Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock, which is the wonderful creation of Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Unrequited Love: Part II
Red Roses
Anthea Evans (of course, that was an alias for work) sat in the cab, still slightly stupefied at what she had overheard yesterday. Granted, she shouldn't have been eavesdropping in the first place, but it was her job to keep on top of her boss' duties, and the conversation had sounded extremely interesting at the beginning.
She'd never heard that much about Mycroft's younger brother; William Sherlock Scott Holmes, until about two years ago. She had been watching the cameras that Mycroft had placed throughout various locations in England, and was nearly falling asleep from the sheer boredom and nothingness. That changed when she caught sight of a curly haired young man leave his housing and travel to a drug den, which was very much out of the ordinary. She accompanied Mycroft to the location and watched him come out, a broken man.
It was she, Anthea, who had taken care of and watched over Mycroft Holmes.
A year or so later, Anthea informed Mycroft that his brother was in rehab. Three months had passed when they found out that he was clean. Fast forward three more months when Mycroft informed his assistant that Sherlock Holmes was now beginning a career as a 'consulting detective, the only one in the world'. He was so proud that he had turned to a new path; one which wouldn't leave his mind to do dangerous things and make him think and extend his capabilities.
Now, another three months after learning the most recent news relating to the younger Holmes, he was back, with a possible – daresay probable - flatmate.
Truth be told, Anthea was glad that he had found John Watson; according to her research online, he was a doctor. Searching deeper into classified governmental files found that he had been invalidated from Afghanistan, where he had served the army as a doctor and had reached the rank of captain. There, he was shot into the shoulder and returned to London, where he seemed to be facing post-traumatic stress disorder, a psychosomatic limp in his right leg, and a tremor in one hand. Anthea didn't have the great talent of 'people-reading' that Mycroft had, but the little information written on Doctor Watson's blog and elsewhere seemed to be the perfect balance for Sherlock: one who was highly capable of saving others from harm and one who barely knew how to save himself from the harm he had drowned himself into.
So when the conversation had turned to personal relationships, Anthea had been mildly surprised. After two years of working with Mr. Holmes, she knew that he did not care much for emotions. If genetics worked out properly, she had an innate feeling that Sherlock wasn't a big believer in sentiment. Yet there they sat, two of the greatest minds to have walked upon Britain, casually discussing words that Mr. Holmes would have dismissed as 'frivolous', such as love, care, and family.
It was even more shocking to Anthea when Sherlock had suddenly bombarded her boss with questions about his own personal emotions.
It's her, isn't it? Sherlock had asked.
Barely outside of the office door, Anthea had taken a sharp breath – was Mycroft Holmes seeing someone? Someone that his personal assistant didn't know about? As much as she didn't want to admit it, the thought of Mr. Holmes going out with another woman was slightly sickening to her stomach. She just couldn't picture any other lady hanging onto his arm and keeping him company.
When Sherlock had continued by asking if 'her' was actually 'Anthea', the assistant had stumbled backwards, leaning against the opposite wall for slight support. When Mycroft responded with a 'yes' some time later, Anthea felt like the floor had opened up beneath her feet and swallowed her up, only leaving her neck and head above ground.
And later, in their conversation, Mycroft had said something to his younger brother: something that she wasn't going to forget anytime soon.
I cannot have Anthea knowing that I… care for her, for lack of better words.
I am always so worried during our missions that something terrible will happen…
… and that I will perpetually push the blame upon myself.
It's easier.
Now that she knew the care that had been exuded at random moments was for a reason.
Out of nowhere, Anthea recalled when she had passed the six-month mark of working for Mr. Holmes. As she left the office, she'd caught sight of one of MI5's and Mr. Holmes' agents, Leah. She had leaned against the wall and the two made small talk for a few minutes, until Anthea asked Leah something.
"Say, Leah, how long do Mr. Holmes' employees last?"
The red-haired agent had barked out a laugh. "Not counting his agents? I reckon that his secretaries or assistants," here, she wiggled her eyebrows at Anthea, who slapped Leah's hand, "go for about a month, maybe two. He usually treats 'em pretty damn nasty, too. Why'd you ask?"
"Nothing," she had replied, shaking her curls out of her face.
"How long have you worked for Holmes?"
"'Bout six months now."
Leah had let out a long, low whistle. "He must like you loads."
Now that Anthea thought about it, he was quite kind to her, even dropping flowers on her desk in the mornings if she accomplished something he particularly wanted. They were all sorts of flowers: tulips, lilies, orchids, petunias. She thought it was something that all bosses did, but she never saw gifts on Leah or other agents' desk. Even when she worked as a secretary for a business man, no tokens were dropped on the desk.
Yet Mr. Holmes had seemed to exude some kind of affection specifically towards her. Anthea never questioned it (in fact, she never questioned any of his quirks) and never understood why.
But now she knew.
He had cared for her more than he needed to.
And though she shouldn't have thought this, she felt this warm, bubbly sort of happiness fill her body up: the simple thought that someone cared for her gave her slightly giddy bubbles.
So when she walked into the Diogenes Club with a grin and settled herself into her small cubicle, she was a little surprised to see beautifully arranged flowers sitting in an intricate glass vase on her desk, next to a note in Mr. Holmes' handwriting.
The flowers were red roses.
Her smile increased.
And that, my friends, concludes "Unrequited Love". Except, you know, it's not that unrequited anymore, but that's beyond the point.
If anyone is confused as to why roses in particular would make Anthea happy, remember that roses are typically associated with love and affection.
Thank you to the two guests who left reviews on the previous chapter! I actually hadn't planned on creating a second part, but the reviews encouraged me to write one. It was really fun to write it from Anthea's point of view.
Please leave a review or a favorite/follow!
~Maia
