Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Mouse9, Thewasp, Miz Joely, IantoLives, Westwinder, Ohgodbenny, ChiefDoctor and mayree1960, and thanks also go to all those who gave kudos. Enjoy!
CHAPTER TWO: THE GIFT OF GIVING
Mycroft doesn't mean to get used to her, he doesn't.
He tells himself that she's a tool, nothing more.
An asset.
A resource.
But well, she seems to have a knack of making her self indispensable... And making him perfectly happy to have her that way...
Sometimes he wonders whether he should be worried about that, but he can't bring himself to think that way for long.
Incident One: Mother's Day
"In fairness," Anthea points out, "you didn't specify how exactly you wanted him brought in."
Silence.
"I was very careful- He wasn't in the least bit harmed-"
Some more silence.
Mycroft throws in a cocked eyebrows for good measure.
"For pity's sake, Sir," she says in exasperation, "Did you or did you not order me to get your mother something special for Mother's Day?"
At that Mycroft blinks. Looks at her.
"You're blaming this on me?" And he gestures dramatically to the scene before him.
"Of course".She crosses her arms smugly over her chest before gesturing to his little brother, Sherlock- Who is currently sitting in his front room, tied to a chair with electrical tape and barely conscious.
As if knowing he's being discussed, the little brat raises his head groggily and demands to know where he is. He also demands a cigarette.
Had Mycroft his way, neither would be forthcoming.
Anthea, on the other hand, is apparently feeling generous. "You're in your brother's flat," she helpfully explains. "The sleeping agent should wear off soon." A disapproving cluck of her tongue. "If you weren't so bloody caned it would have already-"
Mycroft glares at her. "There was something in his system and you still shot him?"
Anthea looks unrepentant- A common thing from her, he has learned.
He just wished he didn't find it so damned attractive.
"He kept running away," she says matter-of-factly. "I told him to desist and he refused, so, well..."
She shrugs, takes a small dart gun out of her handbag. Shows it to Mycroft. Upon spotting it, the still-groggy Sherlock gives it a thunderous scowl and starts swearing mutinously.
The display of vocabulary is really rather impressive.
"I had the boys over in HQ cook it up specially. It's designed not to react to anything in his system," Anthea is saying. "Which is just as well, considering where I found him..."
"You didn't find me," Sherlock grouses. "You kidnapped me."
Anthea looks at him pityingly. "If you wanted to get away then you shouldn't have been so slow," she points out. "Besides, it's not kidnapping if the government does it."
"Solid logic, that," Sherlock scoffs.
"Simple truth," she responds tartly.
Sherlock sticks his tongue out in retort and Mycroft squeezes the bridge of his nose. Prays for patience- He's getting what he terms a Sherlock Headache, right there behind his eyes-
He opens his mouth- to snap, to fire Anthea, to tell Sherlock to bugger off, he's not sure which- but before he can he hears the sound of his flat door opening. Hears a dreaded, cheery "Yoohoo! Mikey!" followed by an equally ominous, "halloo, son, are you there?"
"Mummy!" Sherlock blurts.
"Daddy!" Mycroft mutters.
"God afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes," Anthea calls out winningly, shooting her boss a devilish smile as she walks into the hall.
Sherlock looks at his brother, his eyes a mix of hungover irritation and grudging respect as Anthea glad-hands their parents into the sitting room and takes their coats.
They sound like they're absolutely enchanted with her.
"You're thinking of marrying that girl right now, aren't you?" he says sagely, looking at his brother.
"Oh, do shut up," Mycroft tells him- Which is not the same as saying he's wrong.
Incident Two: New Years' Eve
In fairness, Mikey can allow that this is his fault.
After all, had he not suggested that Anthea join he and the rest of the Kingmakers' in cabinet at the Diogenes Club, then neither he nor Anthea would currently be hanging by their heels over a fireplace, awaiting execution by a disgruntled oligarch who blamed Mycroft on his star's descent in the Kremlin.
(As if being caught trying to seduce the Russian President's sixteen year old daughter hadn't done the trick all on its own).
So great is the elder Holmes' sense of dismay at his failure to foresee this turn of events that it takes him about three seconds longer than it should have to realise that Anthea is not, in fact, helpless, and that she had somehow, at some point in the evening, managed to hide a butter-knife in her garter belt, something she is currently trying to get her hands on-
"Can I help with that?" Mycroft asks, gesturing to the knife.
Their captors' security detail has, rather foolishly, elected to leave them alone for the moment and oh but Mikey intends to make them sorry for that.
"Can you reach me if I swing towards you, Sir?" Anthea asks, already shifting her body so that she can swing, pendulum-like, towards him.
The first time she makes contact, it knocks the wind out of him.
"I can," Mycroft says, though he's not entirely convinced of it. Field-work like this is not exactly his forte, after all. Nevertheless, needs must when the devil rides and so he moves until he's swinging towards her too, his back connecting with her front.
When their bodies collide, Anthea wraps her legs awkwardly around his calves and holds him to her.
Held still, he manages to manoeuvre his hand down to take the knife from her garter belt and start sawing on her bonds.
It's slow going; the ways in which their bodies are connected do not exactly encourage movement. Mycroft is also painfully aware that he may harm Anthea, should she jerk herself towards the knife, and he wouldn't want that now, would he?
Eventually however, he manages to get her hands loose; she immediately kicks off her heels and lets go of her grip on him. Swings herself up so that she can grab her feet and cut the ropes stringing her up.
With a huff and a string of swear-words she gets herself free, just in time to drop to the ground and encounter the hench-man who was supposed to be watching them-
The fight is swift. Brutal.
Anthea takes his gun off him with ease, doesn't hesitate as she pulls the trigger.
The sound of the gunshot will bring others, Mycroft knows. So does she. Nevertheless she hauls over the table at which they were latterly sitting. Cuts Mycroft free, helping him to collapse gracelessly on the floor with an ungentlemanly, "oomph!"
She grins as she helps him up- "Alright there, Sir?" - and her eyes are dancing.
Their escape is noisy, with firefights and sundry property damage, but Mycroft finds that doesn't hold his attention. In fact, though they duck and weave and steal things and throw things, he finds he's not interested at all.
Because all he can really concentrate on is the fact that Anthea is holding him up with all her strength, and not once does she seem to feel he's slowing her down.
That's a new feeling for Mycroft, and one he finds he likes.
Incident 3: Valentine's Day
He finds the package on his desk after shes finished up for the day.
It;s from his favourite bakery in Chealsea, and its contents are so fresh that some of them are still hot.
He opens the beautifully wrapped box to find short-bread, still-warm scones. A selection of his favourite cakes, all made in tiny, bite-sized portions and beautifully displayed.
I won't tell anyone if you don't, Sir, the note says. For the day that's in it, and how much we both loath it. A.
Despite himself and the ridiculousness of the gesture, Mycroft nevertheless finds himself smiling...
Anthea comes back the next day to find a small statue of the goddess Hera on her desk. Hera Antheantus, to be exact.
She doesn't ask who it's from, but then she wouldn't need to, would she?
There now, hope you enjoyed. There's more to come for this pair- Stay tuned.