed – the covers of which had been pulled back, and the pillows had been propped up against the wall so that she could sit up.
"Why are you doing this?" she whispered, clearing her throat. He avoided her eyes as he fussed with the quilt, pulling it back over her.
She received no answer to her question, only the placing of a freezing cold hand on her forehead – or, perhaps, the hand was normal temperature and it was merely her skin that was unusually warm. Even so, the temperature made her shiver, and once she had started, she suddenly found it difficult to stop.
Sir reached out to the glass of water that he had placed on her bedside table and guided it to her shaking hands. She felt an impression form in the bed next to her knees as he sat down there. The tremors in her hands were so great that she feared she would drop the glass, yet Sir seemed to notice that problem as well, for he placed his own hands over hers and helped guide the glass to her mouth.
"Just sips," he reminded her in a low voice, as the rim of the glass touched her bottom lip and she tipped some of the cool, refreshing liquid down her aching throat. He allowed her two more small sips of water before he took the glass away from her again, and she heard the dull thud of it being placed back on the coaster that sat on her bedside table. At first, she considered protesting, but soft waves of fatigue began to wash over her once more, and her eyelids began to droop.
The weight on the bed next to her lifted. She opened her mouth to feebly ask him to stay, but no sound came out and she closed it again pathetically. She sighed softly, cursing herself for thinking that she would be looked after by the Great Mycroft Holmes. She thought about slapping him when she was well enough to go back to work, but such violent thoughts were interrupted when she felt someone climb onto the bed next to her, sitting atop of the covers. An arm wrapped around her shoulders to draw her nearer to its owner, guiding her head to rest on his chest.
"You need to rest," he murmured, and she felt the rumble in his chest reverberate through her skull, wiping away the final few pinpricks of pain that had remained. She felt herself begin to drift away, but as she stood on the precipice of the abyss of slumber, a single coherent thought struck her – though she wasn't sure how well she would be able to articulate it. Nevertheless, she had to try.
"Wh' abou' work?" she slurred, all of the muscles in her face feeling heavy and immovable.
If Sir answered, she didn't hear it, for she had already gone.
~{G}~
Mycroft's POV
Mycroft stood at the door to Anthea's flat, taking in every inch of the exterior with a carefully trained eye. The lock was still in place, and none of the windows appeared to have been disturbed. There was no sign of forced entry from what he could tell, but he had only seen the front of the building; an intruder could easily have entered from another angle, one that couldn't be seen from the front. He thought about barging in – he had a key, after all – but if the kidnappers were still inside, he would risk placing himself in unnecessary danger, and if he was to rescue Anthea, he would surely need to be in his best condition.
Instead, he raised his umbrella off of the ground and tapped on the door with the handle, as he always did. Normally, Anthea would come to the door immediately – or at least let him know if she was indisposed in some way that she couldn't get there that instant. Neither her presence nor a text message answered his knock, and he began to feel an increasing sense of trepidation as to what was going on – or had happened – beyond the door in front of which he was standing.
Deciding that this was now a state of anarchy and that all social niceties must be suspended, he took out the key he had to her flat from his breast pocket and forced his way inside, fully prepared for whatever horrors awaited him within.
He was dumbstruck when he pushed the door open to find that absolutely nothing had changed; there was nothing – not a single thing – out of place.
Admittedly confused, he carefully closed the door behind him. Perhaps if there were no signs of a struggle in the living room, there must have been clues in other rooms. Even if the kidnappers had drugged her, they must have left some trace of themselves behind somewhere in the flat.
He began checking all of the rooms downstairs; the kitchen had signs of recent inhabitancy, the tap having been turned off a few minutes previously. That could mean that they were still there; he tensed, his grip tightening around the handle of his umbrella in preparation for a confrontation. The other rooms on the ground floor – the drawing room, the bathrooms, the spare bedroom – were all similarly untouched as the main living room that the front door opened into.
The ground floor was clear; he moved to the first, ascending the elegant, ornate, metal spiral staircase until he reached the landing beyond.
The sight that greeted him there was not one that he had been expecting in the slightest.
Anthea was, in fact, perfectly safe and sound – though she certainly appeared to be considerably worse for wear. She was standing at the door to her bedroom – though perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the doorframe was holding her up – and still wearing her pyjamas, though her feet were bare. She was shivering pathetically, her skin dangerously pale with a decidedly sickly pallor. She held a glass of water in her hand, which was shaking worst of all – her fingers were already damp from where she had spilled the liquid on her hand.
She did not acknowledge him as he approached her, but he had no doubts that – even in this state – she was completely aware of his presence. He stopped by her side, and put a hand on her shoulder.
She did not react at first, a few moments passing before she forced herself to look around and up at him. The corner of her mouth twitched as her slight glazed-over eyes fell upon his face, as though she was glad to see him.
"I thought something had happened to you," he murmured, as a strange feeling of relief washed over him.
She let out a soft huff of breath, which – he assumed – if she had been in a stronger state, would have constituted that signature chuckle of hers, the one that escaped her lips when she thought that he was being unnecessary.
"Something did happen to me," she explained in a strained whisper, the same tone of voice that the phone call that morning had consisted of. "I'm ill."
Mycroft rolled his eyes; even in such a state, she still managed to be witty. He couldn't help but smiling slightly.
"You do not get ill," he told her.
"Evidently I do."
That truth was not one that he would have believed up to this point; after all, she had been working for him for years, and never once – never once – had she ever called in sick. He admitted that he perhaps had been a tad overdramatic in light of the situation, but his actions were at least somewhat understandable.
He took the glass from her trembling hand and deposited it on her bedside table, before walking passed her and going into the little bathroom at the end of the corridor. Her bedroom had an en suite, but it was far more likely that more private products would have been kept in that little bathroom than the guest bathroom he was now heading towards.
The guest bathroom was tiny, with tiles so white it would give anyone who dared to stay in there longer than five minutes a blinding headache. Which was probably why it did not have a bath: only a shower and a toilet.
He was only interested in one thing, however; he grabbed a small hand towel off of the rack and returned to Anthea, taking her hand in his – and noticing how cold it was from however long her excursion to get the glass of water had lasted – and wiped it dry of the water she had spilled. She watched him blankly, her unfocused eyes staring at her hand as it was ministered to, as though she was trying very hard to keep herself anchored to reality.
When he had finished, he propped up his umbrella against the wall and offered her his arm so that she did not have to make the rest of the journey to her bed without support, yet she declined with a small shake of her head. Even so, as she began to walk to her sanctuary, he made sure to keep a close eye on her to make sure she remained upright.
When she began to fall, halfway across the room, he was ready.
He saw the change in her complexion immediately, her face paled suddenly and alarmingly and her body sagged like a rag doll and she tumbled to her knees. He moved swiftly, walking around her until he was facing her and caught her by her shoulders. She had already fallen a good few inches, and he knew that she wouldn't be able to continue walking, so he lowered her to her knees, and carefully pushed her back against the wall.
She looked so small as she sat there. She could barely keep her eyes open, and her head was lolling against her chest.
Sighing, he turned to her bed and moved back the covers so that she would be able to lie under them and be warm. He scooped her up bridal-style and deposited her on the mattress. She had only opened her eyes a fraction, but the dark irises revealed under eyelids were fixed on him with confusion.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice no louder than a whisper.
He didn't answer; he merely pulled the covers over her and checked her temperature with the back of his hand. He didn't often keep secrets from Anthea, but he was not willing to admit that he cared for her; after all, she probably already knew.
She shivered pathetically as he gauged her temperature – which was higher than her trembles would suggest. He frowned, knowing that he would have to find a way to break her fever, but he wasn't sure how.
He reached for the water beside her bed, and she followed his movement with her eyes. Once she realised what he was going to do, she lifted her hands to accept the glass, but they were shaking as much as the rest of her, and he could foresee the entire contents being spilled over both of them. He let her place her own hands around the glass, before covering and steadying them with his own. When the water was still once more, he guided the glass to her lips.
"Just sips," he reminded her, somewhat unnecessarily; she no doubt was fully aware that she could not simply glug the entire glass down in one. He allowed her three small sips before he took the glass away, keeping a firm grip on it as he slid her hands out from under his and placed the glass back on the table.
When he looked back up at her, her entire body had gone slack; her arms had dropped down onto the covers and she appeared to be fighting very hard to keep her eyes open. He found his mouth curling into a warm smile, before he got up from the bed and prepared to leave her in peace.
Yet, just before he could turn away from her, her hand twitched toward him, as though – dare he even entertain the thought? – she wanted him to stay with her. He could have dismissed it as a ridiculous and foolhardy notion at once – had it not been for her brow creasing sadly in accompaniment to the small gesture.
He sighed, and, slipping his shoes off, walked around the bed to sit next to her, on top of the covers. He wrapped an arm around her without even thinking about it, so that she could rest her head against his chest.
"You need to rest," he told her, trying to keep his voice low so that he didn't give her a headache. She merely hummed in reply, a small noise that he didn't think meant anything at all. It was not for another moment that she said something intelligible.
"Wh' abou' work?"
Mycroft sighed as the weight leaning against him became heavier; as she drifted off to sleep. He knew exactly what she meant; why was he here, rather than looking after all the world's problems? He waited until he was absolutely sure that she was asleep to press his lips softly to the top of her hair and reply.
"What is the point of me being there, if you are not?"