Now a series of Anthea and Mycroft friendship chapters
Incompetent: Something Fishy
Summery: Mycroft deals with many trials being a minor government offical. From assassination attempts to bad fish there is only one person he trusts to keep him on his feet. Anthea and Mycroft friendship.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock
The man glared at his partner's back as he fiddled with the lock. Hurry up he silently pleaded, glancing behind him at the street for any signs of trouble.
There was no doubt this was a dangerous assignment; the most dangerous the pair had ever been on. Everything before this had been simple; mainly people whose names vanished as quickly as their eyes glazed over. They had been paid by those with grudges, or those who ran small time illegal businesses; those who were of equal importance of the people they wanted dead- clueless, unimportant nobodies. This hit, however, was political, and their most difficult job yet. For starters, there was a lock on the door between them and the mark.
He felt his usually steady hands tremble slightly against the weight of his concealed weapon, held ready to be drawn. Adrenaline was flooding his system. This was the next step toward a better life. This was their opportunity to start building up a reputation, and possible get more jobs from their unknown, but well-paying employer if all went as planned.
The lock clicked softly, and his partner breathed a small sigh of relief, sliding his tools in his pocket, and reaching for his concealed weapon. In a practiced move, they counted off. 3… 2… 1…
The lock picker twisted the handle gently and the man took the lead, pointing the gun down the hall with both hands, directing it around corners with the ease of someone who had done this many times before; the trembling of his hands ceasing as his military training took over.
As he swept down the hallway he noticed the details around him; expensive paintings, several sculptures, and vases on pedestals. For a minor government official, this guy had dough. He paused as something occurred to him. With this much cash, where was the security? He couldn't hide the feeling that something fishy was going on.
His gun swivelled to the sound of a noise from down the hallway.
"Come on in, boys. I'll be with you in a sec." A female voice rang out from a room up ahead.
Glancing back at his partner who looked as confused as he felt, he made an executive decision, leading the way into an open room. In this room, the style changed, becoming more modern and homey in comparison to the extravagant hallway. Except for a few obviously expensive pieces, including a spoon collection with a few older pieces and a distinguished vase sitting on a glass coffee table, the room appeared ordinary, with soft blue walls and comfortable furniture.
All this he noticed quickly, because it was what he was trained for, but it did not distract him from the woman sitting in the middle of the couch tapping on a blackberry. The vase and coffee table where the only barrier between him and this woman and her phone.
The woman was small, and rather plain. Attractive, he supposed, but not special. She was wearing a plain skirt suit, and didn't even bother looking up as he entered the room.
"Where is Mycroft Holmes?" He asked her, surprised with himself as the words came out his lips. Really, he should just shoot her and move on, but for whatever reason, he felt inclined to stop and ask, making his task even easier if she wanted to save her own life.
His shock increased as she held up one finger, telling him to wait a minute, before going back to her typing. There were two guns trained on her, and she displayed no fear.
"Hey," he commanded, "I have no quarrel with you, but you need to tell me where Mycroft Holmes is right now, or I will kill you."
She sighed, rolling her eyes and rubbing the bridge of her nose in exasperation before making eye contact, "Do you mind? You've already made this longer than it needed to be. If you would stop distracting me, you would already have my full attention."
The man frowned in confusion, but found himself waiting as she finished her message. Her continued nonchalance with the situation was making him uncomfortable. It was as if she knew something, or saw some detail, that he had overlooked in his plans.
"Thank you for your patience," she replied, as though this was an everyday occurrence, "now, how can I help you?"
"Where is Mycroft Holmes?" the man repeated, his uneasiness growing.
"Indisposed at the moment, I'm afraid. I told him not to eat the fish, but in typical Holmes fashion, he refuses to listen to sense, believing his incredible mind would save him from something as simple as bad fish." she rolled her eyes, "sometimes, a situation cannot be thought out of. Sometimes, it just needs to be avoided.
The man looked down, checking to make sure his gun was still in his hands. What was wrong with her? He held the gun, he should be in control, and here she was practically mocking him.
"That's not important," she continued, "What is important is your futures. The way I see it, you have two ways out of here."
"With one body bag or two." His partner interrupted, moving toward her.
"Don't," she commanded sharply, her teasing tone dropping into something much more dangerous, and eyes shining like daggers, "interrupt me." She finished, and his bold partner froze.
"As I was saying, there are two ways out. One, in the back of a police vehicle with all the rights of a citizen, or in the trunk of an inconspicuous government vehicle, where it will be as though you never existed and you will spend the rest of your short, but painfully long, lives wishing you had chosen option one." She finished, smiling sweetly at the pair.
In response the man refocused his aim.
"Option two it is." She replied, and his finger tightened on the trigger.
Mycroft Holmes got out of the shower. He was pale, tired, and really should not have had the fish. He could still envision the warning texts from his PA.
Don't eat the fish.
It's a rare delicacy and a good restaurant. You suggested it.
Rumours of food poisoning from the area checking into local hospitals; possible cause is fish.
I've never had a problem with fish before, and I certainly don't expect to have one now. I will be fine; I know fish.
As you wish, sir. I'll have your bathroom prepped for your visit tonight.
She had been right, as usual, and when he ran from the car to the bathroom, he had been greeted by a cold washcloth, a bucket of ice water, throat lasagnes, milk of magnesia, and a pillow next to the loo. Bile had risen in his throat and two hours later he had uncurled himself from the cold tile and turned on the shower, thoroughly miserable.
He now pulled on his robe feeling a bit better until he heard a smash followed by five gunshots. It was unlikely he had thieves. Some form of assassin, then? This was the third attempt in two weeks. Mycroft sighed, fighting back a wave of nausea. Apparently, someone wanted his attention.
He towelled off his hair, running a comb through it. One more gun shot. Groaning, he set the comb down and headed down the hallway. Was his personal attention going to be necessary to deal with this situation?
When he got to his living room, he noticed a few things. First, there was a cold breeze running through the room, but the remnants of a sickly sweet knockout gas still wafted about. Next, there was a sticky note on his coffee table where a vase given to him by a Greek ambassador had sat. Beside that there was a freshly made cup of tea and a bowl of plain fish shaped crackers. Finally, based on the grain of his carpeting, his bullet proof coffee table had been recently turned on its side before being placed back in its position.
Sipping on the tea, he read the note. Apologies for the vase. It will be replaced by tomorrow. Enjoy the tea.
In the morning, Mycroft felt much better. He slept in, getting almost seven hours of sleep; a rarity for him on a typical day.
He shuffled down the hallway to find another cup of tea had already been prepared.
"How are you feeling this morning, Mr Holmes?"
"Better. What was the excitement last night?" he asked his PA.
She smirked at him, as only she was allowed to do. "Your job is to protect the country, sir; to run it from the shadows. Mine is no different, though my responsibility is limited to one man. Some excitement is not an unusual occurrence."
Mycroft gave a huff of laughter, but raised his eyebrows in expectation.
"Professional hit men, though amateurs compared to what we are used to. Someone wants you dead, and decided to use them."
"And you took care of it?" Mycroft answered, the question more closely identifying a statement than a question.
"No, sir," she teased, "You hired me because I'm incompetent."
Mycroft rolled his eyes, taking that as a yes. When he had first hired her, she had made an impression in her interview. After that, she had calmed down, doing her job well, but lacking the flair that he had first noticed. While he had appreciated her efficiency and enthusiasm, he was quick to inform her that he had no desire for yet another "yes man." She had taken the words to heart and now, years later, their relationship was the closest thing to a friendship that he had. She was the only person to speak freely around him, in private only, of course, and she did not hesitate to use the privilege, showing none of the fear that most of his other employees demonstrated. Over the years he had even come to enjoy her light teasing and her honest concern. She was, without a doubt, the only person he completely trusted.
"I also got a replacement for the vase," she added.
Mycroft glanced at the table. "Is that an ash tray from Buckingham Palace?"
"I felt it matched the decor," she replied, "besides, it wasn't getting any use there anyways. It can gather dust here instead."
Mycroft's stern face turned to his PA, "Is the royal family aware of the missing item?"
A smirk flickered across her face. "It won't be missed, and I already sent a plan over to the head of security. Maybe next time he will be able to do his job."
Mycroft chuckled. He couldn't say he was surprised. "What happened to the vase?"
"I did you a favour and broke it during a brief violent spell." She answered.
"Favour? That was given to me by an ambassador…"
"And you detested it. You thought it was ugly, and are happy it's broken." She interrupted, the corners of her lips sliding up.
Mycroft smiled, an indication she was right, though such words would never pass his lips. "Violent spell?" he asked returning to an earlier topic.
"Yes. The men who broke in are being debriefed as we speak. There is no indication of who sent them, but we are still looking into it. Don't worry about it, sir. Run the country. I can't have anything happen to you; I'd lose my free parking permit." She grimaced, as though that was the worst detail Mycroft's death would bring.
Mycroft snorted. "Indeed." He checked his phone, "Have the car ready in five minutes. My associate rescheduled our meeting from last night to this morning after the fish did not agree with him."
"He wasn't the only one," She mumbled under her breath.
"Sorry, what was that last bit?" Mycroft replied.
"I said of course, sir. Right away, sir," she answered as she tapped out the message to the driver on her blackberry.
He headed down the hallway to get dressed for the day.
His PA was seated in the car when he arrived, still tapping diligently on her phone. She was most likely doing damage control after the previous night's controlled fiasco, or possibly preparing for the next attempt on his life.
He settled into his seat, and pulled out his phone. World news, important updates and even the local newspaper flashed important. Checking his email, Mycroft smiled at an update from Detective Inspector Lestrade, who reported his brother had solved yet another case. Frowning, Mycroft noted that Sherlock had also lost another flatmate in the process of solving the case. He made a note to search for another flatmate, and hid a smile when PA planted a solid three hour block into his afternoon, rescheduling other meetings, knowing that he would be too distracted with Sherlock's problems to pay adequate attention to the trivial matters in queue for discussion. As they pulled up to the restaurant, a text came in.
NOT the fish!
He glanced at his PA. As usual, she gave no indication that she had sent a word, but kept doing what she was doing; fingers flying on the tiny keyboard as she managed his schedule, sent out his orders, and handled threats to him personally, all in his best interest.
Hmm… too bad. I was thinking fish sounded good this morning. He replied.
See if I make you tea the second time around. Came the response.
He gave no indication of his amusement, but knew that she was aware of it. Nodding goodbye to her, he went to breakfast, periodically checking his phone for the sarcastic comments and useful inferences that made his PA the capable woman she was. She was right, as always. She ran his life magnificently. Hiding in the shadows, fading in the background, she did exactly what he did for his country: she protected him. No matter what the cost, she would defend him against any threat, from trained killers to bad fish. Content with the knowledge that his friend was watching over him, Mycroft was as safe as anyone could ever desire to be.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed this, and if you so desire, leave me a reveiw. Tell me if/where you laughed, groaned, or what I could do better. As usual, thanks to the lovely CaringIsNotAnAdvantage for looking over this when she was already stressed.