Anthea was always on the move, fingers flying over her mobile, taking care of business for her boss. Mycroft Holmes was demanding. Anthea didn't mind. She was learning from the best, except when he was distracted by his brother. Sherlock needed a minder. Anthea took it upon herself to find one.
She saw the name in dispatches from Afghanistan: A good (very good) army doctor, and even better marksman, up for a medal. Promising. Further inquiries revealed: Parents deceased. Little contact with lesbian sister. Mates, even ex-girlfriends, spoke well of him. So an order went out to that bastard Moran, an unsavory but necessary agent for her needs.
The therapist's notes had it wrong, both about the trust issues and the PTSD. All Dr. John Watson needed was a mission. Luckily, Anthea had arranged one. In return for setting up Watson's meeting with Sherlock, Mike Stamford's project got an unrestricted government grant.
Despite her careful investigation, Watson still proved surprising. Angry but polite. Wary but intrigued. Definitely not frightened. He stood up to her boss, immediately gaining Mr. Holmes' grudging respect. It had taken Anthea weeks to do either.
Watson's looks were ordinary in jacket, jumper and jeans, and yet, when he tried to chat her up on his way home, she was very glad she could hide behind her BlackBerry.