Anthea sat at her desk early Monday morning, scrolling through the emails that had come in overnight. She had just taken a sip of coffee from her mug (Only Left-Handed People Are In Their Right Mind) when her Blackberry beeped. It was Warren, Mycroft's driver.

HIMSELF IS NOT AT HOME. IS HE THERE ALREADY?

NO. DIOGENES?

WILDER SAYS NOT.

I'LL TAKE CARE OF IT.

Anthea set down her coffee cup, still holding her Blackberry in her right hand. Interesting. Yesterday was Bonfire Night, which Sherlock's friends had taken to using as an excuse to celebrate the anniversary of his return from the dead. Anthea had opened the invitation from Mary Watson three weeks ago and sent Mycroft's regrets without consulting him. Maybe he had indulged his soft spot for his little brother and attended anyway.

And what, stayed for a fraternal sleepover?

Anthea shook her head, dismissing the ridiculous idea. Think. What are the logical explanations for Mycroft's absence?

He could be in danger, of course … but it was highly unlikely. She had heard from her boss regularly over the weekend (including a few hours here in the office yesterday working on the upcoming visit of an Arab League delegation), and this was the first sign of anything amiss. There were no national or international crises requiring his personal intervention, and if there had been an emergency with Sherlock or his parents requiring Mycroft to leave town, he would have called her.

Think, Anthea commanded herself again, taking another fortifying drink of coffee. Why are people late to work on a Monday morn—

Her coffee cup hit the desk with a clatter, and it was only her previous gulp that prevented the contents from sloshing onto the immaculate surface. No. Not Mycroft Holmes.

But when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

The facts: Mycroft rarely left the triangle encompassed by his office, home, and club. He was in none of those locations. It was well past the six-forty pickup that ensured he arrived in the office promptly at seven-oh-five. He had notified neither his personal assistant nor his driver of his location. Anthea did not need to consult his diary to know there were no out-of-office meetings the morning of November sixth. (Mycroft's schedule was her schedule.) Conclusion?

Mycroft Holmes was either dead, incapacitated, or deliberately hiding.

Anthea fingered her Blackberry, considering her options. She could text Sherlock, see if he knew where his brother was or what he was up to. (Mycroft would kill her.) She could check with his security team, but by definition Mycroft must have dismissed them before he went wherever he was or Warren would know where to pick him up. She could violate the Official Secrets Act by looking up his microchip….

Or she could simply check the CCTV footage outside Molly Hooper's flat.

Less than ten minutes later, Anthea found what she was looking for—a tall, Caucasian male in a dark overcoat who managed to approach and enter Dr. Hooper's building without once giving the three separate cameras a clear image of his face.

The black wood-handled umbrella, however, was instantly recognizable.

()()()()

It was past nine o'clock when a vehicle approaching one of the back entrances of Vauxhall Cross appeared on the security feed Anthea was monitoring live. She clicked something on the second monitor, minimized the email to the Prime Minister's personal secretary, grabbed her freshly-refilled coffee cup, and sat back to watch the show.

From this angle she could only see the rear and driver's side of the SUV, looking down from above. The passenger door opened and the umbrella tip appeared first, followed by two shiny black brogues. They stayed fixed in place for a moment, as it apparently took some effort for Mycroft to heave himself out of the backseat. He stood up in stages, as if he were decades older than he actually was … or, Anthea thought with a smirk, as if he'd wrenched his back. Another pause, then he stepped to the side, closed the car door, and turned to face the camera. Anthea nearly spit a mouthful of coffee over her keyboard, and the effort not to do so resulted in an inelegant snort, followed by a bout of coughing.

Mycroft Holmes was wearing sunglasses! In public! In an underground car park!

Anthea blinked quickly, not wanting her watering eyes to blur any of the entertaining details. She watched as Mycroft crossed to the lift and scanned his ID, changing camera views when the lift doors opened.

It wasn't too bad, she reflected upon seeing the closer image of the lift camera. His hair (what there was of it) was neatly combed and his overcoat properly buttoned. He was also well aware he was on camera, standing straight and rigid with his usual expressionless expression, looking—or at least facing—dead ahead. What with the sunglasses (Anthea snorted again at the incongruous accessory), she couldn't be sure. But rather than hooking the umbrella over his arm as usual, he was carrying it by his side, and—Anthea tilted her head—yes, actually leaning on it. It was slight, and you would have to know Mycroft well to realize it was an atypical pose, but he definitely had a wrenched back.

Not for the first time, Anthea admired her boss's nerve. A family emergency or even a personal illness would have been less conspicuous and simpler to explain. His tardiness and covert entrance, previously known only to her and Warren (she had deflected phone calls over the last two hours, including three from the head of security, with an expert "he's not to be disturbed"), were about to be exposed.

With perfect timing that reassured her Mycroft was still at least somewhat himself, he removed his sunglasses and slipped them into his coat pocket just as the lift doors opened onto the lobby.

It was a masterful performance. Mycroft strode across the hall with his usual elegance, umbrella taps echoing on the marble floor, ignoring the gawping and double-takes as the Secret Intelligence Service realized one of its most prominent members, known for his punctuality and work ethic, was just now entering the building ... and by the most public route possible. He eschewed the lifts in favor of the broad staircase at the far end of the lobby, hooked the umbrella over his arm, and climbed steadily, then turned a corner on the first floor.

Anthea scrambled for her mouse to find the right camera. Mycroft had chosen an interior hallway, apparently heading for the service lift in the center of the building, where it was darkest (no doubt missing his sunglasses). His expression had morphed from "expressionless" to "thunderous," and had Anthea not known his bad mood had an entirely personal cause, she would have been worried, both for her own sake and that of the Commonwealth at large.

Rapid chimes began emitting from her computer as her email blew up with messages from every office worker in Mycroft's path, notifying her of his unusual behavior.

He took an illogical and circuitous route, making him difficult to follow and forcing Anthea to switch cameras every few seconds, as was no doubt his intent. He was stopped—or at least it was attempted—three separate times, and in each case dismissed the intruder with a mere look. One of those intruders was the records clerk. Anthea glanced at her Blackberry screen when she saw the woman pull out her mobile as soon as Mycroft passed.

OMG, ANTHEA, I NEVER THOUGHT I'D SAY THIS, BUT ... MYCROFT HOLMES AND THE WALK OF SHAME! PLEEEEASE TELL ME YOU HAD SOMETHING TO DO WITH THIS!

But Anthea had no time to reply to her friend because Mycroft had disappeared again.

"Dammit, Mycroft," she muttered under her breath when a frantic switching of screens came up empty. The higher the floor, the fewer cameras, the more places to hide … and of course Mycroft would know them all. Then she remembered there were cameras at every lift and stairwell, and considering he was still two floors below….

"Gotcha," she said, smiling at the image of her disgruntled boss exiting the northeast stairwell, one hand on his lower back as he pulled the heavy steel door open, a full-fledged grimace on his face when it closed behind him with an echoing clang. He had unbuttoned his coat as he climbed, giving her the first look at what he was wearing—or rather, not wearing.

Anthea actually dropped her Blackberry.

Mycroft wasn't wearing a waistcoat. Crumpled suit, far-from-crisp shirt, hastily-tied tie, yes. Waistcoat, no. Anthea had worked for Mycroft Holmes for eight years and had never seen him without a waistcoat. Unbuttoned jacket, yes, especially when working late. Loosened tie occasionally, when stakes were measured in thousands of lives. She had been summoned to Mycroft's home in the pre-dawn of an autumn Saturday once and actually found him fully dressed behind the desk in his study, looking for all the world as if—well, as if it were nine o'clock on Monday morning. Or at least, how Mycroft Holmes normally looked at nine o'clock on Monday morning.

Anthea was so distracted she almost missed a critical detail. The number on the lift Mycroft was passing was nine, not eight—he was on this floor! She abandoned her post to turn on all the lights in their offices (including the overhead fluorescent lights they never used unless she'd lost an earring), then in a final stroke of genius, rushed back to his desk to crank up the brightness on his monitor.

By the time the outer door opened, Anthea sat calmly at her desk, finishing the email to the Minister's secretary. Mycroft physically recoiled at the assault to his senses, then gathered himself and stepped over the threshold.

"Good morning, sir!" Anthea said, more brightly and loudly than necessary, once again rewarded with a visible wince. "Did you enjoy your evening?"

Mycroft took in the glow radiating from his open office door, Anthea's blank second monitor, the still-recurring chime of incoming email, and the bland smile of his very capable PA. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his sunglasses.

"Bugger off," he said pleasantly. "And find me a clean shirt, please."

Pleasant Mycroft was a dangerous Mycroft, but Anthea hadn't joined MI-6 because she was looking for a nice, quiet life. She opened the door that had been slammed in her face.

"Sir," she said, pitching her voice to an appropriately professional level of concern with some difficulty, "isn't that the same suit you wore yesterday? Is everything all right?"

"It is the same everything I wore yesterday, which is why I asked for a clean shirt," he said, a trace of irritation creeping into his voice. "And some paracetamol. And clear my schedule for the remainder of the morning."

"Already done, sir," Anthea said cheerfully, pulling a starched ivory dress shirt from the cupboard and exchanging it for his overcoat. "You have nothing in your diary until lunch with Lady Smallwood at one. She suggested seafood, and I said you'd be delighted."

"Get. Out."

Anthea complied, grinning broadly as soon as she turned her back. She reentered the room ten minutes later to find all the lights off except for the lamp in the far corner. Mycroft had changed his shirt, tied his tie properly, and draped his wilted suit jacket over the back of his chair. The sunglasses were nowhere in sight. Anthea set down a bottle of Evian, a glass, and two round white pills.

Mycroft cracked one eye open, then reached for the pills and drank the water straight from the bottle. This unusual break in etiquette stirred her sympathy as nothing else had.

"Finish the bottle and I'll bring you some tea," she said.

He grunted an acknowledgement, and Anthea returned almost immediately with tea and toast, then left for a third time, soundlessly closing the office door behind her.

She had a lot of emails to answer.