I was zoning out. I could feel myself doing it, could almost see the outskirts of my imagination reaching out and tugging my conscious mind closer in an effort to blur the thin line between the two, but I didn't resist it; there was no point.
When I was young my father had held a prestigious role in the British Government. I can still remember how he'd come home from a long day and talk about how he was slowly changing the world and making it a little bit better, a slow smile forming on his lips as he'd speak.
I found out when I was fifteen, long after he had abandoned us, that he was the man who made the teas and coffees for the important people he had claimed to be. He had lied about so much but the one thing he ever said that was honest was how the government was the reason the world kept turning.
That's why I was so adamant that I wanted to work for them, why this was the fourth block secretary interview I'd had within a month.
But the man who had walked through the door didn't look anything like the balding, overweight and sweat drenched officials the last few interviews had been with. His suit was impeccable; not a lose thread or a wrinkle in sight, he walked with such authority that I felt like a child approached by the headmaster the instant he changed his direction and stood directly facing me, his gaze flickering over every detail of my face, my clothes, my hands, even my shoes.
It caught me how oddly beautiful he was and his head shot up, staring straight into my eyes as if he'd followed my train of thought. He merely smirked before moving onto the next girl and the next, putting them all through this grueling treatment.
That's where I'd zoned out, thinking of those eyes and how there wasn't a chance I'd even be considered for the job. The previous man had laughed sickening before saying that I was "Too plain" to be the girl who stood beside him in every photograph. He'd chosen a girl who could barely type 20 words a minute, but had a Botox enhanced but pretty face.
I was brought back from my trance by the pair of eyes that had pierced my focus in the first place.
"Sorry?" I blinked, only just noticing that the other girls were giving me filthy looks.
He paused for a moment before a smile made its way onto his lips and he hooked the handle of his umbrella onto the straps of my long forgotten handbag that had been lying at my feet.
"Come with me, Anthea." He spoke so slowly, his gaze unwavering.
"My names not-" I began, but was silenced as he raised his hand and gave me a hardened look. I smiled softly, "Yes, Anthea... Of course, Sir."
"It's Mycroft Holmes, but Mycroft will do. "
If I hadn't taken his offered arm back then, I'd have been the eighteen year old girl who dreamed about his eyes, who wondered what his lips tasted like and who would let my mind wander off to silly little fairytales of the oddly beautiful man who would make me cum with nothing but whispered words.
I'm so glad that I don't have to use my imagination.